Life(?) of Trillian

2012-01-04T16:20:00.003-06:00

2012 is off to a rocking start! Four days into the new year and woot! I've received four rejection emails. Hey, at least it's easy math. A rejection for each day of the year. One lost hope, one broken dream for each day of the new year. Good thing I resolved to love myself because no one else does.

I appreciate speedy rejections. No prolonging of or clinging to a hope that's ultimately false. No deluded nights thinking, "Maybe they'll call tomorrow..."

But, what still surprises me - yes, after two years of job hunting I still get surprised - is that HR departments use the exact same script with almost no variance in the language. With notable few exceptions, in every rejection letter I've received, from a huge and broad spectrum of companies and industries, the text is exactly the same. It's like the Pledge of Allegiance or the Lord's Prayer, everyone says it exactly the same. I know it by heart.

We wanted to follow up with you on the status of your application for the position of [whatever]. While we were impressed with your qualifications, we have decided to pursue other candidates who appear to be a closer match for the position.

Please feel free to apply for other open positions that you are interested in.

Thank you for your application and best wishes for a successful and bright future.

I know, I know, I don't expect HR departments to "do" anything for rejected candidates. I don't expect a personalized letter citing specific reasons or insight as to why they don't want to hire me. I don't expect anything. I know companies are swamped with applicants and it's nothing shy of amazing when they even bother to acknowledge an application. Truly, it's an honor for rejected applicants to be acknowledged in any way.

But it's surprising to me that every HR department in every company uses the exact same script when they do acknowledge an applicant they don't want to hire. I mean, I get it, why bother expending any thought or time on something as trivial and inconsequential as a form rejection email to a job applicant you don't want to hire?

But. Still. Every time I get a rejection email (at least once daily) I'm surprised it contains the same language. I dunno why. Maybe I'm harboring some latent hope that one day one of them will be different, one of those rejection emails will exhibit some trace of personality, indicate that more energy than a flick of an autosend button was expended, show some actual thought behind the words, some hint that the person behind the email is in possession of an ounce of originality. I know. I know. HR departments have better things to do with their time. And many HR jobs have been eliminated and the processes are automated and blah blah blah. I get it. But. The hope remains that one day one HR department will set themselves apart by sending a dismissive missive that's different.

Which speaks to my deeply rooted desire for something, anything, that's not standardized, automated and cliché. Yeah, it's not them, it's me. Which is probably why I keep getting rejection letters.

2012-01-02T12:44:00.003-06:00

And we're off!

Goodbye '11, hello '12.

I'm not a big New Year's Eve/Day person. I firmly believe that if you want to change something, resolve something, then there's no time like the present, regardless of what the calendar says. I know people who make resolutions every year and stick to them. And I know more people who make resolutions every year and don't stick to them. I mean I get it, out with the old, in with the new. New year, fresh start, all that. But let's say it's August and you decide you want to quit smoking. Why wait five months to start saving your lungs and life?

Anyway. If you're hoping to resolve something this year, yay you, good luck, you can do it!

This year is a little different for me. New Year's Eve coincided with an event that was the culmination of a resolution I've been working on for a long time.

After HWNMNBS dumped me some people I knew, "friends," were really harsh to me. Not blaming me, but saying things like, "I'm not surprised, I didn't think he'd go through with it," and "you need to get out and find a different kind of man, you were all wrong for him, you need a man who can't get any woman he wants, you know, someone who will be happy just to be with a woman and will appreciate your personality." Those are actual quotes. From people who were my friends.

Yes. With friends like that...I did some soul searching.

I think they were trying to be "helpful" or "honest." And I do appreciate candor. And I know I'm chopped liver. And I knew HWNMNBS deserved someone far prettier than me. Which is why I really did not need my friends to tell me what I already knew, especially since it was so harsh and hurtful and there wasn't anything I could do about it. Shy of head to toe plastic surgery there was nothing I could do to change into the woman he wanted. So my friends' candid and honest assessments were not in any way helpful, only hurtful. Salt in an already painful wound.

I chose to use that experience as a valuable lesson about the sort of people I had in my life. It became obvious that I had a lot of people, friends, who were not really friends. I realized I knew a lot of people like HWNMNBS. People who value appearances and things equally (or more) than personality and intrinsic values. I was surprised to discover this because I'm not that sort of person and never have been. I was really surprised to realize how many people, friends, I had who were really superficial, shallow, arrogant, status-seeking jerks. Okay, maybe that's a little harsh. But. Not in every case. And yes, I knew some of them were arrogant jerks, but, I thought they had redeeming qualities. Up to that point in my life I thought it was good to have lots of different types of friends. A rich and colorful tapestry of relationships is healthy, right? Well...yes...and no.

And that was my "epiphany." 1) I'm too forgiving and too quick to only see the good in people. 2) Seeing the good in people, accepting and looking past their faults and flaws and focusing on their good qualities, doesn't mean you have to be friends with them.

I resolved to limit or even eliminate negative people in my life. It's been a process, not an event. I let some friendships fade and I have been very careful about the type of people I let into my inner friendship circle.

Which hasn't been difficult because the older I get, the more difficult it is to cultivate new friendships. People my age are married and have young children...I have almost nothing in common with most people my age. Once you're over the age of 33 it's difficult to find a peer group of never married, childless people who aren't GLBT. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) And when I include, "not a shallow, negative, self-involved, jerk" into the demographic the odds of finding even one peer, let alone an entire peer group, is next to impossible. Believe me, I've tried. I'm the woman who placed a personal ad looking for friends, remember?

Along with resolving to eliminate or at least distance myself from the negative people in my life, I resolved to be a better friend to the people who really mattered to me. And to cultivate friendships with people who are, you know, nice. Sincere, genuine, nonjudgmental, decent human beings. That, too, has been a process not an event. I'm surprised how judgmental people there are. Finding and making new friends who are positive and sincere is a lot more difficult than I ever imagined.

So I thought, "Wow, I'm lucky I already have some really good friends, good people in my life, otherwise I'd be really lonely."

Yadda yadda yadda, the last of my friends got married, babies started arriving, houses in suburbs were bought, jobs were quit...and those good friends, the positive ones I was so lucky to have, started to have a lot less time for me. We had less and less in common and the conversations became strained. By simply not doing what they were doing, I became a negative person in their lives.

And then I got laid-off and I became a leper to most of my friends.

And then, a few months ago, one of my friends called to inform me that she was re-enacting her wedding and since I was in her wedding I was expected to give a command performance of my bridesmaid role. This particular friend and I go waaaaaay back. I mean way, way, way back. As in, I know things about her no one else knows. Embarrassing things. And she knows a few embarrassing things about me, too. If she wanted to resort to blackmail to get me to attend her wedding re-enactment, she had plenty of material from which to choose. But because I'm still in that, "cherish and strengthen friendships with people who really matter" mentality, I bit the bullet and agreed to spend New Year's Eve 2011 re-enacting my friends wedding.

I knew it was going to be awful on a lot of levels, but this person, my friend, matters to me and I'm a good sport. And she knows things about me. Damaging things. Scary things.

The first problem was logistics. I had to get to the event. It was held 2,000 miles away. My friend offered to give me her husband's air miles to purchase a plane ticket to the party. I still had enough air miles to get a ticket, but, it was New Year's Eve. A holiday. Blackout dates. I thought, "Yay! Perfect excuse to not attend!!!" I called my friend and said, "Sorry, friend, but I tried to use air miles to get a plane ticket, and with the holiday on a weekend this year the blackout days are extended...I just can't get there. I'm really sorry."

Two days later I got an email confirmation for a plane ticket. My friend bought me a plane ticket to attend her wedding re-enactment.

Great. Well. That's that. So much for poverty as an excuse to not attend.

I now had to tackle the second problem. I didn't keep the bridesmaid dress I wore in her wedding. Apparently the other bridesmaids kept theirs and were re-configuring them to wear to the re-enactment. Even if I still had the dress, it would be impossible to reconfigure it to fit me now. I was still anorexic at the original wedding. Well, I was working on not being anorexic, I was eating at least one full meal a day, but the thought of being in her wedding with the other bridesmaids who were all under 5'5" and reed thin was so daunting that I relapsed six weeks prior to the weeding and was at least 35 pounds under weight when we walked down the aisle on her wedding day. I'm healthy, now, and a long, long, long way from that body. And I wouldn't want to go back to that weight. Or fit in that dress. Moot points, though, because I don't have the dress. I finally confessed to my friend that I didn't keep the dress. She said that was okay, I could find something in the same color and "just wear that." Yeah. I'm unemployed, in foreclosure, selling or donating everything I own and she wants me to find something the color of the bridesmaid dress and "just wear that" to her wedding re-enactment. Let me refresh your memory about that bridesmaid dress. It was made from special order imported fabric in a bizarre share of blue-red-purple and of such as odd fabric composition that I (and the other bridesmaids) broke out in a rash that started during the nuptials and lasted a full 10 days after the wedding.

I pulled out a plain dress from the few clothes I kept when I boxed up the last of my possessions. And then, while the rest of the Western world was out shopping for holiday presents, I scoured what seemed like every fabric store in the Midwest to find fabric similar to the original bridesmaid dress. I was thinking I could fashion a belt or sash or shawl or something to match the bridesmaid dresses. No luck. Finally, on Christmas Eve, a package from one of the other bridesmaids arrived at my mother's house. She had fabric left from her dress reconfiguration and she generously sent me the remnants of her dress to me so I could whip up something to wear at the vows renewal. It was a Christmas fabric miracle. The fabric was even worse than I remembered it, which is saying a lot because I remembered it being horrific.

There I was with no excuses left. I was given a plane ticket and some leftover fabric. My choices were: A) Be a good friend, honor my friend's wishes, get on the plane, put on the shawly thing I made, paste on a smile and help her re-enact her wedding. B) Not attend.

The day before I was supposed to leave I had talked myself into plan B. It would be the death knell to our friendship, but, do we really have a friendship anyway? What did I have to lose by losing her as a friend? I haven't heard from her in year, and then she only called to ask me to be part of her vows renewal ceremony because I was in her original wedding. Had she not wanted to recreate her original wedding I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been invited or even told about her New Year's Eve party. But she's a stickler for details and I was in the original bridesmaid lineup, so, in her mind she had no choice but to ~~drag~~ invite me to her vows renewal. If I didn't get on that plane she'd be furious at me and that would be the end of our friendship. I thought maybe that would be good. No more pretending we're friends when we both know we have nothing in common and don't even know enough about each other anymore to know if we even still like each other. She's not necessarily a negative person, but, the fact that our friendship has changed from symbiotic confidants to whatever you call the emotional distance and lack of support and communication we now have has negatively impacted my life. I miss her. But. She's evolved, and yes, changed, and even if we were in more regular communication I would still miss the old her.

That's the thing they don't tell you about friendships. Life is a process, not an event, we're all moving targets who connect at points during our processes. And then the process continues, life evolves, people evolve, priorities change, people adapt to their personal evolution and friendships fade. That's one of the reasons I believe in marriage. When it's done "right," you have a partner with whom you go through the process of life. When friendships fade you still have someone with you, your spouse, who's at the same point of the process as you. I know, I know, the divorce rate, it doesn't always work out that way, spouses change but not in sync or harmony, marriage can be lonely, I know, I know all of that. But. In theory, marriage is a good tool for coping with life.

On the plane trip to the wedding re-enactment I toyed with the idea of composing a toast along those lines for my friend's vows renewal but thought better of it. Best to keep the whole thing light and convivial.

Yes. I decided to go. My friend thought enough of me to buy me a plane ticket, and the other bridesmaid thought enough of me, and our mutual friend, to send me enough fabric from her reconfigured dress to fashion a shawly thing. I'm obviously the charity case of the wedding party, but it's just as obvious that they wanted me there. Regardless of her motivations, be it her compulsive need to adhere to details or that she honestly wanted me - her friend - there, in the end I thought attending her party was the right thing to do. Grace, dignity, loyalty, whatever.

And it was a lovely party. With the exception of the bridesmaids' dresses, the addition of their children in the bridal party and different guests, the vows renewal was an exact replica of their original wedding.

The officiant spoke of change and deepening bonds and enduring love. The husband and wife spoke of changes and deepening commitment. Toasts were made about many of the highlights of their married life. I learned a lot about my friend in those toasts. She's been living a life, doing things, going places, having mishaps and adventures I know nothing about. I know nothing about them because she doesn't tell me about anything going on in her life. She seems to have a happy life with a lot of good, happy, successful friends. And that's all anyone can want for someone they care about so I'm happy for her.

Never mind that I had nothing in common with anyone at that party. I really tried to mingle and socialize, but it became clear I was odd one out at this party. With the exception of the children and a few widows, I was the only single person there. Okay, that's not unusual for me, I'm used to dealing with that situation. But. After a while it's difficult to sustain conversations with good friends who've drifted from your life. We spent a couple sentences "catching up" on their lives, spouse, children, house, vacations, and from there we couldn't sustain a conversation of more than three sentences, and those sentences all started with, "Remember the time we..." and it starts to feel like a pathetic pastiche of Glory Days. Further deepening the social complexity of the situation is that they all still have loads in common, they're all still closed friends, intimately involved in each others' lives, evolving together. I realized if I hadn't attended, if I'd chosen to not get on that plane, I wouldn't be missed, or, at best, I'd be a sidebar in small conversations. "Remember the time we went to see that awful ska band and you had that old car that broke down in the middle of nowhere and Trillian was the only one sober enough to figure out we were out of gas? Man, I wonder whatever happened to Trillian."

"I heard she's unemployed."

"Bummer. Did she ever get married?"

"Don't think so."

"Heh. Did you try those salmon puffs? They're amazing."

But now, there I was in the flesh, no need to speculate. It was sad, though, to see these people, especially the women who used to be my friends, with no, or very few, discernible traces of who they used to be. It's sad because they used to be interesting people. They used to venture out to the middle of nowhere to see a ska band. They used to not care about what other people think of them. They used to have career goals. They used to fantasize about changing the world, or at least their part of it. They used to be fun. They used to be interesting. They used to be able to form and articulate their own opinions.

I'm pretty sure they've conveniently forgotten that we used to spend evenings devoted to out-Bowie-ing each other, the true test being the best, most impassioned and affected rendition of Life on Mars. My friend, the "bride," could out-Bowie all of us with one glittery platform boot tied behind her back. It was truly uncanny. And glorious. She did a better Bowie than Bowie. It's sad that her children don't know this about her. I thought about enlightening them, but I'm pretty sure they don't know who Bowie is. And I'm pretty sure my friend doesn't want her children knowing that she spent booze soaked nights at parties imitating David Bowie so loudly that neighbors threatened to call the police. Or that, sometimes, out of nowhere, when the others least expected it, one of us would utter a sentence in an exaggerated Bowie voice. Which was always met with those deep belly inside joke kind of laughs. I toyed with the idea of saying something to my friend in my Bowie voice, but it just seemed lame, now, and I already looked and felt lame, in my bridesmaid dress-come-shawly thing, so I didn't. And besides, my forté was always Robert Plant. Ramble on.

The polite small talk became painful. Eventually I just stopped trying and retreated to the bar and talked to the bar tendress. And then I found out even she was married and itching for the party to wrap up so she could get home to her husband.

So I just sat at my assigned seat at a table that was empty most of the time. I sat there watching the party, occasionally smiling and nodding and making perfunctory small talk.

And then my friend's husband and his best man came over and said the thing that pushed me over the edge.

"Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, eh Trill?!"

They thought this was hilarious. So hilarious that almost everyone at the party heard them laughing and repeating their hilariously ironic joke. The third time they repeated their joke the best man punctuated the "never a bride" part of the joke by fingering my shawly thing fashioned from the horrible bridesmaid dress fabric. I laughed along at their joke even though I was the butt of it. Everyone was looking at me and it wouldn't help my cause to get angry or upset. Smile though your heart is breaking. Something like that.

This is why they don't make sequels or "10/15/20 years later" versions of John Hughes movies. It's kind of cute when this sort of thing happens to teenagers. When the credits role you're smiling smug in the knowledge that the drunk asshole popular boy is peaking in high school and will become a pathetic used car salesman, while the quirky unpopular awkward nice girl they make fun of will turn into a successful swan. And fortunately that's often the reality. But. Sometimes it's not. And the real life sequel to those movies isn't what we want to see. Poetic justice doesn't always prevail. Sometimes asshole popular kids grow up to be asshole successful business people. And sometimes quirky unpopular awkward nice girls stay that way and eventually turn into quirky unpopular awkward nice spinsters. Cats optional.

You might think my friend would, you know, do or say something to support or at least console me. But no. She laughed, too. And not in a "I know I shouldn't laugh at this, she's my friend, but it is kind of funny and I can't help squeaking out a giggle that I'm trying to stifle" kind of way. She laughed in that, "OMG that's the funniest thing I've heard all night" kind of way. I don't "blame" her, but, it didn't bridge the gap between us and reignite our former friendship. My friend, the person she used to be, would have made some snappy comment in my defense. She would have dismissively cut them down to size and spent 15 minutes then rattling off every negative quality the guys possessed including assessment of their penis size. But my friend isn't like that anymore. Her loyalty is to her husband. And her husband is still close friends with the best man, and apparently, her loyalty to her husband extends to loyalty to his friend. I get it, I guess.

Eventually the joke got old and the guys moved on to another table where uproarious laughter could be heard.

I never really did see what she saw in him, but she fell deeply in love and she seems to still be in love and happy with him. And that's what matters.

The clock chimed midnight, I raised a glass in toast to the new year, the bride and groom and many happy more years of their marriage, and as soon as I could make a polite departure I went to the hotel room I was sharing with another bridesmaid and her family. I was bunking with the kids in the nanny anteroom of a huge suite. Yes. The woman who stays in a hotel suite that has a specified nanny anteroom is the same woman who struggled to get passing grades in college and came perilously close to not earning her degree, the woman who was notorious for drinking too much, passing out and waking up in unknown beds with unknown men and had the STDs to prove it, the woman who can belch the lyrics of German drinking songs, auf Deutsch, is now a woman who travels with a nanny and stays in hotel suites that come equipped with rooms for the children and an anteroom for the nanny. Not that I aspire to having a nanny, but, WTF? How does that happen?

I dunno.

I reasoned that I was feeling more sensitive because of the recent accidental reveal of some of my family's feelings about me. That affected me a lot more deeply than I care to admit. It hurts. I'm trying to put a positive spin on it, trying to learn, glean some helpful lessons from what they said. If they feel that way about me, then maybe I can learn what I need to change about myself. Maybe there's some good advice to be harvested from their insults. But still. It hurts. The wound is still sore and then my friend's husband and his friend rubbed salt in it. The timing couldn't have been worse.

I'm used to being odd one out. But in my ongoing devotion to eliminate negative people from my life I'm pretty sure it's time to eliminate some, if not all of those friends. Let's be realistic: They make me feel bad about myself. Their lives are in such stark contrast to mine that it's almost impossible to fathom that we ever had anything in common, let alone be such close friends. They're happy. That's what matters. And my feelings, the way I feel around them, is my issue, my problem, not theirs. Sometimes, like now, I feel that at best I'm their charity case, at worst I'm the butt of their jokes. But I know that's my perspective on it, not their intentions.

I already miss my friend the bride. I have missed her for several years. It's not easy to meet and make good friends like that. The others, well, I mean, after several years of retrieving a bleary-eyed hungover (or still drunk) friend from some stranger's apartment, that relationship was strained. But my friend, the bride...we were such good friends. Really good friends. I keep thinking this era of her life is just a phase. The kids will grow up and she'll be less busy with them and we can reconvene and our friendship will resume. But now I'm not sure that's the healthiest course of action for me. And no, it's not because she didn't defend or console me when her husband made fun of me and made everyone laugh at me. Although that's not helping the case for maintaining the friendship.

The problem with eliminating negative people, or people who make you feel bad about yourself, is that you end up without many friends, or at least without many people in your life. There aren't a lot of loyal, sincere, unconditionally supportive, positive people on this planet. And even though their successes make me feel worse about my failures, without them I'd feel even more alone and isolated...and more negative about myself.

I mused all of this while all the bridal party and their families were attending a very expensive New Year's Day brunch at the hotel where we stayed. I couldn't afford the brunch. My friend offered to pay my way, but I wasn't hungry and I'd had enough festivities. I just wanted to get to the airport and slip into the comfort of anonymity airports and airplanes provide.

We shared a ride to the airport, said good-byes and that was that.

I've decided I'm not going to force the friendship or do anything out of my way for it. Right now I desperately need to focus on myself and my life and my future. The depression and frustration and fear that I've been living with for the past two years is at a tipping point and I know my mental health is not good. I finally admitted to myself that I'm, well, fragile. Just typing that word is difficult for me. I'm in desperate need of a new mental health regime. And that means surrounding myself with positive influences. Which means saying no a lot more than I do. No more occasions attended solely out of a sense of loyalty or obligation. Fortunately I have a few really good friends but they're in far-flung locales. My new goal is to find ways to spend time with them. Not just maintain the friendships, but truly endeavor to focus on the positive people and influences in my life.

My family included. I can't "do" anything about "Snark" and the others who wrote the incriminating insults about me. They're family and that can't be changed. And I'm not looking to estrange myself from my family. That never solves anything. And of course I care about them, in spite of themselves. But. Forgiveness and acceptance doesn't mean being a doormat. It just means I don't dwell on their insults and don't seek retribution.

This year, now, I'm turning my devotion to accept, forgive, heal, peace, love inward. Accept myself. Forgive myself. Heal myself. Find peace within myself. The goal is to love myself.

That's not going to be easy. HWNMNBS spelled out (in great detail) all the valid reasons why I am unworthy and undeserving of love from anyone. My subsequent inability to attract a mate and maintain a romantic relationship only confirmed and cemented what HWNMNBS told me. "Snark" and my other family members' recent comments about me echoed HWNMNBS's insight about why I am undeserving and unworthy of love. The same flaws continue to be mentioned and highlighted as reasons why I am undeserving of love in the romantic sense and apparently from my family and friends, as well.

Insight from others can be helpful. It can also be demoralizing and fatal to self-esteem. Particularly when the flaws highlighted are mainly physical. Yes, it speaks to a shallowness on the part of the the accuser, ugly is as ugly does, but, appearance is a fact of life. And those of us who weren't dealt an appealing hand of DNA can't expect much from life, no matter how much we accept and love ourselves.

The conventional wisdom is that you can't love anyone until you love yourself. For me it's been backwards. I can love other people, unconditionally and with a loyalty that's unshakable, but I can't love myself. Let's face it, it's easier to love other people than it is to love yourself.

And, further, more to the salient point, I'm happy up on the shelf collecting dust. If I'm not looking for romantic love, why bother trying to love myself?

Well, for a start my self-esteem is nonexistent. Between HWNMNBS and the number he did on my heart and soul (and not finding anyone new) and being laid-off (and not finding a new job) and losing all my savings and my home I channeled every penny and every ounce of energy I had, wellllll, yeah, you get my point. My self-esteem has taken some brutal punches. I've known this and I've worked hard to overcome it, I was sort of doing okay focusing on my home and building equity to buy a bigger, child-friendly home and start the adoption process, feeling good about the future I was building and the goals I set, but when I was laid-off and those goals were dashed, well...that the last two years have been harder on my self-esteem and emotional health than I could ever begin to articulate. It's a hellish existence filled with a constant see-saw of trying to maintain genuine positive hope and confidence, putting myself out there for any job I can find...and being rejected for yet another job and edging one month closer to foreclosure. Living in constant fear, confusion, frustration and disappointment is an horrific existence. The things that does to your self-esteem are immeasurable and unfathomable.

So. Yeah. Loving myself when I'm in that condition is not going to be easy.

But. It's a challenge I'm issuing myself. If I can do it toward and for other people, I should be able to do it for myself. In theory, anyway. We'll see.

So.

Happy 2012. I hope your trip around the Sun is a good one.

Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.

2011-12-30T00:15:00.001-06:00

...but not all of my family are mean, immature, unaware, hypocritical, shallow, narrow-minded, judgmental jerks.

Some of my family are actually really nice, funny, intelligent people. Most of them are senior citizens, and unfortunately they're dying at a fast pace.

We lost another one right before Christmas.

The recent death was a sad one for me. She was one of my few remaining Canadian relatives, a tough old broad raised in the Highlands who fled to the "tropical paradise" of rural Ontario, Canada.

She didn't want a funeral or memorial service. Her husband died several years ago. But. Her kids wanted to do something for her, or, more appropriately, for us, the remaining living family. Celebrate her life and spirit. All that.

Yadda yadda yadda off we went to a memorial "get together" for "Lynne."

But we went with some trepidation. Not because the memorial being was being held against the deceased's wishes, but because of the venue.

The venue chosen for the memorial is infamous in our family's history. It was the scene of an intestinal massacre that nearly wiped out our entire extended family one fateful summer evening when I was a kid.

My parents (and most of the other adults in the family) were never crazy about the restaurant. It was one of those overly-adorned sea-themed restaurants. Entrance festooned with buoys and a rope railing along a planked walkway, walls adorned with dusty fake seagulls and pelicans perched around nets filled with dusty shells hanging from the ceiling, and lobster traps spilling out dusty, faded fake lobsters and crabs. Some brass portholes and a large ship's wheel, lots of driftwood, starfish and broken shells. The female staff dressed like wenches and the male staff dressed, oddly, like gondoliers. The menu had sections like "Reel 'em In" "Shell Game" and "For Land lubbers" and featured entrees with quaint seafaring names like "Flounderin' Around," "Call Me Calamari," and "Feelin' Crabby."

When I was a really young kid there was a special children's menu. Kids who ordered special selections were given a plastic dubloon or piece of eight at the end of their meal. The fake coins were taken to the front of the restaurant where there was a treasure chest full of small toys and candy. The fake coins could be traded for one treasure from the treasure chest. It was the highlight of the night even though the candy was old and flavorless (I recall a lot of those rootbeer barrel candies so old that the plastic wrapper stuck to them so tightly you couldn't peel it off the candy) and the small toys were even weirder and cheaper than cereal box toys. My brother contends that many of the toys were cereal box toys that were repurposed by the owner for the treasure chest.

The last time ~~we were dragged to~~ my relatives took us to the restaurant I was only 6 but I had a bad feeling about the place as soon as we entered. The treasure chest was empty except for some ornamental life preservers and a couple of oars sticking out of it. When we were seated I was not given a special kid's menu. Our waitwench told my parents the children's menu was discontinued but there was a children's selection area on the regular menu. Yes. The "treasure for the wee tots" gimmick was abandoned. I was disappointed. Shiver me timbers indeed. Little did we know those ornamental life preservers in the treasure chest were a scary foreboding metaphor of what was to come later that evening.

The more enthusiastic members of my family happily partook of Clammy Chowder, Hush Those Puppies, Call Me Calamari, Shrimpy the Cocktail and various sea animal entrees. I was going through my era of food enlightenment - I was starting to connect the dots between the food on my plate and the living animals the food on my plate used to be. I was also enthralled with an ornately illustrated and heavily tamed-down children's version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea wherein the sea creatures were cute, friendly, talkative and helpful. There was no way I was going to ingest anything on that menu other than a grilled cheese sandwich.

Turns out my early anthropomorphism/vegetarian inclinations spared me the fate that befell the rest of my family.

In the car on the way back to my relatives' house my dad and brother's stomachs started making funny noises. My sister's face turned a strange shade of green. My mother was sweating profusely. By the time we got to my relatives' house another car full of relatives had already arrived and there was a waiting line for the two bathrooms in the house. You might think a "women and children first" mentality would prevail, what with the seafaring theme of the evening, but no. It was every man, woman and child from themselves. My brother and cousin couldn't wait and got sick in the bushes on the side of the house. The mothers tried to aid their ailing children and husbands, but in the end they, too, were too ill to help anyone. Eventually Pepto Bismuth and cold cloths were administered to one and all, and the entire family, all 8 adults and seven children, were bunked on various beds, couches, chairs and air mattresses.

I was the only one who didn't get sick. Except for being grossed out by what I witnessed, heard and smelled, I was fine. Which was the first clue that "it" was food poisoning.

Yes. Initially some of the adults tried to rationalize that it was just a coincidence that the entire family came down with stomach flu at the same time. "There's a nasty 24 hour bug going around the kids' school..."

My father and uncle kept squashing the flu theories. "No way. It was that [expletive] [expletiving] flounder/lobster/crab!" They groaned and turned odd colors as they said the name of the food. The evidence was mounting. Either I was the only one who was somehow freakishly immune to the alleged stomach flu strain or the seafood was tainted. Finally almost all the adults admitted that it was food poisoning.

Some of the adults wistfully said, "Well, at least the child was spared..."

Just to be safe, my mother isolated me from the rest of the family. Just in case it was stomach flu and I didn't catch it my mother wanted to spare me the pain and suffering. While the rest of the family was in gastrointestinal distress elsewhere in the house, I was camped out on an air mattress in the den, tucked in with a blanket and an old black and white television. Later that night, in the wee hours of the morning, my brother crept into the den. He was feeling a little better and feeling a lot dehydrated. He came into the den gingerly sipping water. I'm not sure what woke me - the creak of the door or my brother's stench. He dropped into the comfy chair and grabbed a blanket.

Even though he smelled really bad, I was excited that my brother was going to camp out with me. My relatives' house was old and kind of creepy, the den was on the first floor and the window didn't have curtains so the moon cast weird shadows and the black and white television didn't offer a lot of comfort. My 6-year-old imagination and too many reruns of the Twilight Zone were getting the best of me. I was glad my brother was there. Plus I was still young enough to idolize my brother and I delighted in any second of time that he chose to spend with me.

It's also an oddly pivotal moment in my life. It was the first time I remember feeling like I was legitimized by my brother, that I wasn't just some little pipsqueak, I actually had cerebral merit.

As only teenaged boys can, my brother, in a deadpan sardonic tone, started mocking through his misery, making fun of the entree names. "Flush Puppies," "Feelin' Crappy," "Caustic Calamari," "Dysentery Dungeoness Crab" "Lobster Shits." I joined in the fun, and soon we were making up grossed-out names for food that wasn't even on the menu. It was probably my brother's weakened physical state that lowered his resolve to ridicule me, but I thought I'd finally grown up enough to be taken seriously when it came to mockery.

Buoyed by my new found acceptance and gift of food mockery, I departed from entree names and started renaming restaurants. It was a risk, but it paid off. My brother joined in and we made up a legion of disgusting restaurant names. And then it happened. I attained the apex of mockery. I arrived. I was not a little kid anymore, I was a viable mocking entity.

Because, in a moment of serendipitous symbiosis, we simultaneously blurted out the name the restaurant would henceforth be known as in my family. By the next afternoon, even the more genteel female members of the family, even my mother, started calling the restaurant by our nickname.

The name of the restaurant was Cap'n Pat's.

But after that night it was forever known as Crappin' Pants.

No subsequent family gathering was complete without a joke about Crappin' Pants. And every time someone said Crappin' Pants I felt a tingle of pride. I came up with that. All by myself. My brother came up with it, too, but we hit upon it independently at the same time. So I felt righteous for originating the name that would go down in family history. And at such a young and tender age, too.

After a few laughs about Crappin' Pants and some "oh, what a horrible night that was" comments, a couple of my relatives would try to defend it. "Lynne" (who recently died) was quick to admonish the jokes and say, "Oh, come now, it was just the one time..."

Others would say, "Just the one time? Botulism only needs the one time. 'Cap'n Pat,' if that is his real name, nearly killed the entire family and you're defending him?"

"Lynne" would continue to defend Cap'n Pat, "You know how it is with seafood. It can turn on you like that. Can happen to anyone."

Almost everyone involved refused to ever step foot in Crappin' Pants again, but we were all pretty sure one couple returned to the scene of the crime and ate there on a regular basis. We were all pretty sure "Lynne" and her husband continued to dine there.

So it was no real surprise that "Lynne's" memorial was held at Crappin' Pants.

But during the entire drive to the memorial my mother muttered and sputtered, "I cannot believe they're having the memorial at Crappin' Pants." Every time she said Crappin' Pants I giggled. All these years later it's still funny to hear my mother say Crappin' Pants. And even funnier in the context of a memorial service.

Crappin' Pants was scarily untouched by time. The layer of dust was a lot thicker and the sea themed tchothckes were more faded, the waitstaff wears jeans and Cap'n Pat's emblazoned t-shirts instead of wench and gondolier outfits, but other than that it was mostly unchanged. The treasure chest with life preservers and oars was still there and the menu still has "cute" entree names.

We sent "Lynne" off with a memorial she didn't want. But I'm pretty sure she'd be okay with the low key affair in the Longboat Room of Crappin' Pants. Many of the survivors of the original Crappin' Pants massacre were in attendance. Once again, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. Because I was the only one infamously unscathed in the original disaster, several people took my lead. Our waitperson was clearly displeased and confused by the preponderance of grilled cheese orders. Whatever. Dine at your own risk. The intestine you save may be your own. There were many comments along the lines of, "Go ahead! Order the Lobster Bisque and Hush Puppies! After all, it was just the one time the entire family was nearly wiped out from them!"

Poor old Cap'n Pat. With "Lynne" gone there's no one left to defend him, at least not mockingly. And poor us. "Lynne" was like that with everyone, not just Cap'n Pat. She never carried a grudge and always let bygones be bygones, and always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Even if it involved serving tainted food.

2011-12-26T00:04:00.002-06:00

Well, it's official: I have been named the Bitch Who Stole Christmas. Yay me.

A family member we'll call "Snark" sent me an eVite for an Eve-Before-Christmas-Eve party - the day before the party. The eVite was to me and my mother. The party was at a locale an hour away and my mother didn't feel up to attending and I'm not exactly feeling festive and didn't want to spend two hours driving to and from a party, leaving my mother home alone. Everyone involved knows my mother is recuperating from heart surgery and that I'm unemployed and in foreclosure. So I didn't think declining the invitation was a big deal, especially since the invitation was only extended the day prior to the event. Apparently I was wrong.

"Snark" forwarded my politely worded decline to her eVite to several (pretty much all) of my family and added her comments about me. Unfavorable comments. Another family member then joined in the fun and added comments about me (mostly unfavorable) and forwarded those comments to three family members. One of those family members added more unfavorable comments about me and hit reply all. All included everyone who received any of the emails in the thread. All included me because the original email was from me to "Snark."

Yeah.

Merry ~~fucking~~ swutting Christmas.

This year I received a very special gift, a gift that money can't buy. Insight into what my family really thinks about me.

I am The Bitch Who Stole Christmas.

I'm okay with that. I know I'm not quite myself. I try to hide the negative moods, I try to at least put on my party face around other people. When I can't snap out of a funk I avoid other people until I can fake a smile or two. I have made it my mission to not be Debbie Downer during the past two years. (Excluding the blog - which is my escape. Sorry. But you choose to be here, you know what you're in for when you come here.) And there are a few people who have valid reasons to make some unfavorable comments about me.

However.

"Snark" is not one of them.

However.

I would like to note a few facts about "Snark." (This is the part of the blog where I self-indulgently vent out an "after all I've done for you?!" rant. Sorry. It's been a difficult couple of days and I need to get this out of my system without, you know, making matters worse in real life. It's my blog and I'll rant if I want to. You might want to just skip ahead.

1) "Snark" is a very vocal Buddhist who berates, bashes and makes fun of Christianity and Judaism and all who follow those faiths. "Snark" does this on Facebook, in emails and especially at family functions where most in attendance are Christian or Jewish. Including my mother. (I know. I know.) "Snark's" judgmental mindset, intolerance and lack of respect for other religious and spiritual views is obviously not very Buddhist. And the hostility in "Snark's" venom-laden remarks about Christianity is bordering on an anger management issue. And yet..."Snark" eagerly accepts Christmas presents and hosts an annual large Eve Before Christmas Eve party. And "Snark" is offended when people, family members, me, politely decline the invitation to the Eve Before Christmas Eve party. Even when well-known and valid reasons for not attending are cited.

2) "Snark" was born when I was 17. I have attended: Baby showers for "Snark." Pre-school, Kindergarten, Fifth grade, eighth grade, high school and college graduations for "Snark." And all the dance recitals, scouting events, bake sales, craft fairs, choir concerts, school plays, soccer games, track meets in-between. I have bought raffle tickets, wrapping paper, baked goods, magazine subscriptions, an countless donations from or for "Snark." I gave "Snark's" class art lessons so they could make a huge mural for their class civic project. I took "Snark" and "Snark's" friends, to see Weezer, Garbage, Slipknot, Incubus, and Marilyn Manson when they were in high school and the parents didn't want to go - but didn't want the kids to attend unchaperoned. I even left them alone so they could pretend they didn't have a chaperone. Get this: I even took them to see Insane Clown Posse. Which was literally my worst nightmare come to life. Yes. I, who am horrified of clowns, took a car full of high school kids to see Insane Clown Posse because their own parents wouldn't attend or allow them to attend without an adult. I'm still not emotionally solvent from that experience. If that's not sincere love and devotion...

3) When "Snark" was prepping for the SAT some shortcomings in "Snark's" education became apparent and the test-prep class offered little tutelage in certain areas. Guess who helped raise "Snark's" verbal SAT score?

4) Once in college, there was some, um, "trouble" that included alcohol, a party and the law. Guess who "Snark" called for help?

5) Here's what really gets me, though. There were some years when "Snark" was young and "Snark's" parents were going through a very, very nasty divorce and "Snark's" mother had very little money. "Snark's" mother had a rum-soaked mini-breakdown at the family Christmas Eve party - she was upset her kids (including "Snark") wouldn't have much from Santa but she was embarrassed to ask anyone for help. I took Snark's mother and my credit card and made a mad-last-minute-dash through three stores on Christmas Eve. Santa came through for "Snark" that year (and a couple more years) when there was no way "Snark's" mother could have managed to buy many, if any, presents for "Snark" and "Snark's" siblings. I'm pretty sure "Snark" doesn't know that Santa was me (and my parents) during those years, and I don't want "Snark" to know this. But. I know this.

And so, coming from "Snark," (of all people) the unfavorable comments about me are particularly hurtful.

And so, I'm left wondering if I am the Bitch Who Stole Christmas, if I am as awful as "Snark" and the other taunters said I am in their emails.

And so, this is Christmas.

I always console myself that, even as good friends dwindle and fade, no matter how craptacular my life gets, no matter what, hey, I have family who loves me and believes in me.

Now...well...apparently I can't console myself with that, either.

Oh sure, my mother loves me and believes in me. But. She's somewhat biased. Her judgment is clouded by the fact that she pushed me out of her vagina.

I'm fairly certain the Trill-bashing emails didn't stem solely because I declined a last minute party eVite. I'm pretty sure events of the past few months built up to the free-for-all Trill-bashing email hootenanny.

You how I've been unemployed for two years? And you know how I'm in foreclosure? And have about 30¢ to my name? Yeah. Well. Back in September a family member (not "Snark") brought up that buying holiday gifts was going to put a strain on the budget and that "we" should talk to other family members about cutting back on the gift-giving, maybe draw names or just forgo holiday gifts this year. I concurred and said, "Yes, 'we' should have a talk with the others..." That family member talked to another family member who also agreed that scaling back on gifts would be a welcomed financial relief. So, I talked to a few others who also agreed that money is tight and an agreement to cut back on holiday gifts, the exception being the children. The word was spreading and the Gift Reduction Plan was gaining momentum.

So, the original family member who brought up the idea in the first place suggested I draft an email and "we" would send it out to all the gift-related family members. I combined and encapsulated the accumulated suggestions and drafted an email.

It went something like this,
"We've been talking...and it seems some of us are thinking perhaps this would be a good year to scale back on the holiday gifts. Many of us don't need or want anything (except health and jobs, natch!) and others of us can't afford to spend much on gifts and feel awkward when when we receive more lavish gifts than we can afford to give. Others who live in far-flung locales are finding it increasingly difficult to know what gifts would be most appreciated. Whatever the personal reasons, most of us agree that it's time to scale back on gifts.

We also agree, though, that we all have to agree on this plan. A few ideas that have been suggested are:
1) Secret Santa! Adults will draw a name and buy only one gift for whomever they draw.
2) Price fixing! Set an agreed upon price limit on gifts for adults and children. Note: It's crucial that everyone adheres to the price limit.
3) Give of ourselves! Instead of an item, give of ourselves, a real gift of spirit, give a service, like babysitting or photography or teaching a useful skill.
4) Regift! Not a white elephant! For instance, if you know 15-year-old Billy covets your Joy Division LP, difficult as it might be to part with it, maybe it's time to pass it on to a new generation. If Margie always comments on how much she adores your pink pearl earrings and you rarely wear them, why not give them to Margie? You have two Dremels and Mike doesn't have one and you know he could really use one, voila! gift. Or, somehow, ahem, you ended up with a couple serving pieces of Great Aunt Clara's silver and cousin Sue has the rest of the silver service, how about a silver family reunion?
5) Donations! If you really want to spend money on family gifts, how about donating the money you'd spend on a gift to each person's favorite charity?

Thoughts? Ideas? Let's try to reach an agreement in the next few weeks. If you've already started your holiday shopping, perhaps we can cut back this year and fully implement a new holiday gift agreement for next year."

Okay. So, the family members who were in on the discussion thought the email sounded good, signed off on it and 'we' sent it to all the family.

As you can probably guess, the response was almost immediate and immediately split the family into two sides. Side 1) Those who were tremendously relieved that finally, someone had the guts to speak up and suggest cutting back on the holiday gifts. And Side 2) Those who were tremendously offended and/or angry at even thinking about imposing standards on holiday gifts.

The responses were almost unanimously either (verbatim), "Oh, thank God someone finally suggested this! I'm still paying off the credit card I used for gifts last year." Or. "I'll give whatever I damn well please to whomever I damn well please!"

Ultimately it was left to each person to decide what they wanted to "do" about gifts this year and we'd reconvene and revisit the issue for next year.

So, I sent an email speaking only for myself.

"Hi, me again. Okay, now that we've sort of figured out this year's gift plan and will continue the discussion in early 2012, I'm requesting that you all keep me off your gift shopping lists this year. As you know, the past couple years have been difficult for me and most of my possessions are packed and in storage - in a storage unit that is stuffed to capacity. There's truly nothing I need or want (other than a job, har har!) and I would honestly love for you to spend the money on the children or yourselves instead. I can't afford to shop for gifts and I'll be embarrassed if I can't reciprocate your (albeit well-intentioned) gifts.

Also, as you know, my mother has been going through a lot of health issues and she has not been feeling well enough to shop for gifts. She also asks that you scale back on gifts for her this year."

Okay, so, it's not exactly the cheeriest pre-holiday greeting, but I kind of had to say something, right?

Well, as you probably also guessed, "Snark" and the other Trillian-bashers were the ones who a) fell into the "offended by the mere suggestion of a gift reduction plan" side, and b) assumed there wasn't actually a group of us who who wanted to cut back, that it was only me behind the gift reduction plan.

So, that's been brewing since September. And apparently my eVite decline was the carte blanche to bash they were waiting for and they wasted no time bashing me like an ugly Piñata.

I was already feeling low about a lot of holiday issues.

No money for gifts.

No job = no office parties or colleague holiday get-together. Which sounds like a good thing, but oddly enough, I miss those professional obligations. They speak to a level of professionalism. Job = professionalism. Professionalism = career. Career = obligations. Obligations = sense of security.

Last year I got creative with gift-giving. I offered my services to family and friends. I taught digital photography basics, PhotoShop basics, gave babysitting services and offered to archive and organize digital photos and music. It seemed to be appreciated. I know some people were just being polite, but, I know others have put what I taught them to good use and appreciate what I gave them. And they also mentioned that they liked "having an excuse" to get together after the holidays.

Unfortunately I've kind of exhausted my skills-set and recipients who would appreciate my skills.

So, when a family member made the "not a White-elephant regift" idea, I thought it might be a good idea. And let's face it, my remaining possessions are all I have to offer. So, as I packed up my condo I kept out items that thought family members would like. Instead of selling LPs, jewelry and books, I set some aside for family and friends who I knew would enjoy and appreciate them. And, in the case of a few family heirlooms, I decided it's time to pass them along to a younger generation. I'm obviously not going to have children, these things need to stay in the family, so, instead of storing them or hanging onto them, I decided to give them to other people in family.

That aforementioned Joy Division LP? Yeah. I have an ultra-rare edition. When I sold some CDs and LPs to a local record dealer he offered me a handsome price for that LP (and a few others). I opted to hang onto it and few others, and in the back of my mind I thought, "I know a couple people who would really enjoy these, I'd rather give them the albums than sell them..." "Snark's" spouse is one of the people I had in mind when I thought that thought. I had "Snark" in mind for my grandmother's crystal. A pair of sapphire in platinum earrings that were my aunts' were wrapped for a family member whom I know thought was going to inherit them. Some of my best-loved (and in good shape) childhood books were wrapped and given to four-year-old twins who have exhausted the supply of four-year-old kid books at their local library.

It did cross my mind that it might seem kind of, you know, macabre for the recipients to receive "gifts" of my possessions. It might feel like pillaging through a dead person's belongings...before they die. And I was struggling with that. I didn't want to make anyone feel weird or awkward or embarrassed.

And of course I know that, technically, it's tacky. It is a really tacky thing to do. These are not new gifts. They are used personal possessions or heirlooms that I didn't pay for in the first place. I know this.

But, I can't buy gifts and since "we" couldn't agree to discontinue the family gift-giving tradition, I was left with no choices.

So, I wrapped up my possessions for family and friends. If I knew someone really liked a particular item of mine, I wrapped it up with a note that said, "You have mentioned how much you like this, I've had it a while, it's time for someone else to enjoy it, so, enjoy!"

The people who I thought might be the most sensitive about my situation and would be upset about me giving away my possessions as gifts received something else: Air miles. I have an insane amount of air miles. Enough domestic round-trip tickets to give a lot of people a trip anywhere they'd like to go in the continental United States. (I also used some of those miles as donations to charities that I normally support with money. You do know you can donate your air miles to charity, right?)

I wasn't exactly "happy" about my gift choices, I'd rather have a job and a home and money to buy presents for family and friends. But. Life + Lemons = Lemonade.

By the time the week before Christmas rolled around and I trekked off to UPS to send gifts to far-flung relatives and to my mother's house for the holiday parties, I was feeling okay it. I even convinced myself that they were heartfelt gifts and therefore would be well-received. I had faith in my family. Because, I have a family who loves me and believes in me.

"Think about it, Trill" I told myself schlepping back from UPS in an icy December downpour, "[a close family member] buys the same thing for everyone for Christmas. No thought, no personalized sentiment, just a generic one-gift-fits-all gift."

Yes. A teenaged snowboarding, punk loving boy gets the same gift as a middle-aged mom whose passion is crocheting toys that look like food with googly eyes. "Where's the heartfelt thought in that?" I reasoned, "why bother giving a gift just for the sake of giving a gift? If you can't spend 10 minutes thinking about the recipient and what they're like and what they enjoy and a figure out a gift that speaks to their personality and likes, should you even be giving them a gift?!"

Really getting on a roll, I further delved into my self-consolation and gift-puffery. "And what about [another family member] who gives cash or VISA gift cards? I mean, seriously! Sheesh! Talk about inconsiderate and putting zero effort into the holiday spirit. 'Here's $15, go buy yourself something. I couldn't be bothered to spend any time or effort to buy you a gift, so you do it.'" Yeah!! My gifts, my possessions shared and thoughtfully meted out among my family and friends say, "I remember how much you liked this" or "I know how much you enjoy this" and "I'm selflessly giving you something of mine, something I know you like, too." I talked myself into believing that I would be a living example of how we could move forward, as a family, with our holiday gift-giving traditions.

Or so I thought until I got that fateful email chain with all the mocking and bashing.

And all my self-pep talk evaporated into the dark recesses of my psyche from whence they came.

By the time I received the email many of the gifts were already sent and either opened or under trees in far-flung locales waiting to be opened. There was nothing I could do except hope that one day I'll get a job that offers limitless psychotherapy as part of their healthcare plan.

I don't have regrets. I really don't. Regrets are useless. Hindsight can be helpful. But regrets are useless wastes of emotional energy.

But.

After I read the insults, jokes and nasty comments my family wrote about me I was (am): Angry. Embarrassed. Hurt. And regretful.

I could have sold that Joy Division LP for a lot of money. I could have sold those sapphire in platinum earrings for almost a month of mortgage and utility payments. I could have used those air miles to fly a lot of places. I could have given my grandmother's crystal to a friend who, ironically, inherited a very similar set but with far fewer pieces and spends weekends haunting flea markets trying to find more pieces. Those books were my childhood friends, I loved them, I learned how to read with those books and consequently they opened up the world and my imagination. But no. I opted to give these things, my things, to family members who didn't want to give up the family gift-giving tradition. And now there they were making fun of me and insulting me.

It was like some sick mean girls version of the Gift of the Magi.

After that accidental reply-all email no one said or emailed or texted anything. My family members' Facebook walls became eerily silent.

I allowed myself a good pout and a few tears and made myself get over it then and there. Some of the presents hadn't been opened, and some of them were still in my control. I could withhold them.

Or, I could just continue as planned, give the gifts, say nothing about the email, and paste the warmest, charmingest smile on my face at the holiday get-together.

Which was, of course, the "best" plan of action. Kill 'em with kindness. Let them think and say whatever they want about me. Rise above. Lead by example, not react by insult. Eventually I'll devolve into the eccentric old spinster of the family and this year will serve as a benchmark, the year they first started noticing "odd" things about Trillian.

However.

Regardless of what the rest of my family decides to "do" about holiday gifts next year, the only person who will receive a gift from me is my mother. And not just because she pushed me out of her vagina. She's the one who taught me that grace, dignity and emotional maturity matter and that spite never feels as good as you think it will.

However, as far as gifts for next year are concerned, if I'm to be given the title Bitch Who Stole Christmas, then I might as well live up to it. And, it feels kind of liberating. Or, at least I'm choosing to feel liberated. Insight into your relatives' opinions is hurtful and upsetting, but, it can also be helpful. The blind devotion and respect we often give our family members, simply because they're family, isn't always deserved. That doesn't mean a tit-for-tat game is appropriate. My mother's right, spite never feels as good as you think it will. Retaliation rarely satisfies. But knowing your family doesn't respect or care about you or your feelings means you don't have to do all the things, give all the gifts or attend all the events.

Meanwhile, I hope you have a nice holiday and wish you well for 2012.

2011-12-14T23:46:00.000-06:00

*******NSFW***********

I just learned that 1) Trojan makes vibrators and 2) they're marketing them as a great holiday gift. The jokes write themselves. These combined facts offer staggering anecdotal potential. I can hardly wait to see what they come up with for Valentine's Day.

But. What I find confusing and frustrating is that somewhere out there is a marketing team who was tasked with advertising Trojan vibrators. And the best they came up with was a holiday marketing campaign akin to a Snuggie commercial. A holiday commercial featuring testimonials and a good long shot of the product packaging nestled in holiday-trimmed evergreens.

I'm not saying it's an ill-advised gift suggestion. I'm sure there are lot of women who would appreciate such a thoughtful gift that she can enjoy year round. (remember to include batteries!) But. If you're a guy and you're thinking, "Hey! That is a great gift idea for that special but difficult-to-shop-for lady in my life," give it some more thought before you trot out to buy one, wrap it in festive wrapping paper and nestle it amongst the gifts from Nana and her little niece. She may really like that special gift, she may appreciate the gift. And she may appreciate you for that great gift. It's great that you have such an open relationship.

But.

Ask yourself this question: What switch in your brain is in the off position?

Even if that special lady in your life wants a vibrator, in spite of what Trojan's marketing team suggests, Christmas is not the time to wrap one up and give her. Trojan's marketing team is clearly desperate to move some merchandise before the year-end inventory reports are run. Even if that special lady in your life wants a vibrator and you're feeling charitable toward Trojan's marketing team, wait. Just wait. Wait for New Year's Eve, or Valentine's Day, or better still, make it a "just because" present.

2011-12-12T14:35:00.004-06:00

And so, this is Christmas. This will be my third consecutive unemployed holiday season.

I’m not Scroogey or Grinchy because of the holidays. I’m Scroogey and Grinchy because I’m depressed and frustrated and scared. And embarrassed. I’m depressed and frustrated and scared because I’ve been unemployed for over two years and my home is in foreclosure. I’m embarrassed because I don’t have money to help those less fortunate.

It’s not like what’s portrayed on made for television movies. The people who write and produce those movies/holiday specials are the same people who write and produce trite, intelligence-insulting platitude-filled greeting cards and “…for the Soul” books.

There is no up-side to this. There are no (or very few) tender moments of “what really matters” and “true meaning of Christmas.”

I know there is no “shame” in poverty, but for me it runs a lot deeper than “just” losing my home and everything I own because no one will hire me.

I grew up in suburban Detroit. So I know a thing or two about hard times and poverty. My parents, my family, weren’t hit by unemployment, but there were a lot of people in our town and neighboring communities who were.

Every year culminated in charity-drives. My parents worked tirelessly collecting donations, buying food and household items for less fortunate families. I cannot remember a Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve that wasn’t dedicated to packing up the family car and delivering boxes of food, clothing and necessary household goods to those families.

I know about the true meaning of Christmas, I experienced it firsthand every year. My dad, an immigrant child of the depression and WWII, spent many of his childhood Christmases without much in the way of presents. Consequently, he was a big softee when it came to toys. He was also a former Marine. He viewed Toys for Tots his assigned life-long duty. He attacked his bell-ringing duty and toy donation drops with General Patton-esque focus and dedication.

There were lists of needy families given to charities – churches, scouts, schools – no names, just members of the family with the ages and gender of the children noted for each family. But because my parents were part of the delivery team they were privy to the addresses and last minute changes/additions to the list as well as some of the pertinent extenuating circumstances of the family. A sample handout list looked like this:

Father: 37

Mother: 36

Daughter 1: 9

Son: 7

Daughter 2: 4

However that same list was updated, less abbreviated and more poignant when it arrived to the delivery crew.

8329 Hollyvine Road

Father: 37, injured vet,

Mother: 36

Daughter # 1: age 9, leukemia

Son: age 7

Daughter # 2: age 4

Dire need for mittens, hats, scarves and socks, 9 year old daughter needs a very warm coat size 10 and girls' size medium underwear, son needs snow boots size 5.

My dad always made sure there were a couple age/gender appropriate toys for each child in every family. The day before the deliveries, he went over the list of kids and which donated items were allocated to those kids. Without fail there were always a few kids he felt didn’t get the “right” donations. Especially if it was a lean donation year. After reviewing the list of children and the toys allocated to them, a trip to the local toy store ensued to supplement the toy donations. He personally made sure every child in every family had at least one “good” present, something coveted by kids and advertised on television. He took my brother and me along on that shopping trip to act as a toy focus group. Our job was to advise on the appropriateness and popularity of toys for the kids on the lists.

“What about this Barbie, Trill?”

“Meh, she’s okay, but this Malibu PJ with tan lines is better. She comes with sunglasses.”

“Tan lines and sunglasses, eh? What’ll they think of next? Malibu PJ it is.” In went a Malibu PJ with tanlines and sunglasses for an unnamed 6-year-old girl on the needy list.

“Heh heh, woooeee, look at those new Hot Wheels!” my dad would exclaim, clearly coveting a few for himself.

He and my brother would have a long conversation about the pros and cons of Hot Wheels v. Match Box and which ones an 8 year old boy would like.

Typically we left the store with at least one toy for every kid on the delivery list, even the ones who already had a decent toy allocated by the charity toy drive. And candy. My mother and other mothers made dozens and dozens of cookies and procured countless candy canes to include in the charity boxes. But my dad had a sweet tooth and always loaded up on LifeSavers and bubble gum to add to the charity boxes. Which always struck me as more than a little odd because my dad hated gum and us kids weren’t allowed to chew it inside the house. Or in the car. Or on the boat. Or at school. Or in church. Or at a movie. Or at camp. Or… Some kids sneak out back behind the garage to smoke cigarettes. My brother and I sneaked out back to chew gum and blow bubbles. But those needy kids, they always received bubble gum for Christmas thanks to my dad.

When I was young I didn’t think about the money involved in the holiday charities. I knew money had to be raised, but I didn’t fully grasp how “it all worked.” But when I was 11 I realized those extra, supplemental gifts for needy kids my dad shopped for were purchased with my parents’ money – and it’s not as if my parents were wealthy.

My parents never told me they were purchasing the extra toys with their money. But that year, prior to leaving for the last minute toy shopping trip, I caught a glimpse of my mother giving my dad cash from her “expense” envelope (known simply but intriguingly as The Envelope) she kept secured in a secret spot. If she had any money leftover from her weekly grocery shopping trip it was put in The Envelope. That envelope was only brought out only for dire needs like school field trips, Girl Scout cookies, orthodontist appointments, emergency home repairs and emergency room visits.

That’s when I figured out that they were paying for the extra toys themselves. I called them on it. I’m ashamed to admit this, but, here goes: I was resentful they were spending “all that” money on other kids and instead of on me. I knew it was wrong to feel that way, and truly, I didn’t mind that they spent some money on needy kids, but, I really wanted new skates and a Walkman that year. I was getting older and my holiday wish list was getting more expensive. I saw those needy kids’ extra toys as eating into my Walkman budget. It was an ugly conversation that boiled into our first bratty pre-teenaged daughter argument that landed me grounded for the entire holiday vacation. I annually received more holiday booty than any kid should be given, a toy bacchanal – verging on gluttonous absurdity – so it’s particularly painful for me to admit that year’s lapse into Veruca Salt-type behavior. I chalk it up to pre-teen hormones. Apart from that one blemish on my holiday charity record I embraced my parents’ holiday charity work. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

Until I was well into my high-school years I thought every family did all the same charity stuff we did, at least the families that weren’t on the needy list. When we trekked to the store for the last minute donation shopping I thought the crowds at the store were doing the same thing we were: Buying gifts for kids who came up short in the toy donation drive. I also thought other families spent their Thanksgiving and Christmas Eves driving around the county delivering boxes of food, clothing and toys to needy families.

Every year I was sat down and given the same talk delivered in my parents’ strictest, “I mean it” tone of voice. “You are not to tell anyone about this, about where we go, who you see or what we give them. We are doing this to help people. They might be embarrassed about needing charity. We do not want to embarrass them. And we are not doing this to feel good about ourselves. We are doing this solely to help others. We do not brag about charitable deeds. We do not embarrass others. You. Do. Not. Breath. One. Word. Of. This. To. Anyone. Understood, young lady?” Yes. They pulled out the big gun, the “young lady.” When either of my parents called me “young lady” it was either because I was already in serious trouble, or, to forewarn me that if I didn’t do as they instructed I would be in serious trouble.

So I never mentioned any of our Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve activities to anyone. Sometime in my later years of high school I added up a few facts, overheard tales of how other kids spent their Thanksgiving and Christmas Eves and realized that not too many of my schoolmates’ families were helping less fortunate families.

That was when I realized my parents were, you know, decent human beings.

And apart from the lapse into selfishness when I was 11, I followed their lead. I always contributed to all the donation drives at every job I held. I helped sort, organize and deliver the donations. I tried to find ways to quietly help anyone I figured could use a little extra help during the holidays. I continued to help my parents with their holiday charity activities, including the last minute supplemental toy buying trip with my dad. Once I started earning money, the supplemental toy buying trip became an even more exciting event because I had my own money to help buy the “good toys.” No girl on our watch was going to get a knock-off imposter Barbie or lame no-name baby doll.

And my dad started sharing the details of the needy family lists with me. The details were even more awful and heartbreaking than I ever imagined. And I had a much deeper understanding of why my dad made it his personal mission to make sure the children in those families had “good” toys.

I shouldn’t tell anyone any of this, but my parents are anonymous, here, so I’ll break the rules laid out in their stern “what charity means” speeches. I learned that in many cases my parents assessed the living situation at the home of a delivery and “helped out” with an unpaid utility or medical bill. I am certain no one but my parents and the recipients of their assistance know about this. (And now you.)

Then my dad died. And I was laid off. And the holidays are a bitter reminder of both those losses.

I’m not divulging this now to prove how charitable my parents were, or how charitable I am (was), or to garner poignant sympathy.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not the only unemployed person who finds the inability to support charities one of the most difficult aspects of unemployment. It’s painful and heartbreaking to suddenly not have the means to help others, especially when charities have counted on your support for many years. I do not have the means to help those less fortunate…because I’m now the less fortunate. I volunteer my time and efforts, but what people really need is food, clothes, toys, and yes, money. And I don’t have money. So I can’t really help, not significantly. And that hurts. Every holiday season of my entire life has been spent helping “those less fortunate.” It’s at my family’s (and my) fundamental core. It’s what my family believes, it’s what we do. It’s who we are. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.

Or, who I was.

I never thought of myself as being one of those people whose identity is tied in a knot with their career or profession. “I like my profession, I’m appropriately passionate about it, but my career doesn’t define me,” I’d say. “There’s so much more to me than my career.”

But in my years (cripes, years, plural) of unemployment I now realize that my career plays a much bigger role in my identity than I once thought. I used to stand on solid ground about what I did for a living, how I spent my days, and where I focused my cognitive resources and energy. I earned a modest living doing something I was good at doing - and that I also happened to enjoy. And when I wasn’t at work I lived life “on my terms.” Terms that included a lot of charity work and donations.

And without a paying job I don’t have the money to help with charities. And it hits home that my career defined more of me than I realized.

Without extra money all I can donate is my time and skills. And even those are in low demand.

When I was laid off one of the first thoughts I had was, “Okay, well, until I find a new job I can devote more time to volunteering.” Lemons = Lemonade.

I told all my charities that since I had more time to devote to the causes I’d report for duty early in the morning and stay late. Without exception I was told some version of this speech, “Gee, Trill, sorry to hear about your lay-off, and thanks for your generous offer, but, really, we have lots of people helping, lots of other people are laid-off, too, and they’ve been helping, and right now we’re kind of tripping over each other. We have a long list of laid-off people who want to volunteer if we need more help. What we really need is money. We’ll call you if we need you. Thanks for offering, though. We know we can always count on you.”

I was even abruptly elbowed out of volunteering for a charity event that I’ve worked on for 10 years. I was squeezed out by several dozen other unemployed people wanting to help…and network.

“Hi [charity I’ve volunteered marketing help with for the past 10 years], just checking on when the first planning meeting is, I have lots of ideas for this year’s event, and, more time to dedicate to it! I can’t wait!”

“Ahem, um, gosh, Trill, um, this is awkward. I thought Liz talked to you. We’ve always appreciated your marketing expertise, Trill, but John and Michelle already took care of it for us this year.”

“But we haven’t even had the first planning meeting, yet!”

“Yeah, I know, but they took it upon themselves to handle the marketing, and they have the whole plan and schedule worked out and, you know, [their former employer] is such a big contributor and they wanted to continue to help us even though they no longer work there…”

“Right. That’s nice of them. They’re good, they have great experience and good ideas, that’s great. It’s great that you’re so far ahead of schedule this year.”

“Yeah, it is. But you know, we always need donations. I know it’ll be difficult for you this year, but we can always count on you to spread the word…”

“Yeah, I’ll talk it up.”

I did what I could, where I could, but as the years (gadzooks, years, plural) pass, and more people are unemployed, and more people are in need of charity, it’s obvious that what charities need most is money.

And I don’t have money. And I feel really lost during the holidays. My holidays have always been filled with charity work. I always saw myself as continuing my parents’ efforts to help those in need. It’s who we are, it’s what we do. But because I don’t have a job, and consequently money to donate, and my time and skills are not needed with volunteer groups, I’m utterly lost during the holidays.

Yes, part of it is that I’m still grieving for my dad. I’ve never met anyone who truly loved the holidays as much as my dad. And he loved them for all the right reasons. So all the holiday monikers are sad reminders that my dad isn’t here to enjoy them. So of course it’s a difficult time for me. But without a job, and money, I can’t carry on his spirit of charity and giving and helping other people.

Of course no one wants to say that out loud. No one wants to admit that the holidays, even the charitable “good” aspects, or the spirit of joy and peace, are tied into money. But. They are.

No, money can’t buy genuine good will. But it does buy joy, peace and happiness…or at least food, shelter and clothing. Go to any Christmas Eve church service and I guarantee you that a collection plate will be passed up and down every pew. I triple dog dare you to try to volunteer at a local charity – I’m betting you’ll be met with, “Gee, thanks, but, we have a lot of volunteers…but here’s our donation envelope whichc lists our 501(c) status for your tax records.”

I’m not Grinchy or Scroogey over this. I get it. I understand. Thanks to high unemployment rates there is a surplus of ready, willing and able volunteers. And even longer lists of people in need. What charities need is money.

But that has left me feeling increasingly empty and forlorn during the holidays. I’m not aimless, but, unemployment has been really, really hard on me. It’s taken an emotional toll that I never could have imagined even existed. And because I can’t contribute to holiday charities - on organized or personal ad hoc levels - I’m feeling even more empty and depressed about the holidays.

Oh sure, the joy and wonder in children’s eyes, the festive lights, the spirit of good will and blah blah blah. That’s all great. And I do enjoy it. But. Along with the omnipresent stress and fear of not having a job, the omnipotent spirit of the holidays - and my inability to boost that spirit - is overwhelming.

It's been one long string of disappointments - rejection and disappointments - for me. And consequently, I've disappointed a lot of people. People who trust and rely on me to be reliable, dependable, independent. My family and friends don't think of me as "needy." They used to not have worry about me. I was not a source of concern or stress in their lives.
My friends and women in my family who are stay-at-home mothers use me as an anecdotal example to their daughters, the antidote to the pervasive over-princessing of young girls. "You can grow up and have a career and not be dependent on anyone other than yourself! Get good grades! Go to college! Have a career! Buy your own home! All on your own! Just like Aunt Trillian! Or, well, just like Aunt Trillian used to be..." Disappointment: Check.
My mother, of course, worries about me because she's my mother and that's what mothers do, but first the failed engagement, then no kids and then a lost job...and two years of unemployment...and now foreclosure...I'm not exactly every parents' dream personified. Disapointment: Check.
My neighbors relied on me to be a mortgage and tax-paying member of the community, taking care of my home and doing my part to uphold the value of homes in my neighborhood. Unemployment...no money...foreclosure. I'm adding to the plummeting home value in my neighborhood. Disappointment: Check.
And then there are all the people and animals who heretofore benefited from my charity. Now I don't have money to donate to their plights/cause. Disappointment: Check.

Of course my family and friends care about me, and most of them don't see me as a disappointment. A failure, maybe, not probably not a disappointment. And most of them would be upset to learn that I think I've disappointed them. But. I have let down a lot of people, known and unknown, who relied on me. And that is yet another other deflating facet of unemployment. At least, it's a deflating facet for me - someone who has been, if nothing else, responsible.

*Sigh* *Again*

I’m spending Christmas with my mother who is recovering from surgery and cannot travel to spend the holidays with my siblings. It’ll be nice. Just the two of us some movies and tea and cookies. Quiet. Reflective. That’s what it’s “really” all about and we both know that.

We’re enduring. She’s enduring life without my dad, I’m enduring unemployment. We’re enduring the holidays. Not ideal, certainly not how we want it, but we have each other and we’re thankful for that lone gift. And that’s what really matters during the holiday and every other day. It’s the whole, “Christmas day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp. Christmas day will always be just so long as we have we” thing.

Neither one of us needed to learn that lesson, neither one of us needed to go through struggle and anguish to build character. We’ve both been through a lot. We both have a lot of character. As my dad used to say, we’ve “earned our stripes.” So I can’t tie it all up in a neat little “heartwarming moral of the story” lesson like on made for television holiday movies. Unless the moral of the story is, “‘It’ can happen to anyone, even these nice people. Even responsible people.”

2011-12-10T20:33:00.000-06:00

So, I had (yet) another interview. One might think that after two years and all the interviews I've had that a) I'd have a job offer, b) nothing asked or said at an interview would come as a surprise to me, and/or c) I must really suck at interviewing because I haven't been offered a job.

One might think all of that. And one might be correct about all of that. Those are fair assumptions. And I grapple with that every day and night. One might even say I'm obsessed with all three of those assumptions.

Interviews tend to fall into three types.
1) Functional. The "Here are details about the job description, we are looking for someone who can..." and then "How can you help us, specifically, with these job details?" type of interview.
2) Behavioral. The "You've read the job description, we've read your resume, HR talked to you at the pre-screen interview, you're clearly qualified to perform the tasks the job requires. And so are several hundred other people who applied for the job. We're here today to talk about you. We're a cohesive team, here, and personality fit is as important as the skill set. So tell us about yourself." type of interview.
3) WTF. The "We don't have a clue what we want or who we're looking for, but someone vacated a position and if we don't hire someone soon they'll take away the money allocated for that salary and once they do that it's impossible to get money reassigned for a new position so we just want a warm, breathing body at desk." type of interview.

There are other types (some really weird types), but generally my interview experiences fall into those three types.

Type 1 and Type 3 are "easy." Type 1 interviews require answers and dialog specific to the details and tasks of the job. If you know your profession, if you're experienced at the tasks presented in the job description, you then provide examples from your previous career experience that illustrates your knowledge and experience pertinent to what they're looking for in the job description. Type 3 interviews require a similar approach. They're not sure what or who they want, so you give 'em all you got with a positive personality spin and hope when they throw a dart at a wall of resumés they hit yours.

It's Type 2 that unnerves me the most. I know my "stuff." I have loads of relevant experience. My career has been my life for, well, most of my life. But. I also know that personality and symbiosis with the existing team are just as crucial, perhaps more crucial, when looking for a new team member. Particularly where there is the existing team has a very integrated synergy. You can suss out a few hints as to what sort of personality they want, but it's impossible to really know. I feel strongly that it's important to just be as "you" as possible under the circumstances and hope "you" are the type of personality that will fit in with the existing team. If "you" is "right" then it's not the right job for you. That's a well-worn platitude, but, it is true. These are the interviews where you're presented hypothetical situations (that are clearly drawn from real-life experiences of the interviewer) and you're asked "What would you do?" Sometimes it's just a very straightforward, "Tell me about yourself" inquiry. (No matter who says that, I always hear it in a cartoonish Austrian psychologist accent.) And the seemingly off the wall questions are asked. "If you were an animal, what would you be?" "What's your favorite color/book/vacation spot?" "What superhero power would you want to possess?" I have been asked that last question so many times that I'm starting to suspect The League of Justice actually exists and they're recruiting under the stealth cloak of innocuous job interviews.

I've had a lot of Type 2 interviews. I've been asked a lot of seemingly off-the-wall questions. Sometimes I feel like I've heard it all. But I know that's not true. I know that's not true because inevitably I'll go to the next interview and be asked some entirely new and weirder question. A few weeks ago I was asked to detail my feelings about the Revolutionary War. Not the causes (I've been asked that in other interviews). Not the tactical successes and failures. Not the leadership examples that are inspiring (or not). Nope, my feelings about the Revolutionary War. Erm, well, I presume you mean the American Revolutionary War. Just to clarify. Because I have different feelings about the French Revolution than I do about the American Revolution. And don't get me started on the Russian Revolution. But yeah, American Revolution...taxation without representation is negative thing, you know, not really good for anyone except the benefactor of the taxes. And, well, George III has never been my favorite monarch, and George Washington is my favorite president, so, you know, I feel pretty strongly about that. And, war, in general, makes me feel really sad and frustrated because of all the killing and devastated lives. And I feel you can't really talk about the Revolution without talking about the War of 1812 and Canada and Native Americans...it's a real hornet's nest that's often written off as an epilog or sidebar or even a footnote, but, you know, it's kind of a big deal in terms of territories, especially the Great Lakes (motioning toward Lake Michigan conveniently located in view of the window of the interview conference room). Right. So, yeah, that's a little of what I feel about the Revolutionary War. I did not mention my strong feelings about people to spend their free time re-enacting Revolutionary War battles. I did not mention that none of my ancestors even stepped foot on American soil until after WWI and that certain members of my family feel the War of 1812 hasn't really been resolved. Doesn't matter. I didn't get that job. Apparently I don't have the right feelings about the Revolutionary War. Or didn't articulate them well enough. Had I known I would be asked to give a dissertation on my feelings about a very complex war fraught with many issues, battles, leadership successes and failures and government policies I would have prepped a better summation of my feelings about all of that. But, stepping back for a minute, what do my feelings (or even knowledge) about the Revolutionary War have to do with my ability to serve as a creative marketing manager? I mean sure, parallels can be drawn, but I really do not like to think of my career, my job, my office or my co-worker and clients in terms of war, or how they relate to war. I'm pretty sure I dodged a bullet (perhaps literally) by not getting a job offer from them, but, on the other hand, I'm still unemployed and beyond desperation, so, getting hit by a couple painful job-related bullets wouldn't exactly be a bad thing.

Recently I had a lengthy interview that started out as a functional interview. Lots of questions about my previous experiences and my skills. But then the VP appeared and the real fun started. Lots of open-ended questions that were clearly geared toward finding the right personality for their team.

There's one I've been asked in the past, and it haunts me on deep levels.

"If all barriers were removed: Money, skills, logistics, etc., what would you do now and with your life in general?"

Yeah. That's a loaded question.

There's another version of this question that I've been asked several times, as well. "What was your vision/dream of your future when you were seven years old?"

For me, those questions are the same and one answers the other.

If all barriers were removed I would be living the life I envisioned when I was seven.

I would be a rock guitarist traveling around the world giving money to people who need it, saving/rescuing animals, creating all kinds of art, going to concerts and giving poor oppressed people money and escape routes to out from under evil dictators and I'd make an evil dictator island where all the evil dictators would live and be evil to each other (problem solved). I would also have a submarine that looks like a whale in which I would take long underwater trips traveling with whale pods. And I'd get NASA training and tag along on intergalactic missions and collect intergalactic geological samples. And I'd take lots of photographs.

I'm always careful to include those last parts and the evil dictator island part because without them I'm basically dreaming of being John Lennon. And that's just too weird and difficult for me to process. (So instead I basically dream of being Richard Branson. Hey, I never said I was sane. You're the one still reading this.)

Fortunately (apart from the evil dictator island and intergalactic geology trips) my seven-year-old me dreams and my no barriers ideas aren't, you know, too weird.

So when I'm asked these questions at job interviews my confident answer is, "Effectively I'd do the same thing - creating, managing marketing projects. But I'd reach farther, with a broader scope, and for philanthropic causes rather than capitalistic goals." Not too bad, right? I mean, a little on the Pollyanna side but not too smarmy and shows dedication to the profession. Right?

It's not like I'm saying, "Oh, I'd still want to do this job!" or "I'd be a Formula One race driver!" or "I'd feed and educate orphans in the Third World. And then eradicate AIDS, cancer and restless leg syndrome." All things I'd do if there were absolutely no barriers. Because if there were no barriers whatsoever nothing would stop me from knowing everything and if I knew everything I could unlock every riddle and solve every problem including eradicating deadly diseases and banishing evil dictators to an evil dictator island.

It's a dumb question on a lot of levels which is why I find those questions asked at interviews so tedious. People either lie (ridiculously) or just stumble through an answer they think hits a sane middle ground between what they hope shows sane/responsible/ambitious/kind and a beauty pageant speech. There have been a few instances where I had to fight every fiber of my being to not reply to this question with, "I'd buy this company and force you to sit where I am now and answer that question with the knowledge that your employment and future hinges on the answer to that ridiculously irrelevant question."

You hear about unemployed people who've given up their job search. I hear other people, employed people, say, "How? How can they just give up on finding a job? Why would they stop trying?" I have an answer. Because when they go on interviews instead of useful dialog about the job, their experience and skills, they're asked stupid beauty pageant questions like, "If there were no barriers, money, training, skills, etc., what would you do?"

The thing is, though, every time I'm asked those questions my mind gets kind of stuck in that zone and it's difficult to recover. The rest of the day I'm lost in my head fantasizing about being a rock-and-roll philanthropist with a whale-shaped submarine. And then I take one of two mindpaths. I fantasize about somehow suddenly, magically, having limitless funds and what I'd do - as in map out a "practical" plan starting from the minute the money is bestowed upon me. Or, I think about what I "should" learn from my thoughts to the "if the were no barriers/what were your plans when you were seven" questions.

From there it's just short trip down Oh-Crap-What-Have-I-Done-to-My-Life Lane. Just turn left on How-Did-I-Let-This-Happen Street, go two blocks and turn right on How-Can-I-Salvage-The-Sordid-Remains-of-My-Life Avenue, then veer left onto the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. You can't miss it, just follow the signs to the Seething Pit of Despair.

I dunno. Right now I just want a full-time job with a steady paycheck. Yeah, I'm dreaming big these days. The rock guitar wielding artist/philanthropist career and the whale-shaped submarine and intergalactic rock hunting can wait.

Yes, a wandering guitar-wielding artist philanthropist with a soft heart for animals and human rights who likes to spend prolonged periods of time underwater and in confined spaces sounds like a great life, perfect for me. But now is not the right time.

I know, I know, if not now, when? Well. I do have barriers and I'm not seven-years-old.

I know, that whale-shaped submarine sounds like a really great idea and I could live on it which would solve my housing, erm, "situation," but I'm pretty sure submarines, especially whale-shaped submarines, are kind of expensive. And I haven't seen any job postings reading, "Submariner wanted. No experience necessary, training provided. Willingness to travel in whale pods required."

And yes, I think I'd be a pretty darned good philanthropist. But I don't have philanthropist funds. And I haven't seen any job postings reading, "Philanthropist adviser wanted. Compassion and ability to suss out worthy causes required."

See what I mean? Those stupid "Tell me about yourself" interview questions really get under my skin. Too deeply under my skin. I know this. But two years of unemployment messes with your head in ways you cannot imagine. (Unless you've been unemployed two years, in which case you know what I mean.) Which takes me straight back to, "I must really suck at interviews because two years and several interviews later, I'm still unemployed." Which makes me replay and replay and replay again all the questions I've been asked at interviews and how I responded to them. What am I doing wrong, what do I need to change...all that. Then stir in the "what's holding you back from pursuing what you really want out of life" can of worms and...ugh.

I wonder if employers realize the emotional toll their stupid, irrelevant questions take on job candidates. Because unless they're offering unlimited funds, time, training and access, the "what would you do if you had no barriers" question is utterly irrelevant and only serves to make candidates spiral into existential funks.

2011-12-07T20:15:00.001-06:00

The past couple years have been really rough on my sense of security and personal stability. When I can't sleep (pretty much every night) I recite this, "No matter what happens, no matter how much farther my life spirals out of control, I know..." and then I complete the sentence with irrefutable facts about myself. The list of irrefutable facts about myself is exponentially smaller with each passing day of unemployment.

And just when I was certain that of at least one thing, the fact that Alec Baldwin and I would never have anything in common, we both flew on American Airlines on the same day and we both had, um, issues. Apparently Tuesday was American Airlines' Be Cranky to Passengers Day.

WARNING: Rant ahead.

My mother is on the mend and home recovering quickly. Yay. That's not the rant. That's a good thing.

The gentlemen callers abated for now. That's also not a rant. That's sort of a good thing. I mean, it's good for me because I don't want to think about things like step-fathers and my mother's romantic life. But if my mother wants to date that's okay, too. I'd just rather not know about it.

I had an opportunity to interview for a job. Yay. That's not the rant, either. That's a good thing.

The interview required a plane trip. This is where the rant begins.

Yes. It's an airline rant. Blah blah blah ad infinitum. I know, we've all heard it all.

But.

I have logged a lot of air miles in my life. I have logged a lot of air miles in the past 15 years of my life. A lot of air miles. The sort of air miles one accrues when one has a job which requires often twice monthly cross-country meetings and when one is in a trans-Atlantic long-distance relationship/engagement for several years and when one has endured prolonged critical illnesses in parents who live over 200 miles away. I'm not in the million mile club, but, let's just say it's not that far out of the realm of possibility for me to qualify for membership. I flew a lot prior to 9-11 and I have flown a lot post 9-11.

I feel a need to preface my rant with those disclaimers because, with all of those air miles logged, I have a disproportionally low number of airline rants. And on the rare occasions I do rant, it's usually about other passengers, not the airlines.

But.

American Airlines let me down big time. And that's not just a disgruntled flyer ranting because they didn't get their way. American Airlines screwed up so badly that even their flight attendant approached me, of her own accord, unsolicited or invoked by me, and told me I should contact customer service. She then proceeded to give me a "special" email and phone number for complaints. The "special" email and phone number they don't publish on their website.

Gosh, Trill, what the heck happened?

In order to get to this interview I had to make flight arrangements on very short notice. Many of the most convenient flights were sold out. So I opted to depart from a smaller regional airport on American Eagle. This was not a huge deal to me - I have flown on the smaller American Eagle fleet quite a lot between Michigan and Chicago. Not ideal in terms of comfort, but not awful, either. And since 9-11 I've grown rather fond of smaller regional airports and the comparative congeniality they offer.

My rant is not about the smaller regional airport. I stand by my opinion on smaller airports. Smaller airport = fewer travelers = shorter (nonexistent) security lines = friendlier, saner, smarter TSA agents = making the best of post 9-11 airport rules.

I didn't have easy or timely access to a printer, so I couldn't do the advance check-in. I'd have to suck it up and deal with airport check-in. But, not a huge deal because I was using a smaller regional airport.

Okay. So. I have a carry-on suitcase that I have been using for the past four years. A quick calculation culled from air mile logs and which flights the suitcase in question flew indicates that suitcase has logged at least 25,000 miles in the past four years. Yes. It's held up remarkably well. It's held up well because I only use it when I'm flying short distances for a couple days and I carry it on. But here's the thing about me and this carry-on suitcase: When gate-checking is an option, I gate check it. Always. I'm not a big fan of overhead bins. I'm even less of a fan of passengers who attempt to stow suitcases in overhead bins. I make exceptions for some larger planes, or when flying in first or business class.

I want to take this opportunity to mention that the suitcase in question fits into the size-check template thingy at the airport check-in lines.

Right. So. I rolled into the small regional airport with my trusty carry-on. It still had the red valet gate-check tag from previous flights.

I'm a self-check-in kiosk kind of gal. Especially when I'm not checking luggage. There was one person being served at American Airlines' one ticket counter. There was another person using the sole self-check-in kiosk. I queued up behind the kiosk. Meanwhile, a woman with two children and several suitcases, strollers, car seats and, I kid you not, a Coleman picnic cooler (the kind with wheels) queued up behind the singular ticket counter. The person at the ticket counter finished their business and the agent summoned me to the counter. Okay, yes, it was nice of him to offer to serve me before the woman with all the stuff, and technically I was there first, but like I said, I'm a self-check-in kiosk kind of gal.

I said, "Oh, that's okay, I'm not checking anything (glancing sympathetically to the woman with the kids and all the stuff), I'll just use the kiosk."

The agent took a more forceful tone and said, "Your bag is too large to carry on."

I honestly didn't realize he was talking to me. I thought he was addressing the other woman, the one with the kids and a ton of stuff including a picnic cooler. I continued to wait for the kiosk.

"Ma'am, you cannot use the self check-in kiosk if you are checking a bag and your bag is too large to carry on."

Oh. He's talking to me. He called me ma'am. I hate being ma'amed. My bag is not too large to carry on, I've been carrying it on for four years. I hate being ma'amed.

I made the universal "oh, you mean me?" face and accompanying pointing at oneself gesture.

The agent told me to step up to the counter to check in.

I smiled, brightly, and said, "I carry this on all the time, usually I gate-check it. See? I already have the official red gate-check valet tag on it. I'll just wait for the kiosk," again, motioning toward the woman with the kids and all the stuff to check.

"That bag is not regulation size, you have to check it."

It was at this point that my easy-going attitude turned, shall we say, less congenial. I've flown from this airport in the past, on American Eagle. I knew darned well that the overhead bins won't accommodate anything larger than a small handbag and all carry-ons are gate-checked. So in actuality the size of the carry-on is moot because everything gets gate-checked because nothing fits in the overhead bins.

I took a deep emotionally cleansing breath and said, "It is regulation size, but it doesn't matter, I'm gate-checking it, which I have done in the past, see? The official red gate-check valet tag?"

"Put it in the baggage sizer. Prove to me it's regulation size."

Okay, Mr. Smug Smarmypants, Mr. I Have to Wear a Nametag to Work, Mr. I'm in Charge Here, I'll "prove" to you that it's regulation size.

In order to get to the baggage template size thingy I had to get through the cacophony of stuff the woman with the kids had cluttering up the aisle. She had to move a stroller, car seat and the cooler in order for me to access the baggage sizer template thingy.

My bag fit into the template but there was a metal edge along the bottom that made one side of my suitcase jut up about 1-1/2".

The agent triumphantly yelled, yes, yelled from behind the safety of his ticket counter, "I told you it's not regulation size."

I said, "There's an edge of metal, a bar along the bottom that's making it protrude." I gestured to the bottom of the baggage sizer template thingy, and said, "See?"

He said, "I cannot come to that side of the counter. And I can see from here that your bag does not fit into the regulation baggage sizer."

"It fits, it's just protruding because of the metal bar along the bottom!"

He said, "I will not allow that bag as a carry-on. You have to check it."

I said, with a smile, "I'm gate-checking it."

And here's where I probably did a bad thing. The self-check-in kiosk was now available. So I picked up my carry-on, ignored the agent and proceeded check-in at the self-service check-in kiosk.

I know, I know, I shouldn't mess with "authority" at an airport. I know. Okay? I know. And I especially shouldn't mess with "authority" at an airport when I'm flying to a job interview.

And no, I typically don't have a problem with authority. For the record, I'm even okay with rent-a-cops, doormen, and the aforementioned TSA agents. But I do have issues with "authority." People who are not actually in positions of actual authority but because they're behind the desk wearing a smock/embroidered logo polo shirt and a name badge and handing out required tickets, receipts, change, whatever pittance is required to pass from one area to another, they perceive themselves to be authorities, in charge. Hand gesture of airquote *authority* hand gesture of unairquote.

Perhaps I was a bit too defiant. I'll admit that yes, I was acting a bit, you know, defiant. But. My carry-on was regulation sized. The stupid baggage sizer template thingy had a metal bar along one edge which caused my suitcase to protrude over the size allotment. Their fault, not mine.

But that didn't matter. I was on his turf and I had to play by his rules. I like small regional airports, but, the downside is that small regional airports are staffed by small regional people. Cue the Deliverance theme song.

Unfortunately that thought didn't occur to me until after I said, "I realize your employer is in bankruptcy and you're probably worried about losing your job, but extorting $25 from passengers by way of a baggage sizer scam is not going to get your airline out of debt or save your job."

Yadda yadda yadd the agent told me he was going to call security.

Yadda yadda yadda I told him to go ahead and call security because I'd like them to see the scam he's running with the baggage sizer template thingy.

Yadda yadda yadda it turns out the security guard and the agent are good friends.

Yadda yadda yadda $25 later I was relieved of my carry-on and escorted to the "special" security area.

However, it turns out the TSA agents don't think too highly of airport rent-a-cop security guards. Turns out TSA agents think airport rent-a-cop security guards are as Barney Fife as us civilians do. Turns out TSA agents enjoy exerting their actual authority over the rent-a-cop security guards who only have "authority." I was given the VIP, smiling, go on through, have a nice flight treatment from the TSA agents. They made a big show of congenially passing me through security without the extra security pat-downs the rent-a-cop security guard was craving.

I went to the gate without further incident.

And that's when I got really angry. The flight was full and there were many people waiting to board at the gate. I looked around for a place to sit. And quickly realized there wasn't a place to sit because bar none, everyone at the gate had carry-on suitcases taking up all the extra seats and space around the chairs. The carry-ons were all the size of mine or larger. Several college-aged kids had large rolling duffels at least 6" - 8" larger than my carry-on. What the...?

And this is when I got really, really angry. The woman with the kids, strollers, car seats, suit cases and Coleman picnic cooler arrived at the gate. She arrived with all her strollers, car seats, suit cases and yes, the Coleman picnic cooler. All of which had the coveted red gate-check valet tags. Double what the...? None of that crap was regulation sized. None of it. To keep myself from completely losing it, going insane and going postal, I'm forcing myself to assume that she's a medical courier with proper ID and official papers and the picnic cooler contained either a vital organ for a transplant or a crucial rare antidote serum for a child dying of a rare disease. Or it carried breast milk for her small child.

Sidebar: I'm unemployed. I'm losing my home. I have almost no money. $25 is a big stinking deal to me. $25 is my entire food budget for two weeks, often for three weeks. So the unexpected outlay of $25 was a source of anxiety and stress for me as well as a bona fide financial hardship. And yes, I know, if you can't afford the baggage fee, you shouldn't be flying. Believe me, I wouldn't have been flying were it not for a job interview in a distant city. An important job interview for which I wanted to get a good night of rest, hence my desire to not wait around the airport a second longer than necessary, hence my desire to carry-on my regulation-sized suitcase. The extra time spent waiting at the baggage claim was equally as inconvenient to me as the $25 fee. And equally unnecessary.

We boarded, I arrived at my destination, a very, very large metropolitan airport. I trudged to the baggage claim area and waited. And waited. And waited. I began to worry because even though the baggage claim monitor listed my flight number, I was the only person waiting at that baggage carousel. Eventually a flight attendant from my flight appeared. She smiled at me. I managed a smile at her.

And then she came over and said, "I recognize you from my flight. You know that you pick up your bag at the gate, right? The bags are gate-checked and when you deplane you wait on the jetway and they unload the gate-checked bags."

"Yeah, I know the drill. But they made me check my bag. The agent said it wasn't regulation sized and called security on me. I had to pay $25 to check my bag."

The flight attendant looked at me with increasingly furrowed eyebrows.

"No one checks bags on that flight. We gate-check everything. I had a long layover and did some shopping, so I have a few things coming on the baggage carousel but no one else checked anything to arrive here. A few passengers checked bags through to other destinations, but not here. I even saw a woman gate-checking a cooler! Are you sure they didn't gate-check your bag?"

I looked around again. It was still just me and the flight attendant. The baggage claim area was taking on a Twilight Zone atmosphere.

"Well, I dunno. The agent at the counter made me check my suitcase."

"Is it really large? You know, over-sized?"

"Nope. It's a normal carry-on sized. I've carried it on a lot of flights and never had a problem. But there was this metal bar along the bottom edge of the baggage-sizer template thingy that made my bag jut above the top of the template frame and the agent made me check it and pay $25 and called security on me."

"Good God. I'm so sorry. Here, let me write down a phone number and email for you. We have a special complaint line for passengers who were inconvenienced more than is acceptable. Tell them what you told me."

We both stood there in awkward silence waiting for the baggage carousel to spring to life. 45 minutes after our flight landed the buzzer squawked and the conveyor sprang to life. 10 minutes later the flight attendant's boxes appeared. She wasn't kidding, she did some serious shopping. 10 minutes after her boxes and suitcase appeared, my measly little carry-on came rolling out of the baggage abyss.

My issue ended better than Alec Baldwin's. I was only out $25 and an extra hour of time. I wasn't escorted off the plane and I arrived at my destination as scheduled. Other than the ticket counter agent and the airport rent-a-cop the airline and TSA personnel were friendly, efficient and helpful.

But now I'm back to square one regarding my sense assurance in at least one aspect of my life. Since Alec Baldwin and I now have something in common I'm back to square one with finding something, one certain fact about myself that I can ~~rely on~~ cling to like a security blanket. I have to find another way to finish the sentence, "No matter what happens, no matter how much farther my life spirals out of control, I know..."

2011-12-03T11:42:00.001-06:00

So, apparently my mother's a hot item on my hometown's senior singles circuit.

I spent most of the past six months with her and I'm clueless as to how this escaped my attention until now. There were some random calls from men from church, and some of my dad's golf buddies and former work colleagues occasionally called to check on her. But the calls seemed innocent, perfunctory. The men are all old friends of the family or my dad's friends. Without exception all of these men have known my parents for 20 or more years. (It's a really small town...and people tend to either come and go quickly or serve a life sentence. The lifers all know each other.) So it didn't seem odd or out of place that occasionally a man called my mother to check in on her and inquire about her health and well-being. Especially since my mother has been in an ongoing health situation. She has friends. My dad had friends. They care about my mother. They want to help. I didn't think there was anything, erm, unusual about these men calling or visiting my mother.

And my mother certainly gave no indication that she was even remotely interested in, you know, erm, socializing with gentlemen callers.

She's still bereaved. She still struggles with my father's death. She gets misty eyed over him at least a couple times a week. They were married a really, really long time. Happily married.

And that's not to say that she can't, you know, socialize with men or even, gulp, love again, but I just never considered it.

That is, until she had to have another surgery and an extended hospital stay. For the past two weeks there has been a steady stream of visitors to her hospital room. Couples, women...and several widowers.

At first I didn't think anything unusual about the widowers visiting. They are nice guys, they've been great about helping my mother with guy stuff like car repair diagnostics, minor home maintenance/repair, schlepping stuff to charity donation drop offs...that sort of thing. The sort of things you do for your friend's spouse if your friend dies.

But the past couple weeks in the hospital has been eye opening. These cats are turning up in their good dress slacks and sweater vests over shirts festooned with jaunty prints (pheasants seem to be a popular motif), freshly barbered hair, perfectly polished shoes, and...after shave. Very smelly after shave. I didn't even think too much about that, really, I mean, okay, in a couple of cases yes, I did think, "huh?" but for the most part I just wrote it off to their age. Old school guys behaving old school. Visiting a friend in the hospital is an event that requires one's good attire. But then the after shave got stronger and the shoes got nicer. And the chilly greetings and icy glares exchanged between men became more obvious.

One guy, we'll call him "Bob," was visiting my mother with his freshly coiffed hair and shirt adorned with golf paraphernalia and trousers starched and ironed with a Ginsu sharp crease and faint hint of Black Suede, telling her news from the marina and golf club when another guy, we'll call him "Jim" appeared with a straight-from-the-dry-cleaner green shirt and light-up Santa and reindeer tie and Sans-a-belt slacks, hair pomaded just so and an overpowering aroma of Old Spice. "Bob" greeted "Jim" with a disdainful glance at his lack of belt and light-up tie. A disdainful glance that said, "Pfft, gimmickry."

"Bob" greeted the newcomer with, "Hello, Jim." He couldn't have been more curt.

"Jim," ever full of bonhomie, ignored "Bob's" contempt and, undaunted, pressed Rudolph's nose which made his tie chirp out the melody to "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." He then crossed the room, extended his paw-hand to "Bob" while jocularly patting him on the back and gave him a hardy, "Bob, always good to see you!" That's right, Jim, kill him with kindness.

And don't count "Jim" out just yet. He one-upped "Bob" by coming over to me and going in for a big hug, making a big show of it. Sure, "Jim" has always been a hugger, a bear hugger, but even for him this was an over-the-top hug. That's when I realized what's going on with these guys.

"Jim" was clearly making a point to "Bob." That over the top hug to me was his way of marking his territory. He knows he'll never get anywhere with the mother if the daughter doesn't approve. All the light-up musical ties, pomade and Sans-a-belt slacks in the world will get you nowhere with the ladies if the kids don't approve.

This revelation was startling to me. These men, these men who were my dad's friends, these widowed men whose deceased wives went to church with my mother, volunteered on fundraisers and scout projects together, played cards with my mother, had barbecues with my parents, these men were vying for my mother's affection. Not some slick Johnny-come-lately, not some creepy new guy, no, something more sinister, more stealth: Old family friends. Who were clearly having some sort of pissing match over my mother. My mother who was laying in a hospital bed two days after heart surgery.

Oh swutting Belgium this cannot be happening. It has to be some bizarre dream. A nightmare.

I stood there, dazed in my new realization that my mother has the widowers of my home town worked up in a low-T frenzy. I quickly replayed the past few months. I guess there were some clues but I was blind and didn't see them.

And I did think it was a little odd that "Bob" showed up after my mother's surgery with a book of classic English poetry, but I wanted to believe he was just being thoughtful.

Yeah, thoughtful, all right. Real thoughtful.

After he released me from the extended bear hug, "Jim" went to my mother's bedside and planted a kiss on her cheek. Up to this point, that wouldn't have been a big deal. But with the extra dose of Old Spice and the glaring exchange between him and "Bob," that kiss on the cheek took on new meaning.

"Jim" launched right into a ribald tale of a senior's casino bus excursion which clearly disgusted "Bob." At the end of the tale "Jim" pulled out a $20 poker chip from his pocket and presented it to my mother by way of "magic trick," pretending to pull it out of her ear. It should be noted that "Jim" has been "magically" pulling things out of peoples' ears as long as I've known him. (I've known him pretty much all my life.)

"Bob" clearly didn't think much of "Jim's" magical prowess. I'm sure I saw "Bob" roll his eyes. He cast me a glance, caught my eye for a moment, and gave me a conspiratorial "can you believe this guy?" look.

These two men typify the diversity of my parents' friends and social life. To say my parents' friends construct a rich tapestry of personalities, lifestyles and status is a gross understatement. The only common thread is that they're all decent, nice people.

"Jim" is a bit, you know, convivial. Jolly. Sort of a cross between a John Candy character and Fozzie Bear. Not classless but not exactly a class act, either. However, he's genuinely a super nice guy. He's had a rough time since his wife died 8 years ago. Their kids and grandkids live thousands of miles away. He's lonely. The local senior citizen activity group has been good for him.

"Bob's" widowhood has been equally lonely but he remains focused on his boat and golfing. One would never call "Bob" jolly. But. He, too, is genuinely nice. He and my dad golfed together and our families boated together quite a lot.

I stood there reflecting on the contrast between these guys, my dad's friends. My parents' friends. The only thing these guys have in common is that they know my parents and they're widowed. And now, apparently, they share an, erm, interest in my mother. Out of all my parents' friends, my dad's friends, I never would have guessed these two guys would be the ones to make moves on my mother. There's another Bob in town I kinda thought might pounce on her because he pounces on all the newly widowed women in the area. But so far the other Bob, Pouncing Bob, hasn't made a move. At least not that I'm aware.

It really unnerved me to think about anyone making moves on my mother. As in, I had a visceral reaction to the thought of a man, men, these men, any man, making moves on my mother. I know, I know, my mother's a viable human being with, erm, needs, and now that she has a re-charged heart she's feeling a lot better and should be up for a more active life very soon. I know, okay? I know.

Cut me some slack. It was a lot to process. And I was tired. The surgery was a surprise and an emergency and it's been a rough couple of weeks. And this is my mother. Who was married to my dad. For a really, really, really long time. I have never, not once in my entire life, thought about either of my parent's "with" anyone else. I know before they were married they each dated several other people. My dad was apparently quite the party boy. And my mother, even with her extremely high standards, managed to have a couple rather intriguing alliances and some fun flings. But. That all ended when they met and that was that. Happily ever after. End of story. The end. Period. Finis.

And then it hit me. Oh crap. I could end up with a step-father. And one of these guys could be him. I highly doubt it...but...crap. My mother could have a more active dating and romantic life than I do.

That shouldn't bother me, I know. If this is what my mother wants, I should be happy for her. I know this. But. It's a lot to digest. The concept of my mother loving, or even caring about a man other than my dad is far too abstract for me to grasp. I know it's wrong of me to feel that way and that's even more difficult to grasp. Why don't I want my mother to have some male, erm, companionship? A little romance? Or even just a little socializing, some dates? What's wrong with me? Why am I such a horrible daughter? I'm pretty sure my dad would want my mother to have some fun, get out and socialize. But I'm also pretty sure he would not be keen on the idea of my mother getting married again.

I know, I know. No one said anything about marriage. And these guys weren't even asking my mother out on a date. But. "Bob" brought her a book of classic English poetry and "Jim" wore his light-up musical Santa tie and brought her a $20 poker chip. I'm not sure what either of those mean in senior citizen terms, but it seems kind of serious to me.

And what of my mother?

She has not mentioned anything about male companionship. I don't see her scoping out men.

Although.

She did enthuse about her heart surgeon and how good looking he is. She did mention his handsomeness several times. She even told him he looked like a doctor in a movie. Okay, she was heavily sedated at the time, but still, she noticed. (He is easy on the eyes.)

But.

I cannot imagine that even if she wants to "get back out there" that "Bob" or "Jim" are what she has in mind.

Let me very clear about this: My mother is not a tease. She has not "encouraged" these men or given even the faintest indication that she's, erm, *gulp*, interested in them. And no, I don't think she's playing hard to get. I think she really is hard to get. Impossible to get.

And I suppose that's the allure. These are older men, old school men, men who came of age in a very different era. An era when men wooed and pursued women and women were not as ~~desperate~~ ~~easy~~ available as they are now.

And "Bob" and "Jim" were not making advances on my mother, at least not now. But. Were they building up to something? Weaving romantic webs to ensnare my mother so that they have her where they want her when they make their big move on her?

The more likely explanation is that they feel some sort of chivalrous code of honor toward my dad and are "looking after" my mother "for" him. And they are lonely widowers. And my mother was friends with their wives. And on and on, all very innocent.

But it made me realize that I haven't given any thought to my mother's romantic, erm, needs. Just because I'm happily collecting dust on the shelf doesn't mean she is, too.

It's not that I don't want my mother to have an active, positive social life - including, erm, interaction with members of the opposite sex - it's that a) I don't want to know about it and b) I don't want "Bob" or "Jim" (or perish the thought, Pouncing Bob) to be my stepfather.

And I know that makes me something...something not very good. A bad daughter. Selfish. The kind of selfish daughters with issues you see on Lifetime and Hallmark movies. I do not want to be that kind of daughter.

So I've decided I need to wrap my gray matter around the concept of my mother dating. Just in case she does want to date, or socialize, or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days.

Suggestions welcome.

2011-11-21T22:12:00.004-06:00

Sheesh, eHarmony doesn't mess around. When they tell you they can't help you, they mean it. They mean it as in forever from that day forth, they want nothing to do with you. One strike and you are out. O-U-T out.

How do I know this and why do I care?

A friend of my sister's was visiting for a few days. I went over for a girls' night thing. My sister's friend is divorced and hasn't had much luck meeting the sort of men with whom she wants to have a relationship. She's thinking about trying online dating to hone in on the "right" men.

My sister said, "Trillian's done it! She knows all the sites! She can show you the ropes."

Yadda yadda yadda we were huddled around a computer looking at different online dating sites.

I haven't even thought about dating - much less dating sites - for at least three years. It brought back a lot of memories. The good, the bad and the ugly memories.

My sister's friend liked the idea of eHarmony, or at least the idea eHarmony's marketing group presents in their advertising.

I removed my profiles (all of them, on every site) a long, long time ago. Years ago. I mean it when I say I put myself far up on the shelf. So far up on the shelf, for so long, that I'm enshrouded in a thick layer of dust and there are dust bunnies drifted up around me.

Oh. And. I never even had the opportunity to join eHarmony. I was deemed unmatchable. (Turns out they were right. Oh so very right.)

Anyway.

Back to present day. Me, my sister, her friend, looking at dating sites for my sister's friend. My sister told her friend about my eHarmony dis. Yadda yadda yadda we were all going to do the personality pre-screen.

And just as yadda yadda yadda, I got this error prompt:

"We're very sorry, but our matching system cannot predict good matches for you.

eHarmony's patented matching system was developed after extensive research into marital satisfaction. We use each person's responses to our Relationship Questionnaire to predict the pairings of individuals that are highly likely to result in satisfying long-term relationships, based on what we learned through our research.

Unfortunately, based on responses to our questionnaire, we occasionally find situations where our matching system cannot identify high quality compatible matches, and this has happened in your case. Please understand that it is a result of our matching process and in no way reflects on you as a person or your ability to be in a happy relationship.

We apologize and regret our inability to find good matches for you. The time you spent completing our questionnaire, however, has enabled us to provide you with a free Personality Profile. (Linked to my ancient - circa 2004 - Personality Profile.) This Personality Profile lets you learn more about yourself and should provide you with valuable insights.

We wish you all the best in your search for that special someone."

Seriously, eHarmony? Seriously? Seven years has passed since I attempted to turn over my love life and credit card to you. Seven years. An entire generation. People have joined up, met people, gone on dates, married, mated and divorced in that span of time. But, boy oh boy, once eHarmony doesn't deem you matchable, they close the door and lock the gate. So much for people growing and evolving. Apparently unmatchable truly means truly unmatchable. Forever, perpetuity, eternity.

It's not that I really care because I'm certainly not interested in dating and no one's interested in dating me. But. I'm pretty sure eHarmony doesn't read this blog or have some freaky mind-tap ability. Their refusal to let me even enter the site after seven years is taking things to an extreme. It's like they're holding a stubborn grudge against me.

Yes, sure, I could use a different email address and start from scratch. But I'm not interested in dating or using eHarmony so I'm apathetic.

But still. Sheesh. Seven years and they won't even allow me to enter their site?

I realize I'm a dating pariah. And an employment pariah. And a financial pariah. And a general social pariah. Believe me, I know these things about myself. I get it. And eHarmony played a role in my understanding. Their rebuff gave me a solid understanding that dating, and life in general, would not be as straight forward or easy for me as it seems to be for the average person. It was all spelled out in the personality profile eHarmony gave me as a consolation prize. They suggested that I use it to gain insight into myself. Insight into why I'm so undateable, so unmatchable that they wouldn't even take my credit card.

And yes, yes, they deserve some integrity points for that. They didn't take my money because they knew darned well there wasn't a man within 500 miles that would be even remotely interested in me. And for that, on all the levels, I am grateful. The personality profile did help gain some valuable insight. And it was free. And put myself on the shelf and I haven't looked back. (And it this point even if I did look back it would be difficult to see through the think layer of dust.)

But still, I've had seven years to digest what I learned from their personality profile. Seven years to learn and grow and evolve. Think maybe I deserve a second look, a second chance? Think they could give me a re-evaluation? A chance to re-assess me and see if I'm still the pariah they thought I was seven years ago? I mean, okay, yes, we know I'm worse. Unemployed and homeless are not exactly attractive looks or things that people look for in a date. But eHarmony doesn't know I'm unemployed and can't pay my mortgage. Or do they?

Anyway. Funny as it was (is), it was a little embarrassing. I vowed to not allow it to rip open wounds that were healing nicely. So I took the mocking approach to the error prompt sentry they posted at the gate of their site. "Har har, when they say they can't find a man within 500 miles for me, they mean it! Har har."

My sister's friend chimed in with insight from her dating research, all of it gained from women's magazines.

"It's because you've never been married. Once you're over 30 you're statistically more dateable if you're divorced than if you've never been married."

Never mind that her statistics are based on a Cosmo survey. So much for not ripping open those wounds.

The reality is that this woman who is 12 years older than me, smokes a pack a day, is divorced with three children, barely has a high school diploma and sports a bad dye job has had a lot of dates and a few men who wanted relationships with her since her divorce four years ago.

Whereas I, a never married non-smoker with no children and a few college degrees and hair that is a color that naturally sprouts from human heads, have not had any interaction with a male that wasn't work-related, a relative or the husband of a friend over that same four-year span.

In a random poll of three single women over the age of 30, two divorced, one never married, the two divorced women had more dates than the never-married woman.

But the never-married woman chose to stop trying to meet men. Or date them. Or marry one.

So. That poll and the resulting data might be skewed.

Or maybe not. My sister's friend was graciously welcomed onto the eHarmony site and promptly escorted to the personality profile questionnaire. She clicked her way through the many (many) questions and at the end guess what?! She passed the rigorous eHarmony screening exam! eHarmony feels confident they can find great matches for her! She was welcomed into the eHarmony community with open arms and a welcome tutorial video.

I always kind of wondered what it was like on the other side of eHarmony's cyber velvet rope. It looks pretty nice in there. A place where a single gal out on the town can feel safe and meet quality certified eligible bachelors. Wow. eHarmony is different. My sister's friend joined up and is looking forward to mixing and mingling with the compatible fellas eHarmony has in store for her. After four years of dating since her divorce, she's anxious and ready to find a new special someone.

She was sympathetic to me, "Awwww, gee, sorry Trill. It has to be because you've never been married. It's so unfair of them to make that kind of snap judgment."

"Yeah, well, eHarmony is different from other dating sites. They have a reputation to uphold and all that. It's a smart marketing move. They're not rising unfavorable world of mouth reviews. If someone doesn't fit into a majority of matching dating factors, they're a risk, the cookie cutter method probably won't work. Why risk a loose cannon out there bad-mouthing them?"

My sister's friend reads a lot of self-empowerment books (recommended by women's magazines). Her knee-jerk response was, "But we're all unique and special, I don't fit into a cookie cutter standard..."

"eHarmony thinks you do."

"We'll see who they find for me before we judge. Maybe one of my guys would like to meet you!"

Good grief. She was offering me her dating site rejects. This is truly a new low for me.

That got me thinking about my old plan of a dating site for eHarmony rejects. All the deviants, miscreants, mutts and never-married over 30s that society and eHarmony doesn't want can join and meet other social pariahs. Like an animal shelter for troubled or older, "less adoptable" pets with special needs.

You know what I mean. You've seen the "special" section of the pet adoption sites. The "there are plenty of older animals with special needs who make loving pets. These animals need homes that can accommodate their special needs" area of pet adoption sites. The descriptions read like this: "Spike is a loyal and loving dog who loves attention and needs a home without children." "Fluffy doesn't let her deafness get in the way of her high-spirited antics. She's a playful cat who also likes long naps by the fire. She needs a home with a few extra safety precautions for a deaf animal." "Mittens is an older cat who knows what he likes and wants. He's looking for a forever home where he can age gracefully with companionship." The animals in the photos stare up at the camera with vacant eyes. Sometimes there's a glint, a last-ditch effort at sparkle eyes, but usually they look like the "befores" in those heart-wrenching ASPCA ads. They're not the fluffy, best-in-show animals showcased in pet food commercials. They're older, or they're missing parts of their ears from alley brawls, or they have bald patches in their coats, or they won't stop nipping at their own butts even long enough to take a photo. These animals have, um, "issues."

And the same can be said for eHarmony rejects. It's not about looks, necessarily, but the personality profile tells the full story if you can read between the lines. And eHarmony is very good at reading between the lines. So the eHarmony reject site profiles would read like this: "Mike is a loyal and loving guy who loves attention and needs a home without children." "Buffy doesn't let her deafness get in the way of her high-spirited antics. She's a playful gal who also likes long nights by the fire. She needs a home with a few extra safety precautions for a deaf person." "Mitzy is an older cat who knows what she likes and wants. She's looking for a forever home where she can age gracefully with companionship."

The people in the photos could stare up at the camera with vacant eyes. A few of the more optimistic would be able to manage a glint, a last-ditch effort at sparkle eyes, but most would look like the "befores" in those heart-wrenching ASPCA ads. They're not the snazzy, best-in-show people showcased in perfume and jewelry commercials. They're older, or they're missing parts of their ears from alley brawls, or they have bald patches in their coats, or they won't stop nipping at their own butts even long enough to take a photo. These people have issues. Issues that eHarmony sussed out and held up as valid reasons not to take a chance at allowing them to enter the site. eHarmony not only doesn't want to risk failure and a bad reputation, they're playing a role in the social cleansing of the gene pool. Thank you, eHarmony, for not facilitating connections for people who are clearly not the sort of people we want going out and reproducing.

Evolution, baby, evolution. Survival of the fittest. eHarmony has Christian roots, so I do find the irony of their very un-Jesus-like intolerance and their role in evolution really funny.

The reason I never forged ahead with the eHarmony reject dating site plan is that there are already plenty of sites/services available for the eHarmony rejects. Match.com and it's eHarmony-esque sub-site, Chemistry.com will take anyone with a credit card or Pay-Pal account. PlentyOfFish is the Craig's list of dating sites, and the local personals section of most newspapers offers an outlet for the most undateable among us. And the thing about the personals section is that if a legit date doesn't transpire, there are always the ads for phone sex and "masseuses."

Which is why I put myself up on the shelf. None of that is right for me. And no, I don't partake in phone sex or "massages."

Anyway. Whatever. I don't care. And I like that I don't care. I strove for apathy and I attained it. I set an emotional goal and met it. What with LOST off the air I rarely even fantasize anymore. So I was a little annoyed that this whole eHarmony thing reared its ugly head because dating, men, relationships, companionship, romance, sex...those were the farthest things from my mind. And now, thanks to being blocked from even entering the site, banned and banished from eHarmony, the whole "why am I such a misfit" crap flared up.

Yeah. Good times. Thank you, eHarmony, for locking me out of your site, apparently banning me for life, because I'm a "situation where your matching system cannot identify high quality compatible matches."

The take-away here is a warning. If you're using, or used eHarmony in the past, once they form an opinion of you it doesn't change. They don't waiver or give second chances.

And if you've been rejected by eHarmony in the past, even if it was seven years ago, do not attempt to access their site when others are present unless you are prepared to bare your unmatchable soul to all present.

2011-11-17T11:54:00.001-06:00

It's sad to realize market researchers put more effort into accurate data analysis in developing a marketing strategy for lipstick colors than what's being accurately researched and analyzed in the state of Americans' welfare and the American economy. This says more about the weirdness in journalism and politics than it does about marketing professionals.

There are fundamental steps to garnering accurate analytical data, there is basic/standard protocol for data research and analysis and listing unemployment benefit numbers proves nothing other than how many people are collecting unemployment. Basing any conclusion on only one factor is faulty, skewed data research. A set of criteria is needed to before any conclusions (at least accurate conclusions) can be made.

This is such a basic, accepted, proven fact that it makes me think that I'm either a genius and don't realize it, or, (more likely) there are at least a couple obvious factors at play in journalism and politics. 1) "The Public" is mired in complacency borne of frustration, despair, and cynicism; 2) Politicians and journalists are in a state of desperation borne of fear.

When you only have one factor, one data set, all you have is a hypothesis, a theory. To prove/disprove that theory you analyze and research the hypothesis, establish a set of relevant criteria, collect data for each factor of relevant criteria, assess each number as a single criteria and as a factor against/with the other criteria collected, then make conclusions about the hypothesis/theory based on the factual evidence collected.

I realize I have a somewhat unique perspective. The perspective of a marketing professional who spent agonizing spans of time waiting for the research department to develop data collection processes like consumer polls, focus groups and customer feedback just to decide how to light a photoshoot based on conclusions drawn from data analysis.

But. This is basic data analysis. Research 101. Stuff that's learned in 4th grade science and/or math classes. (Elementary school science fairs are full of projects that require basic research fundamentals.)

I know I'm not the only one who's thinking/talking about this, and yet...I see/read/hear very little about collecting all the appropriate data and revealing the accurate data.

My hypothesis are as stated above: We, The Public are so used to being fed non-news news snippets that we're jaded and complacent about demanding actual news and/or quantifiable responses from our politicians. (Well, okay, that's nothing new, the expectation bar has always been pretty low for politicians.)

I don't like to talk politics because I feel strongly that unless I (me, personally) have something to offer, a solution or at least sound suggestions that would benefit people other than myself, I need to keep my mouth shut. Stay out of the fray.

I feel the same way about journalism. There are credible news sources with integrity, who adhere to principles of journalism: accurate, factual reporting of events/issues. And then there are the news sources that either never had integrity, or, have resolved themselves to a slow, complacent, agonized existence on life-support, biding their time until they succumb to irrelevancy. There are a lot of factors: The internet, dwindling advertising revenue, The Public's dwindling attention span, The Public's thirst for celebrity gossip, The Public's growing disaffection toward news sources... (I theorize that part of the equation is that The Public is more savvy and that's lead to laziness. Why read a newspaper, or the online news, every morning or evening when you know you can a) use RSS and/or b) access the info whenever you want, whenever it works into your schedule or whenever you feel it's relevant?)

Anyway.

When the new "unemployment numbers" were announced (a 7 month low in applications!), I rolled my eyes and spat a pfft at the glaring obvious lack of research and just bad reporting. "There are at least three glaring omissions of relevant data in this 'report.' Further, no conclusions can be drawn from one factor. What editor allows this kind of slack to be published?" I knew I wasn't the only one thinking that and dismissed it as just another result of the decline of credible reporting thanks to "gotta publish it now!" mentality of internet, ahem, journalism.

And then it occurred to me that maybe there is something I can offer. Well, me and several unemployed marketing research professionals I know. It's a little cavalier, this idea of mine, and it might make a few people uncomfortable, but, hey, I (quite literally) have nothing to lose.

Here's my idea: Allow unemployed marketing professionals access to government databases.

This is an interesting idea on a lot of levels, but for the purposes of this initial experiment, let's focus on the data reporting aspect.

And let's further narrow down the depth of the experiment to just one issue: Unemployment.

So. Now we have an independent marketing team, people who spent their careers being tasked with finding quantifiable data which is then used to devise relevant creative solutions. (That's the take-away from a marketing degree, I just saved you thousands dollars in college tuition. You're welcome.)

The marketing team is asked: What is the current state of unemployment and the impact on Americans?

For anyone with data analysis experience and access to government databases this is an easy first assignment.

What is the span of time necessary to gain full, long term insight to a long-term issue? Three years is the usual time span when looking at social/cultural impact, but other factors need to be weighed, like economic trends. The downturn took it's first real plunge in 2007. So, we'll go with four years of data. Which, in marketing terms, is a solid span/body of empirical data. Great, that was easy!

Now for the real nitty gritty. What are the relevant factors in establishing unemployment? The number of new applications for unemployment benefits? The number of people collecting unemployment benefits? Apparently a lot of journalists believe the story begins and ends there. But we're not journalists. We're marketing professionals trying to establish quantifiable, accurate data that will lead to an appropriate, on point, successful creative solution.

We examine the issue, ask relevant questions then, with our newly acquired access to government databases, we'll run some reports and analyze the numbers! Ta dah!

It's not magic and it's not even all that creative (yet). It's basic research skills with a little scientific sleuthing skill thrown in for accuracy.

Here are the numbers I would run if I had the keys to the government database kingdom.

1) Number of people who were employed in full-time permanent jobs in 2007 v. now.
2) Number of vacancies/replacements that have not been filled after full-time workers retired/voluntarily left.
3) Number of people on food stamps in 2007 v. now.
4) Number of foreclosures due to lay-off in 2007 v. now. (That number will require a little more effort, getting accurate stats with a direct correlation between loss of job:loss of home will require polling which could be difficult since foreclosed homeowners without job or unemployment benefits could be difficult to track down.)
5) Number of recent college graduates placed in full-time jobs in 2007 v. now.
6) Number of early retirements (age 52 - 65) taken/granted in 2007 v. now.
7) Number of people with health insurance in 2007 v. now.

Unfortunately I don't have access to the appropriate data bases. Otherwise I'd do the research and present the data results. (Sorry, didn't mean to be a data tease.)

I can take a poll among my friends, family, neighbors and former colleagues. That would be a good focus group with a diverse random sample of relevant participants. (granted, the focus is pretty broad: Americans.)

"We" all know there is so much more to the unemployment/economy/job market story than what's reported. Most people with a functioning brain and a 7th grade education know the factors I listed are the relevant issues and scoff at the "reports" and insinuation that there's "good news" in the job market. And yes, yes, I know, I know if I really spent time digging around online I'd find people (bloggers, mostly) presenting some of this data.

What's sad is that we're all smart enough to know the job market and economy is not what the news media (apologies for using that overused term, I winced just typing it) is issuing as news, and yet the charade continues. What they "should" say is that they are merely reporting the unemployment numbers, no assumptions made or conclusions drawn.* Unless/until there's more research and accurate, quantifiable, relevant data available we won't know the full (horror) story of what's really going on and how bad things really are. "We" have a pretty good idea that things are really awful, but some deeper relevant stats, numbers, would allow us to draw our own conclusions based on accurate facts. Just the numbers. The bottom line.

And unemployed marketing research people are a great untapped resource for finding this data. Sorry, unemployed journalists. I know some of you are really good at what you did, and decreased advertising revenue and increased technology hammered nails in your profession's coffin, but, it happened. The Public is a little wary and weary of you. So. I'm just suggesting an alternative resource for researching and collecting data. There are a lot of unemployed marketing people who love data and know how to accurately research. Why not allow them access to government databases? What could possibly go wrong?

Worst case scenario they use the access to obtain data that leads to insight into gaps in products/services needed by Americans. And, being marketing people, they know what to do with a gap in the consumer supply chain: Fill it!! Products! Services! Infomercials! Marketing baby, marketing!

*I have many ideas for reporting the unemployment numbers - just the numbers, mind you, not conclusions drawn from the numbers - just the facts. Here are a few.
1) Post the unemployment numbers in a little data box on the front page or under the online masthead. Like the casualty tolls published in some papers during WWII.
1 b) Post the names of all the people who were laid-off, like a military death tally, include what they did and years of service, "Michael Thompson, PhotoJournalist, 20 years" "Scott Harris, Account Manager, Hospitality, 23 years" "Liz Jackson, Health Benefits, HR, 12 years"
1 c) Okay, that would fill entire newspapers and websites, so, instead, a ticker, like the Dow Jones ticker, just under the masthead of online news sites.
2) Publish/post the names of companies who laid-off any employee, even if it was just one. We hear about the massive corporate-wide bulk layoffs, but the small layoffs that contribute to the big morass. "ScrewTek, 13 machine operators, 2 admin, 1 facility services" "Coffee Café, 2 baristas, 1 cashier"

Sure, that's all a little macabre and potentially embarrassing for the unemployed/businesses, but, it certainly personalizes the issue. Which is something marketers dream of doing. Once you reach a consumer on a personal level, you've got 'em. You still have to keep their attention, but, once a personal connection is established you have to screw up pretty badly to lose the consumer.

2011-11-14T10:40:00.000-06:00

There are times in life when "rising above" and being a better person, you know, emotionally, is disappointing. Some people do things that are so awful we really want to be around to see the retribution. It doesn't feel like "enough" to merely know we've handled ourselves well with an evil doer. Sure, we chose to keep our mouths shut, or turn the other cheek. Or, on a truly higher level of emotional intelligence, we wish them well and give sincere hope/prayer/whatever that this person finds whatever they need to not behave/say what they're doing/saying. But still. Even so. Sometimes people do/say such horrible things to us that no matter how enlightened we are there's part of us that would really like to be a fly on the wall when that person gets hit with retribution for their actions/words against us.

Sure, you get a good night of sleep borne of integrity and self-respect because you didn't engage or succumb to their verbal or behavioral shenanigans. And it's a slumber sound in the knowledge that the person whose behaved badly, the "lesser" person in the situation, will one day reap what they sowed.

Except we are human. And sometimes it's disappointing to know that we won't be around to witness the karmic retribution bestowed upon someone who did us wrong.

This is where religion enters into the equation. The religious find solace in Judgment Day. "It's not for me to judge, but one day he'll stand accused and be judged for his actions by a higher power." That thought seems to comfort a lot of religious people and give them peace. Many also seem to find even more gleeful, almost giddy, comfort in the thought of their nemesis facing eternal damnation for their actions/words. Which isn't exactly rising above, now, is it? I'm pretty sure that's not what Jesus would do. That's just schadenfreude tinged with vindication and self-righteousness. Which doesn't exactly speak to emotional and spiritual enlightenment. And delighting in the evil-doer burning in Hell is just accusing, judging and assuming an eternal conviction with the added ugliness of arrogance and self-righteousness. Which is where/why I part ways with a lot of religions.

People on journeys of other types of spiritual and emotional enlightenment have another way of finding peace when someone does them wrong or just behaves badly, or "not as loving as one would appreciate" as my sister's hippie friends say. But it's no less sinister form of retribution. Karma. We're all riding on the Universal wheel. It's basic physics: Everything projected into a circular form will return to it's starting point. The timing depends on the torque and momentum. Sure, it's not exactly Judgment Day and damnation, and it's more self-perpetrating and self-perpetuating. (And interestingly, that's one of the few times those words both appropriate. I'm not the grammar police but sheesh, I see perpetrate and perpetuate misused a lot - ooops! That just scored me a Karmic retribution.)

In both cases, ultimately we'll be held accountable for our actions and words, good and bad. The obvious difference being One Big Final Judgement Day by a higher power resulting in either eternal happiness or eternal damnation v. self-inflicted acts of retribution. I'm all for self-accountability. If someone needs the threat/fear of a higher power and eternal damnation to make them accountable for their behavior and words, fine. If it's spiritual physics that keep someone accountable, that's great. I like the the idea that what we put "out there" comes back around and crashes into us because we're traveling in a circle so it's only a matter of time before it hits us or we hit it. The judgement is left up to us. Before doing or saying something, carefully think it through, judge your words and actions before putting them out there. Do you want to have them crash into you when you least expect it? Good stuff.

But I'm most fond of the concept of choosing, on your own, without threat of Judgement or Karma, to be a decent human being. Just be a decent human being. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.

I know, I know, Kum Ba Yah.

Well, the Universe has bestowed me with either a favor or a challenge. I'm not sure which because I'm not emotionally enlightened/clever enough to know which. I'm only clever enough to know that's it may not be what it seems and that there's a lesson to be learned here.

All I can think is, "Where's Aesop when I really need him?"

When I was doing 50 First Dates I met a lot of men. Most of them were nice people, or at least decent human beings. I really liked some of them but they (obviously) didn't feel the same about me. I kept in touch with a few of the nice ones for a while, we were friends, but eventually they met women who became girlfriends, and I was painted out of the social picture. It happens. That's life. No ill will. But. Then there were the others. Some of them were weird. A few were jerks. And a couple were, well, awful.

One of the awful ones did and said some really horrible things to me. I didn't blog about it because I didn't want to perpetuate the negativity. He was the poster boy for Why Women Should Not Use Internet Dating Sites. I chalked it up to living and learning and moved on with my life. But. He really was singularly awful to me. His words and behaviors spoke to his immaturity and lack of integrity, and obviously I wasn't interested in someone like that. And the opinion of someone like that doesn't matter to me. I'm evolved and enlightened enough to know that. But, you know, I'm not the Dalai Lama and hurtful words and actions do hurt. I didn't dwell on what he did and said, but, every now and then when I had some self-doubt, he (along with other accusers of my life) crossed my mind, "Maybe he was right..." Eventually his voice faded and while I didn't forget about him (because there were lessons to be learned from my experiences with him) he hasn't exactly been on my mind for a very long time. Years.

That is until he did something very, very stupid in a very, very public forum. And now he's a public laughing stock, held up as slimy, gold-digging scammer by "the media" and the butt of jokes on blogs all over the internet.

I know. I know. You're thinking, "Ha! Way to go, Trill! You knew he was digging his own grave and now he has! You said or did nothing, you rose above his behavior, and ha! look! now he's getting what he deserves! That must feel great! Revel in this moment! It's better than revenge! It's glorious!"

Well, yeah, it kinda is. But. That's the dilemma. If I gloat, if I'm "happy" about him making such an ass of himself in such a public way, I'm not truly rising above, I'm not being truly forgiving or genuinely, well, "good." Right?

Even smug satisfaction seems kind of gloaty.

Some of you are saying, "But Trill, you said he treated you horribly. That earns you the right to a little happy dance."

Yeah, I suppose it does. He was really awful to me. And I presume that was his general behavior, and probably not just with women. I suspect his horrible behavior extended into his professional life, as well. Some of the things he said about some of his associates seemed like more than bravado. My "this guy is a pain in the ass to work with" antennae were tingling when he regaled me with stories of his professional coups.

I suppose he deserves the very public backlash he's getting, not just for the incident at hand, but for all the crappy things he's done and said in the past.

You may be sardonically smirking, "Karma's a bitch, baby."

And yes, it can be.

We're all responsible and accountable for what we do and say.

And that includes things like revenge, vindication, and pride.

Crap. That means I shouldn't go around gloating, or even feeling smugly-satisfied that this guy, this jerk, not only got what he deserves, I'm actually getting the rare opportunity to witness him getting what he deserves. That should feel really good. But it doesn't. It doesn't change my life, it doesn't make me feel vindicated. It doesn't even make me feel better about the universe in general. I don't see it as proof of some higher power at work. The guy is a jerk. Give him enough rope and he will hang himself. Done and done.

If I were Ghandi or Jesus I'd be bestowing peace and love and some positive outcome for this guy.

But. I'm not Ghandi or Jesus.

And I do feel something about his self-induced public character assassination. I suppose it's vindication, smug self-righteousness. Some would argue I deserve to feel those things. But. There's another component to this, beyond whether or not it's ever okay to feel vindicated and self-righteous.

Let's just say, for a moment, that in this case it's okay to feel smug and revel in the vindication.

Life has presented so few of these situations to me that I have no idea how to handle it. I am not prepared to feel smugly self-righteous. I don't know what to do with vindication that's been handed to me on a silver platter.

And my go-to resource for dealing with complicated stuff isn't helping. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Where does this fit in that process? Healing? Peace?

Further, and more appropriate, the mirror within a mirror aspect of this is really getting to me. Yes, this falls into an existing process of accepting, forgiving and healing over a specific situation. But. I could also approach this as a new situation, which means I have to start at the beginning. I have to accept what's happening (I do, I accept that he's made a very public ass of himself), and then the tricky part. Forgiveness. Do I forgive the people who are ridiculing him? Or do I forgive him for making a public ass of himself? See? This isn't as obvious as it might seem.

I know, I know. I'm dwelling on this way too much. It's probably nothing more than the fact that I'm so inexperienced with vindication that I don't know how to handle it, and further, I'm too inept at success that I'm uncomfortable with self-righteousness.

I do know that this is a rare opportunity. Very, very seldom do we get to actually witness someone who wronged us receiving karmic retribution. And because of its rarity, I feel obligated to handle it properly.

Here's what I decided.

I asked myself, "Am I glad he's going through this?" The answer is, "What happens to him is of no consequence to me." Hence, any smug feelings of self-righteousness kind of fall apart.

However. The standard dismissive, "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy" summary seems deeply apt and more appropriate than at any other time. It couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Because a nicer guy would not do the crap he's done and would not deserve this public character flogging.

So that's where I'm leaving it. "It couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

2011-11-11T18:01:00.006-06:00

I know, I know, every blogger and their mother is posting their Amps at 11 Playlist today. I know. But since I know a thing or two about music deserving (and undeserving) of loudest volume possible I decided it would be almost weird for me to not add my list to the millions of others.

Some are classic (predictable), others might prompt you to do a little auditory research. There are some notable absences. Choices had to be made. Difficult choices. Sophie's Choice type of choices.

To narrow down the selections I imposed a few rules. The song has to have withstood the test of time. So. Any song less than 11 years old will have to wait for the 11/11/2111 Amps at 11 Playlistalooza. That helped the selection process, but not as much as I thought. White Stripes, Arcade Fire, Arctic Monkeys, The Black Keys...sure, when they were out of the listening pool the water was a little more clear, but I was surprised to realize the 11 Years and Older Rule didn't eliminate more contenders. It was then I realized the '80s weren't as musically awful as I remember. Yes, there was a lot of really awful music, but, when it was good it was very, very good. Or at least very, very loud.

And that brought me to my next rule. Loud for the sake of loud doesn't make the list. Sorry Gwar, and Slayer, and Iron Maiden, and Queensryche, and WASP...you have some qualifying merits, but overall you're kind of all blend into a malaise of loud. (Wanna take bets at how quickly I get h8 mail over that? I give it 23 seconds.)

Which led to my third rule. Some bands are in a loud league of their own. Loud, but loud with intentions other than LOUDEST GUITAR AND ANGRY SCREAMING GUY IN THE HISTORY OF GUITARS AND ANGY SCREAMING GUYS!!! For instance, The Ramones and The Sex Pistols. No one will argue that they have a good body of qualifying Amps at 11 work. But. They're culturally loud, too. Their anthems aren't just songs you like to play loud, they're been rites of passage for teenagers. So much so that now 14 - 15 year-olds who don't play the Sex Pistols cause parental concern.
"Honey, I'm worried about Madison. She doesn't seem to be at all interested in the Sex Pistols."
"Now, now, darling, she's probably just a late bloomer."
"That's what I thought, too, but the other day I found Sarah Bareilles in our iTunes download list. And you found that Bruno Mars download a couple weeks ago. I think we need to face facts, we've been in denial about this ever since that whole Katy Perry situation last year. We chose to look the other way but now we need admit that Madison has a problem and we need to do something about it soon or she'll fall so far behind she'll never be able to catch up. I think we should reset her iPod."
"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, don't you think that's going a bit too far? If we start looking at her iPod she's going to think we don't trust her and she'll resent us."
"Do have any better ideas? She's going to be 16 in four months. She should be listening to the Sex Pistols by now. Or at least Radiohead, for crying out loud! Is there one 'Explict' or 'PMRC Warning' in her music collection? I don't think so! Liz told me Max and Chloe started listening to the Sex Pistols in 8th grade."
"Hang on a minute, that seems a little young..."
"Kids are different now, they're savvier, they're into anarchy a lot earlier than when we were growing up."

You get the point. Some bands are more than loud music, they're more than music. And yes, I struggled to define that, too. Wouldn't that make the Clash, Nirvana and Iggy Pop ineligible? See? This is really, really difficult.

One more rule emerged. Loud often means feedback. Velvet Underground, Sonic Youth, Jesus and Mary Chain. I decided that's a subset of Amps at 11 playlisting. So, if the song owes it's loudness primarily to feedback it didn't make this cut. Perhaps on 12/12/12 I'll do a Larsen Effect Playlist.

So. Rules in place, I did the best I could to come up with choices that embody at least a few loudness factors that invoke the urge to turn the amp to 11. I tried to make it a musically comprehensive list and weighed a lot of different merits before arriving at this list.

And yes, it goes to 11. (But if you're looking for a little hearing loss inspiration, there's a more comprehensive list of my "off the top of my head" choices here.)

Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love, Van Halen Yes, Van Halen is so obvious and predictable it's embarrassing. We're all over the age of 8 and under the age of 65, here, I don't need to explain why it's an Amps at 11 song. Mr. Edward Van Halen. Mr. Diamond David Lee Roth. Both at their best. It's the penultimate Van Halen song, which makes it way too obvious to even mention. But. I have my reasons for including them. First, along with air guitaring, it also invokes air fist pumping. Have you ever, ever, listened to Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love at anything less than a 9 on the volume/amp meter? Yeah. Me either. No one has. When I was in high school there was a rumor about a kid who lived a couple towns over who tried to listen to it at a 3 or 4 setting. (the actual decibel level was different every time the story was told, and the lower the volume setting, the more sinister the story seemed) The story was that the kid kept getting in trouble with his parents for cranking the volume too loud. So he saved up his lawn mowing money to buy a Walkman and decent headphones. But then he got in trouble because his parents said they were a hazard to his health and they couldn't get his attention when he used them. But he still wanted to listen and air guitar to Van Halen, so he did the only thing he could: Listen to them at a volume lower than 7. 7 was the highest volume his parents would allow him to set. (In some versions of the story the dad went so far as to Super Glue a stop/block on the volume/amps sliders so the kid couldn't play anything louder than a 7 unless he broke off the home-made volume stop/block. In other versions of the story he blew the woofer and tweeter on the speakers and his parents wouldn't buy new speakers so even with the volume cranked he only got what little muffled sound the feeble mid-range could convey.) Anyway, the kid played Van Halen at a low volume setting and pretty soon he lost the desire to air guitar. Eventually he stopped punctuating the chorus with fist pumps. Then he stopped hanging out at the 7-11 after school. He started turning in his homework on time. And then someone saw him at the record store in the mall buying a, a, (gulp) Phil Collins tape. (That part of the story changed by teller, too. I heard versions where the music purchase was Elton John, Amy Grant, Will to Power, Little River Band, T'Pau...) Whoever the easy listening artist was, it was always said with that sinister horror story of voice and horrified gasps would ensue. And so, among all the other valid reasons to place them on this list, that horrific suburban legend solidifies Van Halen's place in my Amps at 11 heart and on my list. Plus, c'mon, admit it, you love this song. And you love it loud. It's universal. It's transcendent. Sure, Imagine reduces people the world over to tears. But Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love inspires people the world over to crank the volume/amps as high as they'll go, pick up air guitars and scream to no one in particular, "Ain't talkin' 'bout LOVE!!!" And I submit to you, which is the greater feat? Tears or air guitars? Thought so. Told you.
My Generation, The Who Do I really need to explain this choice? I triple dog dare you to attempt to listen to this with volume/amps set below 9. (I heard about a guy who tried to listen to My Generation at a low volume and Keith Moon's ghost crashed through the front window, turned up the volume and ripped off the volume knob on the stereo then threw a lamp into the television and then puked afterlife goo all over the living room rug.)
Beauty and the Beast, Bowie I took this song on and off my list several times before I settled on placing it at #3, primarily for Fripp's scratchy on-the-verge-of-mad-scientist guitar work, precursor of true mad-science-guitarmanship that followed on Scary Monsters (also an Amps at 11 song). Heroes is obviously an incredible body of work and many of the songs are best played loud. But. Bowie isn't generally an Amps at 11 guy. I love him, but, I don't "need" to crank him loud to be one with ~~him~~ his music. (I find I prefer Ziggy at a lower volume, it feels more story-tellerish at a lower volume. Ditto Heathen.) So this was a tough call for me. If this were an Amps at 20 list there would have been no question, he'd be on without hesitation. But, for sentimental reasons, deep affection, solid musicianship and vocal/guitar work, and gosh darn it, we just like him, I chose to add him. Once that decision was made, Heroes was the only real album choice. But the song choice was a tough call. Another Sophie's Choice. Beauty and the Beast only barely edged out Heroes. The chanthem choruses were ultimately the decision-maker. "Something in the night, something in the day, nothing is wrong but darling something's in the way...Nothing will corrupt us, nothing will compete, thank God Heaven left us tanding on our feet" and then the maniacal "My, my!" I dunno. And it's that inexplicable something that sealed the Amps at 11 deal for me. If you can't explain it, if it just "is," then it deserves a place on the list.
She Sells Sanctuary, The Cult I'm gonna get a lotta guff for this one. But. Guff be damned, I like The Cult. And I like this song. And I like it loud. Real loud. Really, really, really loud. From the intro to the fade out, it's one big, brilliant, loud, amp fest. Like Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love, She Sells Sanctuary is an obvious and predictable choice (if not She Sells Sanctuary, then Love Removal Machine). But every year older this song gets, the better it sounds. And even though the songs are lyrically thin with inane titles (if you never understood all of what Ian Astbury is singing, trust me, you're not missing much, "Oh, the Texas sun, makes my back burn...and the world, the world turns around, and the world, the world drags me down." That's pretty much the lyrical gist of the entire song) they're so powerfully sung the content doesn't really matter. This dude sings so forcefully and intensely that apparently that Texas sun really made his back burn and he wants the entire galaxy to know about it. And Astbury is backed by not just loud, but loud and interesting guitarwork of Billy Duffy. Like My Generation, I triple dog dare you to try to not play this song loud. Real loud. Part of the reason it made the cut is that it's also guilty of earworming anyone who hears even just a few bars of it.
London Calling, Clash This is a tough call. Along with AC/DC and the Pixies, almost every song recorded by them is an Amps at 11 Song, so how does one choose just one? My top contenders were Straight to Hell (the intro is a top volume must), Clampdown, Career Opportunities, Radio Clash, and Should I Stay or Should I Go, but I'm going with London Calling because of the scream-along-with-Joe howling bits and the apocalyptic anger-ridden lyrics. And there are personal sentimental reasons. I spent most of my teenage years riding/driving around a very small town in my parent's or a friend's parent's car drinking Slurpees® and screaming along with this song cranked at top volume when we were allegedly at the library at SAT study group. The irony of dorky suburban girls in braces, sneakers and Timex watches blowing off studying for college entrance exams in order to listen to the Clash was not lost on us. Mercifully, in spite of this miscreant behavior, we all managed to earn college-entry-worthy scores on our SATs.
The Passenger, Iggy Pop Iggy has a voice that was born for amps that go to 11. Like bagpipes, even when you listen to him at a low volume he's loud. I chose The Passenger because it's a brilliant piece of poetry and because of the post-Stooges, um, "maturity" of Iggy's voice throughout all of Lust for Life. I also chose it because of the fantastic guitar work on The Passenger. (Trivia moment: Bowie does backing vocals.) And I chose it because it's a quintessential road trip song, and something about road trips brings out the amps at 11 desire in me (and a lot of other people). Many a dark lonely roads in the middle of night have seen me slicing through the miles with me and Iggy singing, "I am the passenger, and I ride and I ride, la la la la la lala la laaaaah." Even when I start out listening at a lower volume when the last refrains are playing I notice the volume has somehow been turned up. Way up.
Money Talks, AC/DC It was only a matter of how to choose just one AC/DC song. This is the ultimate Sophie's Choice of Amps at 11 playlisting. Their entire catalog is Amps at 11. So I went with the one that most often puts me at risk of a disturbing the peace citation. Which one best represents my Amps at 11ness? Long Way to the Top (if You Want to Rock and Roll) was tied for Money Talks. Bagpipes are loud. There's no possible way to play bagpipes quietly. Or listen to them quietly. Therefore, because Long Way to the Top contains bagpipe solos (plural) by default it should land a spot on any Amps at 11 list. And, like ?'s organ use, the unconventionality of the instrument in a hard rocking song could secure that position. See? I'm making a case for Long Way to the Top and not my final choice, Money Talks. This speaks to the Sophie's Choice nature of the choosing the right AC/DC song for this list. I'm going with Money Talks because the vocals are slightly stronger and the chorus begs to be yelled. "C'mon, c'mon, love me for the money, c'mon, c'mon, listen to the money talk!" Yeah, good times.
Sex on Wheels, My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult Six words, screamsung at lungs at 11, "Hard body Motor City, LOVE LIFE!!!!" Then add the screeching tire intro, the blaring horn bridges and did I scream, "HARD BODY MOTOR CITY LOVE LIFE!!!" loud enough? This is another staple of my road trips. But it's more than that. It's banal and sexy and dirty and funny and loud, loud, loud, LOUD and I love it and I love it loud.
Creep, Radiohead Do I really need to explain or justify this one? The only surprise (to me) is that this song is (well) over 11 years old. Holy what the Hell am I doin' here, where did those years go? Creep passes all the Amps at 11 litmus tests and makes up a few of its own.
Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana I know, it's so obvious. And yes. There are "better" Nirvana songs, and louder Nirvana songs, and less obvious Nirvana songs. But. Nothing screams LOUD MUSIC like frustrated, sarcastic, disaffected teenagers and Smells Like Teen Spirit is the international anthem for disaffected sarcasm borne of frustration. And the "Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, how low" line sounds best with every amp gauge as far up as it will go. And then there is that Most Brilliant 2 Chord Slide in rock guitarmanship. It should be illegal to play it with amps/volume set less than 10. Parents, neighbors, police be damned.
Planet of Sound, Pixies Of course. Duh. I'm still me. There's no way possible the Pixies wouldn't make the top, the loudest, the 11th spot on my Amps at 11 Playlist. This was another horrible Sophie's Choice choice. Debaser. Gigantic. Lions and Tigers. Velouria. Manta Ray. Gouge Away. Hey! Where is My Mind. Alec Eiffel. Is She Weird. Tame. Monkey Gone to Heaven. Levitate Me. Subcultcha...man, it hurts me to just think about all the choices. And yes, yes, through the decision process I kept hearing Frank screaming "DEBAAAASSSSSER!!!!" and I swear there he said, "DUH, TRILL, DEBAAAASSSSSER!!!" But when it comes to the Pixies there's no obvious choice, no one right choice. I chose Planet of Sound because it's the loudest song I know. And I'm certain I have suffered severe permanent hearing loss from listening to this song through stereo speakers, car speakers, headphones and of course waaaay too close to the stage at many (many) live shows. Planet of Sound inched ahead of the other choices because, well, it's brilliant. My estimation of the most brilliant rock song ever. From the first hard hit note to the abrupt halt at the end, it's loud, it's melodic, there's frenzied guitar lunacy juxtaposed against Frank's oddly measured story-telling choruses that lapse into intense, jarring psychotic verses and then ease straight back into measured story-telling, then there's the wild cacophony of guitar, like three people playing three separate songs, fighting for volume to be heard, and then just when you think your ears and brain can't take anymore, when you're on the edge and on the verge of turning it down or turning it off, one guitar pulls ahead and produces one of the most melodic-but-loud guitar solos in the history of rock. (Yeah, I'm a little overenthusiastic, here, but such is the brilliance of Planet of Sound.) It messes with you, man. This band, these Pixies, they're not like other bands, they're not like other musicians. They do things, man. Weird things. Inexplicable things. Loud things. Good things. Things your parents and the people at American Idol don't want you to know about. Things that will blow your mind. Things that will blow your speakers. And that's why they are my Amps at 11 Champs.

Plus an extra Amps at 11 in-home experiment.
96 Tears, ? and the Mysterians I know, I know. This seems like an unlikely Amps at 11 song. It may seem like I'm trying too hard or even picking a fight. But. Hear me out (if you can hear me at all). Organs and pop/rock do not usually make good bedfellows. Some people use The Doors as an pro-Wurlitzer in rock argument. That's a thin argument to my ears. I think the organ distracts from Morrison's vocal timbre. And increased volume only further proves the organ does not belong there. Others will hold up a few tracks from Pet Sounds as arguments for the organ, and yes, I agree, Hold On to Your Ego is masterfully arranged and the organ works perfectly and helps make it my favorite Beach Boys song, even, especially, cranked to 11. But. One song does not make a winning argument. Enter ? who brilliantly works some sort of magic with the Wurlitzer on many of his tracks and successfully takes the Wurlitzer out of the super clubs and onto the turntable. Somehow, someway, it just works for ?. His vocal style works perfectly with an organ, neither competes against the other, there's an auditory symbiosis. The "problem" with this is that it's still an organ and it can sound kinda cheesy, even with ?'s gifted vocals and snarly lyrics. (You do know 96 Tears is a song about vindication and revenge, right?) Solution: Amps at 11. If you haven't listened to 96 Tears (or any other ? + Mysterians song) with amps at 11 (or even 10), try it sometime and I think you'll be surprised to hear how hard this song really rocks. Caution, though, because once you do this you will find it difficult to listen to 96 Tears at a low volume.

2011-11-08T12:30:00.003-06:00

I was going over my resumés for the bazillionth time a few days ago, finessing, fine toothing, all that. In the process I naturally thought not just about the jobs I've held, but also the people with whom I've worked.

It occurred to me that I have worked with a lot of people. If you count all of my jobs since I started working at age 16 and include colleagues at outside vendors and external resources, my professional associate tally is in the thousands. If all of them were on Linked-in and I connected to all of them it would make for a pretty darned impressive Linked-in home page. I have the potential to be the Ashton Kucher of Linked-in. But because many of those associates and coworkers are from years ago and I don't remember their last names and they certainly wouldn't remember me it would be difficult to contact-request them. And some of them are dead. In fact as I thought about it and took a serious tally, I know that 18 of them are dead. (I should mention that my undergraduate summer job for three summers was at a large corporation that, at the time, had an aging employee base and many of them retired during the course of my three summers there. So, you know, that former coworker death toll is somewhat skewed by that job and the older managerial staff at the summer job.)

I had a good laugh thinking about the reaction many of those long-ago associates would have when they received my contact request via Linked-in. Some of them might be happy to hear from me. A few of them might be annoyed. Many of them might have to take a moment to think about who I am and how they know me. But all of them would be surprised.

It would be a modern career version of High Fidelity. Instead of looking up former flames and visiting them in person, I'd contact former coworkers and colleagues on Linked-in. My how times have changed. In 1995 (when the book High Fidelity was written) that sort of thing (stalking) had to be carried out in person or on the phone. Back then, email/Facebook/Twitter et al were just glints in a frisky Al Gore's eye. Now we're all modern and efficient and computery and stalking people you barely know or haven't seen or heard from in years is de regueur. (Thanks, Al Gore, for the internet and all that it's done to advance society.)

For a while, Linked-in and other professional career based sites were polite, professional online outposts. People kept their behavior in check more so than on Facebook. The no-holds-barred free-for-all behaviors of Facebook and Twitter were not as prevalent on Linked-in. And then the recession got worse. And the job market got even more worse. And a lot of people got really desperate. And even though Linked-in is still "better" than other networking sites, it's not unusual to get contact-requests from people you've never met and have no reason to meet.

Because I've picked up sporadic freelance/consulting work and odd jobs (very odd jobs) over the past two years I have received some equally sporadic and odd contact requests on Linked-in. So far, I've kept my Linked-in outreach in check. I have to know the person in real life, or at least know the person who suggests the contact, to accept the contact request. I don't post status updates or photos or comments other than referrals, nor do I mention anything that I wouldn't want a hiring manager or CEO to see.

Basic professional behavior, right? I thought so, too. Until a couple years ago when things started getting really bad in the work-world and really weird on Linked-in. I've seen and read some things on Linked-in that are beyond cringe-worthy. For some people, Facebook seems to have blurred the line between personal and professional life and the appropriate boundaries of both.

Or maybe I'm just an old, uptight, relic of bygone professional behavior days, a curmudgeon. Maybe these days it's perfectly appropriate and acceptable to post your feelings about people whose political/social/religious/sexual views differ from yours, or what you had to eat last night and which wine you paired with it, or, more staggeringly weird in my eyes, your negative opinions of your former manager or coworkers, for all the world - especially your professional associate world - to read.

I dunno. It's still unprofessional to me and I'm sticking with my apparently outdated professional code of conduct.

So I won't be contacting all those long-ago former colleagues, coworkers and associates. But it still makes for a funny "what if" scenario. And that's what had me in fits of giggles.

"Hi, Marcus! Remember me? We met when you were the photographer at that photoshoot with that band who was supposed to be the next Rolling Stones but then the lead guitarist got a day job and the band broke up when the CDs were being produced and so they were never released? Shame, that, because your photos were great. You really captured the whole intergalactic sensitive singing cowboy from the future concept. Anyhooo, I know it's been a while and it would be great to catch up! - Trill"

Okay, that's not so out-of-the-realm of professionalism. But. Let's say he does remember me or just chooses to accept my contact request for other reasons. Then what? Now I have someone I haven't seen, spoken with or worked with in 15 years as a professional contact. A little weird and potentially fraught with issues. Like, what if Marcus is on parole, recently released from jail for a little felonious scuffle involving meth, male prostitution and a gun? Sure, I up his professional credibility but what about mine?

I thought about what these erstwhile contacts would or could mean to me. What do I stand to gain by having them in my contacts?

Upon reading that, the die-hard believers in Linked-in are screaming "Viva networking! You stand to gain a job!"

Maybe.

But I notice a lot of people on Linked-in are unemployed or underemployed or clearly miserable at their current jobs and desperately clinging to hope that networking on Linked-in will lead to a ticket out of that miserable job. In all of those cases there's not really a lot of employment or even viable employment contacting to be gained.

Yes, yes, it's still important and I'm on there and I know people, mostly HR managers, have viewed my profile. Linked-in does add a level of legitimacy to who you are professionally. No one's hired me via Linked-in, but every interview I've had was precipitated by a view of my Linked-in profile from someone in HR at the interviewing company. So yes, it's important, maybe even crucial, to be on Linked-in.

Back to my former colleague musings.

As I thought about some of those former workplaces and colleagues I thought about things that happened at those jobs. One common thread emerged: Get-togethers. From after work cocktail gatherings to holiday parties to potlucks in the break room, there have been a lot of social situations that resulted from work. And these social situations were typically borne of some unwritten rule in the universal company handbook which states that personal life events shall be recognized and celebrated at work. Birthdays. Engagements. Weddings. Babies. New homes. Job promotions. Retirements. All of these events are celebrated, usually forcibly, in the office. They become professional obligations. Trust me, I know what happens when you abstain from even just one of these celebrations. Woe to those who dare to decline. You are immediately ostracized from the office community.

And everyone knows who the decliners are because there's always a list. An envelope where contributions are deposited and the names of contributors are added. Or worse, a pre-listed envelope with everyone's name on it and a check box next to the names. As contributions are made, boxes are checked. The day of the party it's clear who contributed and who did not because there's a list. A list of everyone in the office's name and a check box that's either checked...or not. Everyone knows. Even when there's a designated gift contribution fund manager, and the contributions are kept locked in a desk drawer, that envelope is retrieved and the list is pulled out as contributions are made. The office gossipers know this game well. They either volunteer to be the designated gift contribution fund manager, or, more usually, they wait until the last possible minute to make their contributions so when the list is pulled out they can see who is on the list of contributors or who doesn't have a check-mark next to their name.

Typically before the party even commences the gossipers have spread their eye-witness account of the contribution list.

I once refused to attend an office potluck/engagement party for a guy who worked in a different department - someone I knew only because he once expedited the tax form process for one of my consultants - and I also declined to contribute to the "gift." The suggested donation for the engagement "gift" was $20. I kid you not. $20 per person plus a dish for the potluck for an engagement party. At work. There were at least 50 people on the eVite. That's a $1,000 engagement present (they wanted to get him a home store gift card), oh, and, the potluck had a theme, and the food for the potluck was to fall under the premise of the theme. A themed engagement potluck for a guy at work, a guy I barely knew and, all these years later, couldn't pick out of a line-up.

But. The afternoon after the themed engagement potluck luncheon went down, without me, I was office enemy #1. It took three months and a sleazy office romance between two other coworkers to knock me into the #2 most gossiped about at work position. I'm not saying it's why left that job, but when I was offered a position at another company I didn't hesitate to accept it. There was no "but gee, I'll miss the gang at work..." hesitation. And yes, there was a going away party for me but it was perfunctory and not very well attended. And there was no gift requiring a gift contribution fund, not even a $25 TGI Fridays giftcard regift. And no potluck. No theme. I got a card signed by the few people felt obligated to attend and copy of one of my projects hastily pressed into one of those cheap plastic frames from Walgreen's. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

But, prior to that engagement party I attended most (probably all, if memory serves correctly) office "parties" celebrating personal events. I brought in food for the potluck or paid my portion of the tab at the restaurant or bar. I contributed cash for gifts.

A lot of gifts. A lot of gifts to a lot of people I can barely recall.

Thousands of dollars to various gift contributions.

And then it hit me. Linked-in.

If I want to go out in a big way, really pound in the final nail of my career coffin, I now know exactly how to do it.

1) Make a list of everyone I've ever known in any professional capacity.
2) Cross off the ones who didn't get married, have a baby, get a promotion or retire during my professional association with them.
3) Contact all of the not-crossed-off people on the list via Linked-in.
4) Lull them into a false sense of professional security by remaining professional and non-invasive on Linked-in. No status updates, no reading suggestions, not even any "way to go" comments for professional achievements. Just very low-profile, professional behavior.
5) Once all (or most) contacts have been accepted, post this message:
"I worked with all of you at some point in my career. During our association you got married, had babies, bought new homes, got promotions or retired. These happy occasions were marked in the office with celebrations. Cakes, lunches at fancy restaurants, drinks after work, potlucks and gifts were bestowed upon you. I contributed my fair share to those gifts. Often much more than my fair share to the unpopular people whose gift contribution fund needed padding, you know who you are, Annie, Peggy, Ed, Opal, Jeanne-Marie and Jean-Luc, Darius, Lizette...I could go on but I won't. You get my point. I ponied up a lot of cash for these celebrations. Because I didn't get married, have a baby, buy a home, get a promotion or retire while we worked together, or because you left the company before I did, you got out of contributing to a gift(s) for me.

I'm now seeking to rectify this injustice, balance the books. Pay up. I have a PayPal account where the gift contributions will be accepted. Once you complete your transaction a check mark will be placed next to your name on the contribution check-list.

Minimum contribution amounts will be pre-set, based on how many events I contributed to you. If I contributed to multiple gifts during our work association your minimum contribution will be proportionally higher. For instance, Melinda and James, I pitched in for multiple gifts for you, two weddings and three baby shower gifts for each of you, plus going away parties/presents. So you each owe me for two wedding gifts and three baby shower gifts as well as going away gifts. And Melinda, I made the cake for your second office baby shower, which we all know is going the extra pot-luck mile, and it also meant that I had to take a taxi to work that day in order to get your cake safely to the office, so, you can pitch in cab fare, too."

I know, I know. It's a brilliant plan. I'd be a modern-day folk hero. I'm sure I'd have a lot of supporters. People who've been in my situation. The situation of constantly opening their wallets for gift contributions for office celebrations while never being on the receiving end of those contributions.

But.

Curse those darned professional ethics of mine. Curse my desire to maintain integrity and valor. Curse my lack of balls.

I won't do it. I can't do it. And really, funny musing as it is, I don't even want to do it.

Office celebrations and ensuing gift contributions are just professional obligations. You wanna work in an office, you gotta pony up for the office party gift contributions. And don't look back. If you go down the reciprocation road you'll end up harboring a lot of envy and resentment. Useless and ultimately very unhealthy mindsets at work. Just contribute the money, attend the party, take the dish to pass or pitch in to the tab, and then forget about it.

But you know what would be great? If these people, these former gift-receiving colleagues, had a moment of realization and self-awareness and took it upon themselves to seek me out and acknowledge they came out ahead in the office gift gambit.

"Hi Trill! Long time no hear! I hope things are good with you. You know what? I was thinking about you the other day and I realized that when we worked together you contributed to wedding and baby shower gifts for me. And you organized the going away party when I quit. And I never got the chance to reciprocate. Here's $50 for the wedding and baby shower presents plus an extra $10 for organizing my 'I quit' party."

That's the movement I'd like to start. It's not about the money. Just some acknowledgement that they realize the balance is off, that they unwittingly came out ahead in the celebrations at work department. Just a few words of gratitude and recognition of this fact would be hugely appreciated by all the people who gave up a night at the movies in order to contribute to an office gift and never received a gift for their special personal occasion in return.

2011-10-25T11:00:00.002-05:00

When I'm feeling bad I listen to music or watch a favorite movie to a) escape whatever's bringing me down and b) adjust my frame of mind so I can think more clearly.

I have my regular go-to sources, an eclectic cache of music and movies that are like security blankets: I know what I need when I need it and I have it at the ready.

The never-fail options are: Surfer Rosa, Combat Rock, Nevermind, Dr. Stranglove.

Things are pretty bad in Trillville, so last night I pulled out the big guns.

Better than any therapy or any drugs any doctor could administer, Kubrick once again saved my life. Every time I watch it (which is a lot) I gain some new insight to the movie and to my life and to the world in general. I feel so much better today. I laughed (a lot), I shed a few reverential tears to Kubrick and Sellers (and Scott), and I had a deep cleansing breath of perspective. Such is the brilliance of the film.

I've viewed the movie during every presidential term since I was a teenager and for every president there has been an appropriate defining reference that adroitly encapsulates the entire presidency. Which is a deeper layer to Kubrick's genius: It's prophecy. Even beyond Cold War presidents, there's a line/scene that aptly sums up a presidential term. Yep, watch it yourself if you don't believe me. You'll find that for every president since the debut of this film there is a poignantly prophetic moment/line in the film.

It takes a few years of a presidency for the defining scene/line to present itself, but so far Kubrick has not let me down. After last night's viewing it was made obvious to me that it's safe/time to bestow the honor on our current president. Without further ado I present the Merkin Muffley Presidential Showcase Defining Achievement Award to President Obama:

Perhaps it might be better, Mr. President, if you were more concerned with the American people than with your image in the history books.

2011-10-24T12:51:00.000-05:00

2011-10-22T11:24:00.002-05:00

Well now. Here's something I didn't see coming.

Phone rings.

"Hiya [friend I haven't heard from in over a year], long time no hear, how's it going?!"

"Hi Trill," said my [erstwhile] friend in a very flat, trying very hard to be unemotional tone, "I presume no news is bad news? Still no job?"

Wow. Okay. I'm very matter-of-fact and I've always appreciated that quality in this friend, but, I mean, wow, "Hi Trill, I presume no news is bad news? Still no job?" Geeze, let's just cut to the chase and go straight for the jugular. I felt like she was saying, "Hi Trill, still a complete failure at life? Still sucking at everything you endeavor?" Okay, maybe I'm being too sensitive and projecting my own issues onto my friend, but, c'mon. I don't hear from this woman for over a year and her opening gambit is, "Hi Trill, I presume no news is good news? Still no job?" I don't like to beat around the bush, and I don't like to be handled with kid gloves, but that's a bit, um, hasty.

"Erm, yeah, no news is bad news. No job."

Audible sigh. And not a sigh of consolation and empathy. A sigh of frustration and exasperation.

"Have you tried Target or Walgreen's or something?" I didn't have to sense anything in her tone because her tone was openly verging on hostility. She obviously feels I'm not trying hard enough to find a job, any job.

"Yeah, I'm kinda hoping something might break for the holiday retail season."

"Okay, well, good luck with that. Any port in the storm. And. About the holidays."

"Yeahessss?" ah, here we go, the true motive for her sudden communique is about to be revealed and it has something to do with the holidays.

"You remember my wedding was New Year's Eve, right?"

"Yes, I remember. I was there. Remember?" I was there. Wearing an extremely expensive bridesmaid dress that was made from special order imported fabric in a bizarre shade of blue-red-purple and of such odd fabric composition that I (and the other three bridesmaids) broke out in a rash that started during the nuptials and lasted a full 10 days after the wedding.

"Yes. That's why I'm calling."

Oh crap. I have a feeling I'm not going to like where this is going.

"What's up?"

"We're going to renew our vows and we want to do an updated version of our wedding. Get everyone together and celebrate our marriage and have a fun party, everyone can catch up and just have a good time."

I'm pretty sure for a few minutes I was the victim of demonic possession because what I heard myself saying shocked even me. I said something I'm 99% certain I've never even thought about saying.

"Oh Jesus H. Christ on a Cross."

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Realization that I said that out loud. To my friend. About her vow renewal.

I'm pretty sure once the "Jesus H. Christ on a cross" reaction statement is made it's impossible to pretend retract it and convince anyone you're filled with anything other than disdain, loathing and contempt and a wish to be crucified.

But I tried. "I mean, I'm sorry, it's just...this is a difficult time...that's a lovely idea..." I desperately tried to steer the conversation away from a really awkward place to a "gee, this is going to be a swell party!" place.

"I know, Trill, I know. That's kind of why I've been out of touch. I didn't know how to approach you with this. We'd love to have you there and if I didn't ask you I thought you'd be offended but I know it's the last thing you want to deal with right now so I didn't know what to do and time is running out for making plans...and I have no idea what's the right thing to do in this situation."

"I'm sorry I put you in this awkward position." Once again, I was apologizing for being such a failure and making my friends and family feel awkward around me. And making this awful situation worse, I started to cry and my voice cracked when I said "awkward position."

Great. In less than two minutes I 1) used the son of God's name in vain; 1a) sarcastically; 2) offended my Jesus loving friend; 3) made my Jesus loving friend feel bad about my failures in life; 4) cried. Great. That's all just fantastic. I'm thinking now would be the time to start exploring the self-destructive behavior of drinking booze. Lots of booze.Yes. Booze would be good right now.

My friend tried to affect a conciliatory tone, it was clearly forced but she did make the attempt, "No, no, don't apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. It's just...you know."

"Yeah, I know."

I know, all right. I know. I know that she hasn't worked a paying job in over 10 years. I know that she went from agnosticism to converting to Catholicism so that she and her husband could enroll their kids into an elite Catholic pre-school. (And yes, thanks to her I know there are elite pre-schools, elite Catholic pre-schools.) I know that she and her husband are not effected (and quite possibly unaware of) the issues with the job market and housing market and the economy in general. I know that the rest of the women in her bridal party are all married and have children and don't work. I know that our friendship was waning and in the last two years it's been nonexistent. I know that we have almost nothing in common. I know that even if I figure out a way to participate in her nuptial renewal I will have nothing in common with anyone there and will spend the evening looking at photos of kids and listening to stories about those kids and trying to care about suburban mom issues like finding time to fit in yoga and manicures before getting the kids to dance and karate classes.

Even if I had a job and wasn't losing my home it would be an awful evening spent with former friends who have evolved on life's normal path while I...have not. Lots of "still single, are you, Trill?" and "I believe there's someone for everyone, you just haven't met him yet, you will," and "I admire you for staying so true to yourself but you know, a career and independence isn't everything, Trill, you might want to think about settling down" comments and conversations. Good times.

My friend, singularly focused on her vows renewal, continued. "[her husband] has air miles, we'll get your plane ticket. [other friends, married] are getting a suite and they said you could stay with them, [their two children] can bunk together and you can use one of the spare beds in the kids' part of the suite. We can certainly feed you for a couple days. So, it's really just a matter of whether or not you think you can still fit into your dress?!"

I kind of zoned out for a minute while my friend was talking. Ah, yes, it's all so simple, isn't it? Merely a matter of flying 2,000 miles, staying in the kids' portion of a hotel suite and putting on a dress I no longer own. So simple. So very simple.

My friend was still talking, "Liz and Jen pulled theirs' out and said they can make it work, Jen had hers cut shorter and Liz has lost some weight since back then so she had it taken in, but Michelle, you know, since she had the twins her tummy just won't cooperate, don't say anything, but she's going to have lypo but not until after the holidays so I don't think she'll be squeezing into that dress. She's thinking of having it altered, cutting it in two and just wearing the skirt part with a pretty top. I'm not hung up on having it all matchy matchy, you know, and you're so creative I'm sure if it no longer fits you'll come up with a clever way to reconstruct it and update it for now."

Wow.

Wow.

Um.

Okay. Wow.

A) The other women kept those awful, itchy, rash-inducing dresses?
B) They're willing to wear them again?
C) Two of the three other women involved openly hated those dresses more than I did.
D) They kept them?
E) Oh crap.

That particular bridesmaid dress was so awful that I didn't even wear it to an "awful bridesmaid dress" party several years ago.* The mere thought of spending even 10 minutes in the ugly colored, rash-inducing (albeit imported special order) fabric makes me itchy and kind of nauseous. I did keep it for a couple years, I'm not sure why, but I did keep it for a few years. I probably kept it because it cost me what at the time was almost month's net salary and throwing it away felt like throwing away money. But then in a Spring cleaning frenzy I got rid of it, rid myself of the ugly, itchy, rash-inducing reminder of the money I wasted in the name of friendship, decided that having it hanging around was causing some subtle resentment toward that friend and not wanting that sort of negativity in the air I gave it to charity (which still fills me with pangs of guilt, they don't deserve that kind of "charity," no one deserves that kind of charity). And I haven't thought of it since.

Let's just say, for the sake of this conversation, that I attend this vows renewal party. I'm going to have to come clean about no longer owning the dress. Probably easier to just not attend the party. The party I don't want to go to anyway.

But. This is a friend's vow renewal...and I was in the original bridal party...does the bridesmaid obligation extend to vow renewals? Does a couple have the right to just spring this on their bridal party at any point in their marriage? Isn't there some sort of statute of limitations on bridesmaid obligations? Haven't we suffered enough? This is why I steadfastly believe there should be legally binding contractual agreements between brides and their wedding party.

And let's talk about renewing vows, shall we? I'm not really down with the whole big party for vows renewals thing. It's great if a couple wants to renew, update, append, their commitment to each other. Whatever two consenting adults choose to do within the privacy of their own vacation to Maui is their business. Frankie and Benjie has a really sweet tradition where, on their anniversary, they go somewhere special to them and tell their vows to each other, reaffirm their feelings and commitment to each other and their marriage. But it's very private, just them, because it's about them and their marriage. That's a nice thing. I respect them for making the effort to do that. If I were married I think I'd like to do something like that. But not a big party, a wedding redux, with all the trimmings.

And yes, festive parties for milestone anniversaries can be nice, I've been to a few fun anniversary parties for couples celebrating 25, 40, 50 years of marriage. They were fun little get-togethers and the couples said a few words to each other about how they'd do it all again and can't wait to see what happens in the next 25, 40 or 50 years, and then they thank their guests for helping share in their celebration, a few cute toasts are made, cake and champagne are ingested, some dancing and socializing takes place and that's it. No big deal for the guests: They show up and bring a card and eat some cake.

But the vow renewal thing? I've been to four of them and they felt like lame attempts to either a) have the wedding the bride really wanted or b) convince themselves that the marriage is working and they don't need counseling or divorce lawyers. And I know that sounds harsh, and bitter, and jaded, and cynical. But of the four vow renewal "parties" I've attended, two of the couples went on to divorce within a year of the vows renewal. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for vows renewal ceremonies.

Because I'm so out of touch with my friend who wants to renew her marriage vows, I'm completely clueless as to the state of her marriage. Given that she apparently wants to recreate the original wedding, not a do-over to correct the mistakes made in the first one (like putting her friends in astronomically expensive, horrifically colored, rash-inducing dresses) I'm concerned that she falls into the latter category: they're trying to convince themselves that their marriage is working.

I'm not going to say I've had suspicions, but, I have been confused by their marriage. When they dated and got married my friend was a hyper-motivated professional with a fast-tracking career that she love, love, loved. She truly loved her career - or, well, she loved the power she had in her career. And she was doing something worthwhile, and making a ton of money doing it. And her boyfriend liked that about her. He had a fast-tracking career, too, and he wanted to date/marry someone who had her own career and interests, he said, repeatedly, that he didn't like clingy, dependent women with no career ambitions.

Two years into their marriage they got pregnant and my friend quit her job and hasn't worked since, and is very vocal about never wanting to work again. Yes. She changed. A lot. And I'm confused about how she could go from such a devoted career professional to never wanting to work again. And, I've been really confused about how her husband deals with this: He married a devoted career professional because he liked independent, ambitious, career-minded women and didn't like clingy, dependent, ambition-less women...and two years into their marriage his wife turned into a clingy, dependent, ambition-less woman. I dunno. I don't get it. But. This is exactly what has happened to most of my friends. I'm not judging, I'm just confused. Don't their husbands feel duped? They married successful, ambitious, intelligent, career-focused women who held integral roles in important industries...and then poof! the women quit their jobs and suddenly their lives and conversations revolve around shopping, having lunch, and planning expensive vacations. I dunno. I don't understand it. But. I'm not married. And I'm unemployed. So. I have an unusual perspective.

Anyway.

I realized I'd been silent for a bit too long.

"That's a lot of information to process, erm, yeah, I mean, I dunno. I was kind of planning to spend all of the holidays with my mother, you know, since my dad died the holidays really difficult for her, and, your offer for airfare and food is all really nice and generous of course I'd love to be there, but..."

"Come on, Trill, it would be good for you to get away for a few days. Don't worry about the expense. Just see if the dress fits and if not, don't worry, just cut it up and wear it like a shawl or scarf or something. I want to re-create the wedding but it doesn't have to be exact. We've all changed, but our commitment stays strong. That's the theme."

Oh great.

There's a theme.

Change. The theme is change. Lovely. Especially since I actually have not changed that much since the wedding. When this marriage happened all four of us bridesmaids were single. One was seriously dating the man she married, but we were all single, all living in small apartments in large cities, and all very focused on our careers. And now they're all married and don't work and live in McMansions in posh suburbs. I don't "mind" being "that" girl, the failure, the spinster, the loser, the one who hasn't evolved, I've come to accept it. But. Along with that acceptance came the resolution, the right, to not feel obligated to attend events where I will be the only unmarried, childless person in attendance.

"Thanks, [friend], I just, I don't know. I can't commit to anything right now, I'm in a weird state of limbo and I don't want to make a commitment that there's a good chance I won't be able to fulfill."

"Oh, come on, Trill, what are you going to have come up that will interfere with New Year's Eve? When was the last time you did anything on New Year's Eve?"

Oh yes, she went there. Gauntlet thrown.

Okay, granted, my New Year's Eves haven't exactly been the stuff of legends the past few - okay, several - years. But, that's by choice. I could have done a lot of things on a lot of New Year's Eves but chose to not partake because I'm not really much of a New Year's Eve person. Let's put it this way, I've had options. Lots of options. The only limits were my imagination and my finances. This friend, on the other hand, has limitations like her husband's work schedule, their children's school schedules, her "Mothers' Meditation" group schedule...her marriage...I could/can go out in the street and kiss strangers with reckless, inconsequential abandon. Heck, if I could get someone to have sex with me I could have sex with reckless, inconsequential abandon. Any night, not just New Year's Eve. Well. You know what I mean.

My friend? Not so much.

Wanted to say, "When was the last time you did anything on New Year's Eve? Your wedding? Yeah. Thought so."

Instead, I took the high road and said, "Yeah, well, you know I'm not much of a New Year's Eve person."

"Exactly. That's why you should make plans and come to our vows renewal."

I tried to remember what I've read about how to politely assert my feelings in these situations and not feel obligated and get pushed into doing something I really don't want to do.

"I dunno, [friend], I know this is important to you and I respect your enthusiasm, and I'm sure it will be a fun party, but this is just a really bad time for me." (I know, very good job on the diplomacy, there, Trill. Thank you, I thought so, too.)

"You're in our wedding photos. You're in our wedding video. You were there. You were part of it. And this is a renewal, a recreation, the theme is that we've changed but our commitment remains. Get it? Commitment in spite of change? Trill? Commitment?" Her tone was tinged with sarcasm and not-so-subtle-unspoken innuendo my lack of commitment.

Holy schoolyard bully!!! My friend, my erstwhile friend who I haven't heard from in over a year, has the balls - oh yes, this takes balls, apparently she's grown a set - and was playing the emotional blackmail card as a device to bully me into attending her wedding re-creation. Until she played that card I was teetering on the edge of accepting out of a sense of obligation, but when she intoned that I was lacking commitment by hedging on my bridesmaid duty, well, two can play that juvenile game, sister.

You wanna talk commitment? Where has your commitment to me been for the past year? You have a friend, and not just some casual acquaintance, a friend who you wanted in your wedding, a friend who paid an insane amount of money for an ugly, rash-inducing dress and flew thousands of miles and spent a ton of money to attend three, count 'em, pre-wedding parties including lavish showers and a drunken bachelorette party. A friend who endured being paired up with the creepy pervy cousin of the groom at the wedding. A friend who also racked up thousands of air miles to plan and attend two baby showers and christenings. A friend who did all of that with a smile and not one word of complaint. Yeah, that friend. And that friend is going through a truly devastating situation and is struggling, badly, in every way possible. Where's your commitment to that friend been in the past year? Cripes, the past 5 years, for that matter.

Serenity now.

Once again, I tried to remember what I've read about how to politely assert my feelings in these situations and not feel obligated and get pushed into doing something I really don't want to do.

Trying really hard to keep an even, unemotional tone, I said, "I get it, [friend], I do, and I'm so happy for you and your husband and it's so nice that you are still so much in love that you want to renew your vows. That's a really lovely thing. And if it gets closer to the big event and I can make it there, I'll do what I can to get there. But right now, in mid-October, I can't commit to anything, especially New Year's Eve plans. I hope you understand that."

Another sigh of frustration from my friend.

"I don't understand because I can't understand. I've never been laid off and single and unemployed. I'm sure it must suck. And I don't know what you're thinking or what you're going to do. You didn't paint yourself into this corner, but, you are painted into a corner. And I don't understand how you could let that happen. So. No, actually, I do not understand your situation and I don't understand why you won't take advantage of an opportunity for a free vacation. It's not as if we're trying to sell you a time-share, Trill, your only obligation is to show up to a party, Trill, a party. All expenses paid and all you have to do is go to a party. No. I do not 'understand.'"

Well. There it is. I've always liked her matter-of-fact direct approach, and, so, you know, there it is, all out in the open and I have to admire and respect her directness.

Sounds like we're breaking up, which, I kinda thought had already happened, we just drifted and didn't need to have the break-up conversation. It's not that I don't care about her, but...we have absolutely nothing in common.

Determined to not let this turn into a tit-for-tat argument (well, okay, more of a tit-for-tat argument), I said, "Welllll, I understand your party is important to you, and I understand that you want it to be an authentic replication of your wedding..."

My erstwhile friend interrupted me, "It's not about an 'authentic replication,' it's about recapturing the fun and joy of our wedding."

(Tomato-tomahto.)

"Okay, sorry. Look, I understand you can't understand my situation. I'm glad you don't understand my situation because I wouldn't wish it on anyone. How about if we wait and see what happens, or not, in the next month or so, regardless of what transpires in my life I should be more able to figure out if going away for New Year's Eve is feasible in a month-ish."

I said nothing about the dress...the dress that I no longer have in my possession.

We left it at that. I asked about her kids, she spent 35 minutes talking about the lack of adequate lacrosse coaching for 4-year-olds in her area, and that was that.

I dunno. Maybe I should have just seized the opportunity for an argument and a nasty friend breakup, but I don't want that. Not really. I don't know what we have, it's not friendship, but it's not not friendship. I do care about her and her kids and all of that, and I think she cares about me. She wouldn't be so obviously frustrated with me and my lack of husband and employment if she didn't care. But, we're just very, very different people. We used to have a lot in common and now we don't. End of story. And maybe end of story does mean end of friendship.

But, I dunno. That doesn't seem right. I'm not big on vow renewals, and I'm not big on New Year's Eve, and I don't have the horrific bridesmaid dress she wants me to refashion into an outfit for her New Year's Eve vow renewal, but, it's important to her, and I was part of the wedding, and...

Yeah. I think we all know what I'll be doing New Year's Eve.

* That honor went to a satin mauve number that was supposed to invoke old Hollywood glamor but instead invoked a cheap Reno hooker in a low-budget '70s cop show aesthetic.

2011-10-20T17:27:00.006-05:00

Can we talk about image and perception for a few minutes?

Apart from work, you know, professional realms, usually, mostly, I don't really care what other people think of me. Or, rather, I don't dwell on other peoples' opinions of me.

There are plenty of things I don't like about me, but, I'm "okay" with me. As long as I know I'm evolving and giving my best efforts, I accept myself - including my flaws. Doesn't mean I always like them, but I am very aware of them and I accept them.

Right.

Okay.

When it comes to my looks, appearance, when out and about outside of work-related arenas, I have made huge efforts in the past five years to do everything I can to just blend in. I want to be visually anonymous.

So, I don't get a lot of comments related to my image or whatever persona I might emit.

I have a lot of jewelry that I wasn't able to sell and I need to get rid of it and my nieces and a few friends have expressed interest in pawing through it. In an effort to make the pawing through of my jewelry more organized and easier, I wanted to put it in small, clear bags, like the kind they put extra buttons in on new shirts or suits. I had a few of those bags but not enough, so, I endeavored to procure some.

I asked my closet organizing friend if she had any, or access to any. She did not. But, upon consideration of my plan, she thought she could use some of those small bags, too, they'd come in handy in her closet organizing projects. We thought a craft store or office supply store would have them, and, she'd spring for the cost, so, off we went to try to find small zip lock bags.

We tried the craft store first. We looked in the areas we thought were the most obvious choices for small zip-lock bags. No luck.

My friend went off to look down yet another aisle while I hunted down a store employee. I finally found one who was putting yarn into sale bins. He was not the sort of person you'd expect to see working in a craft store stocking sale bins with yarn. College aged, hipster hair cut, expensive sneakers and jeans and a store smock with a name tag reading: "Lliam." Like llama or Lloyd.

"Excuse me, hi, I'm looking for small clear zip-lock bags, like the kind they put extra buttons in when you buy a new shirt."

Blank stare.

"Do you have anything like that?"

Lliam continued to look at me, thought for a minute and finally said, "How small? Like a dime bag?"

Okay.

As it happens, I know what a dime bag is. It doesn't matter why or how I know what a dime bag is, and, quite honestly, I don't remember how or when I came to learn about dime bags because I've never bought drugs. But, I estimate and place my knowledge of dime bags dating back to junior high school.

But. Is it now commonly accepted that everyone knows what a dime bag is? Would Lliam have said that to anyone inquiring about small zip-lock bags?

And let me remind you, we were in a craft store in the suburbs where a lot of suburban church lady mom and grandma types shop.

All of this was running through my head as I tried to think of the best way to respond. My initial reaction was, "Yes! Exactly! A dime bag!" But I caught myself before saying that out loud because it occurred to me that by acknowledging that I know the size of a dime bag I would be acknowledging that I know what a dime bag is and, ostensibly, that I have, um, "experience" with dime bags.

Okay, Lliam's a young hipster kid and maybe he just didn't think before he said "dime bag" or maybe he was having a little fun attempting to shock a patron in the suburban craft store or maybe he thought I looked like I would know what a dime bag is and would be "cool" about not getting uptight about tossing around drug culture vernacular.

So I just said, as dismissively and non-emotionally as possible, "Something like that."

Lliam quickly responded with, "Nah, we don't have anything that small."

Prior to Lliam's reference, the term or analogy to a dime bag evaded my conscience. It never occurred to me, never entered my mind, never thought about it. My only reference was the little bags they put spare buttons in when you buy a new shirt or suit.

But now all I could think was, "Dime bags. We're looking for dime bags." Which made me laugh. A lot. Because it was me, being, you know, me, and my friend who is a white suburban mother with a fledgling closet organizing business, out looking for dime bags at the local suburban craft store while suburban mothers and grandmothers and Sunday school teachers shopped for yarn and fake flower arrangements and construction paper and doll house decorating items. And the surreality of that held my humor attention for a long time.

I found my friend and burst out laughing the second I saw her. The surreality of us shopping for dime bags was even more obvious (and funny) when I saw my friend looking at cupcake decorations. My friend doesn't look like a suburban mother with a fledgling closet organizing business, but she doesn't exactly look like the stereotypical person who would be out shopping for drug dealing supplies, either. (I know, I know, all sorts of people are drug dealers, there is no stereotypical drug dealer, but, you know what I mean. The absurdity of my friend and I needing dime bags is obvious...and funny.)

Of course at this point my friend was oblivious to the conversation I had with Lliam and why I was bursting in a fit of giggles. And I knew if I told her, in my state of hysterics, I'd loudly blurt out "DIME BAGS!!!" for all the store to hear, so when she asked me what was so funny I giggled out, "I'll tell you later, they don't have the, heee heee hee, um, teee heee, um, bags."

My friend said, "Okay, I'm going to get these cupcake decorations and we'll hit the office supply store."

Something about her innocently saying "cupcake decorations" out loud put me in another fit of giggles which I tried to stifle. Which made me even more self-conscious about the fact that I know what dime bags are, that Lliam the yarn boy thought I was looking for dime bags and that my giggling behavior could be construed as, um, well, you know. Drug induced. (To be clear, my friend was buying cupcake decorations, not actual cupcakes. No snack foods or Doritos were involved.)

Once in my friend's car I blurted out the conversation I had with Lliam.

Her reaction was akin to mine. "Dime bags??!!! Dime bags?!"

(She knows what a dime bag is, too, and I guarantee she has never done anything stronger than codeine after her wisdom tooth extraction. She wouldn't even have an epidural when she birthed her children.)

"I know!!! Even if I looked like the sort of person who would need a lot of dime bags, how funny that he'd just be so matter of fact about it right there in the yarn aisle of the local craft store. But when you factor in that it's me, hee hee hee, it's just silly!!!" And that's when the conversation took a weird turn. I was still in a fit of giggles and my friend was quieting down.

Then she said, "It's not that silly."

Huh? Was my friend implying that I could pass for a drug dealer, or someone in the market for a gross of dime bags? What the...??? I realize my appearance doesn't scream, "Suburban mom of two shopping for cupcake accoutrements in the local craft store," but I don't think, or, didn't think that my appearance screamed, "low life, low rent drug dealer looking for dime bags."

But maybe my friend did?

"What do you mean, not that silly? Do I look like a drug dealer?!" I didn't mean to be defensive, but, I wanted to know what she meant.

She quickly back peddled "No, no, but, well..."

"Well what?"

"You just seem like someone who knows what a dime bag is, that's all."

"I seem like someone who knows what a dime bag is," I repeated her "explanation" back to her.

"Yeah, there's nothing wrong with that. You just seem hip to stuff."

"'Hip to stuff.' Stuff like drugs?!" I said.

"Well, yeah, drugs and other stuff, just hip, in-the-know. Remember when I got that birthday card that said something about getting jiggy and I didn't have a clue what it meant? I asked you to explain it to me because I figured you'd know and wouldn't judge me for not knowing. It's like that."

That happened. Her brother-in-law gave her an innuendo-laden birthday card inviting her to get jiggy and she had no clue what jiggy meant (this was years ago) and I was her go-to source for pop-culture education. I chuckled, "Ha! I forgot about that. I still think it's weird that your brother-in-law gave you a card inviting you to get jiggy, by the way."

"No kidding, and can you imagine what could have happened if I'd asked someone other than you to explain 'jiggy' to me and why my brother-in-law gave me a card inviting me to do so? Things could have gotten really dicey, rumors could have flown. But you're trustworthy, nonjudgmental, and hip, so lucky me. You go to concerts and art shows and live in the city...you know...you're just more urban. That's all. You just seem like you know stuff like jiggy and dime bags."

She was desperately trying to put a positive spin on the dime bag issue.

Great.

So, yeah. Ouch. That hurt. Suddenly I was thinking more about my appearance, my image, than I have in the last five years.

Yes, except for job-related, job search-related occasions, I have been striving for anonymity in my appearance, but geeze, did I overreach and end up in drug dealer territory?

I mean, when I go out I'm clean, I shower and wash my hair and brush my teeth and wear clean clothes. Granted, the clothes are a couple years old because I don't have money for new clothes, and apart from some old concert and band t-shirts, they're very basic, generic clothes.

And yes, I've let my hair go a bit too long without a trim and color touch up (I only cut and color my hair when I have a job interview). I have a friend who's been great about doing it for me, gratis, but I don't like to overstep her generosity. So unless I have a job interview I don't trim or color my hair. So yes, my hair is a little too long and not exactly radiant and freshly colored, but it's not awful, either. I don't go out of the house with dirty, matted or dreadlocked mange.

And no, I don't wear a lot of makeup, but when I'm going out with friends or family I do put in the effort to wear makeup. MAF is great about supplying me with samples and discontinued makeup so, I have and wear quite an impressive caliber of makeup, especially for someone who's been unemployed two years. (To say nothing of the fact that I have the benefit of a professional makeup artist as a close friend who has helped me perfect my application technique.)

So while I'm striving for anonymous, I'm not unkempt or, you know, "weird."

Or, well, I didn't think so.

But my friend's inference about it not being "that silly" for me to be looking for dime bags jolted me into a review of my appearance.

Huh.

Wow.

Okay.

Well.

Huh.

Nah, it's nothing, I was just being sensitive.

So off we went to the office supply store to find small zip-lock bags like the kind they put spare buttons in when you buy a new shirt or suit.

There was a children's clothing store next door and my friend wanted to see if they had a few things for her kids, so while she did that I went to the office supply store.

I scoured the aisles and came up with nothing remotely resembling a bag of any kind. A helpful store employee finally approached me and asked if I needed assistance.

So.

I said, "Yes, I'm looking for small zip-lock bags, the kind they use to put the spare buttons in on new shirts and suits." With thoughts of dime bags dancing in my head, I made sure to smile brightly and act like this was an extra-normal thing to want to buy. I tried to affect the tone and demeanor one might use when saying, "Yes, I'm looking for toothpaste."

The middle-aged employee said, "Hmmmm, yeah, I think I know what you mean, like dime bags, right?"

Okay.

Apparently dime bag is common vernacular amongst a wide cross-section of people and used freely in conversations and has absolutely nothing to do with my appearance or persona.

Which kind of surprised me. Not because drug culture references are taboo or shouldn't be demystified, but, I mean, well, I dunno, when was the last time you used the term dime bag in conversation unrelated to drugs?

But, because two people, two very different people, referred to dime bags, I felt "better" about my appearance. It's not me, it's them.

Whew. I was relieved to learn I didn't radiate some "I'm selling drugs and need small bags in which to conveniently package them" vibe.

The store didn't have them so I met my friend in the children's store.

We were out of ideas for resources for small zip-lock bags. We decided to take our search online and voila, we found them.

But.

Even though I'm reasonably certain I don't look like a drug dealer/user, the fact remains that two complete strangers felt comfortable enough to use the term dime bag within seconds of meeting me. Which means they instantly felt comfortable using the term dime bag to me, hence a) acknowledging that they know what a dime bag is and b) assuming I know what a dime bag is and c) I'd be okay having a conversation about dime bags.

That says something about my persona or vibe or aura or demeanor. I'm glad people feel open and comfortable just blurting out drug references to me, I guess. But I'm pretty certain those guys wouldn't have been so cavalier with the dime bag reference to someone like my suburban mom friend, for instance.

Why? Because she has a more respectable vibe? Or a more uptight vibe? Or a more naive vibe?

This matters to me because I've gone on a lot of interviews and come very close to being offered jobs (always the second choice, almost always) and so I'm concerned that I'm unwittingly emitting some sort of too relaxed, too "hey, whatever, s'all cool" vibe. And I'm really concerned that I look or seem like someone who knows what a dime bag is.

Hiring managers might view candidates as either, "seems like she knows what a dime bag is" or "seems like she doesn't have a clue what a dime bag is." And if I fall clearly in the first category that can't be good for my job hunt.

And that's why I've been spending time bothering to think about how people view me. And dime bags. On the one hand it's good that people feel comfortable enough to approach me and talk to me about anything. But, maybe that's a bad thing. Maybe it speaks to a level of disrespect.

I dunno.

I don't like to think about this stuff, and I really don't like to overthink this kind of stuff. Especially when I've been striving to attain bland anonymity in my non-work-related life. But I have to turn every stone in everything about myself because of my work-related life. Because I need a job.

What do you think? Is too easy-going and non-judgmental a bad thing? I used to think that line of thinking is akin to thinking someone can be "too nice" or "love too much." Ridiculous and saying more about the accuser than the too nice or too loving person. But now I'm wondering if more uptight, judgmental people get more respect and consequently, more job offers.

I know, I know, I'm way overthinking this, but it maybe there's a valuable lesson in there.

How would you feel if someone like Lliam or the guy in the office supply store dropped a reference to dime bags within seconds of meeting you?

2011-10-14T14:07:00.001-05:00

Wheeeee!!!! I forgot I had $34 in my Pay Pal account thanks to a couple items sold on eBay!

Yay!

This is great news, because the verdict derived from the reader suggestions about what to do next is:
Engage in self-destructive behaviors.

Except it's not so much "self-destructive" as it is "react to outside influences." The non-self-induced destruction already occurred, and I tried every means of corrective action that I could conceive, and failed, and so, now I'm free to throw caution to the wind and just live in the moment.

Yes, I know, I'm just a knock on the door away from living under the highway overpass by night and pushing a grocery cart around town by day, and I will be living in some not-so-great moments very soon. But, that's kinda the point - I'm already down, I tried to climb out but kept falling.

The two options are: Stand in the hole waiting for the final collapse, or, start digging.

I'm embracing failure and the subsequent liberation of defeat.

During those days when I was being tested for cancer I felt so unburdened, such profound relief, and that felt so good.

I was kinda mad to have relief taken away from me.

But it occurs to me that similar relief can be derived from the unburdening myself of my metaphoric life. Live in this moment, right now, and don't think about the next one, certainly not the next day.

So, yesterday I remembered I have money in my Pay Pal account that, with a couple clicks, went into my bank account. Today: Whatever gamboling I can devise with just my whims and a few dollars.

A movie and Twizzlers? Yeah, that'll cost about $34. So, maybe. Booze is a possibility. So predictable though. And, as we've discussed, during the past two years apart from a couple notable exceptions I've had very little desire to drink or get drunk. I've had plenty of opportunities and almost no desire. So, I dunno, as self destructive as it sounds, I'm not sure that's the first whim upon which I will act.

I'm drawn to the concept that many (most?) truly self-destructive behaviors are not typically considered vices. Alcohol, booze, drugs, food, sex and money are the usual go-to outlets for self-destructive behavior. But there are oh so many more ways to self-destruct. Watch any television pop psychologist (or any reality show, for that matter) and you'll get a long list of ways to self-destruct.

Some of them are a matter of perspective. For example, I happen to view fake boobs, hair extensions and Botox as self-destructive behavior. But many (many) women (and the men who fuck them) disagree so strongly that they'll come at me in an angry mob with torches and pitchforks just for writing that on a blog. For them, these artificial enhancements are where they derive self-esteem. And if it gives you confidence, it can't be bad, right? That's their argument. Their POV. I don't share that opinion, but I'm not judging them. No, really, I'm not. Even though I have zero emotional investment in them, I'm worrying about them. And even more to my point, I'm worried about what's reflected in their need to derive self-esteem from fake boobs, hair and line-less faces. And what they're perpetuating. To me, that behavior reaches beyond self-destructive and is squarely in: This is part of the decay of civilization, we're devolving at a rate faster than the naturally scheduled progression. See? This is the thing about self-destructive behaviors that intrigues me. There's a lot more to self-destruction than a drinking problem, a drug problem, a gambling problem, a shopping problem, an eating problem, or insatiable sexuality. And a lot of gray area about what actually is self-destructive behavior.

The one that always annoys and confuses me is the trite pop-psych fodder of someone who "loves too much." Or someone who's "too nice." Going on the presumption it's genuine, sincere, heart-felt, the real deal, is it truly possible to love too much or be too nice? I mean, no one takes issue with Ghandi or Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama*, all of whom, were they not international icons of Doing The Right Thing, would be accused of loving too much or being too nice. But they're universally accepted as: really good people, inspirational people, mere mortals to whom we are all reverential. But when a regular schmoe exhibits behaviors like theirs, the schmoe is viewed as flawed, met with resistance, regarded with disdain and dismissed with Dr. Phil drivel: They love too much; they're too nice.

Loving too much or being too nice are viewed as self-destructive behaviors. I'm pretty sure I will never understand that dichotomy. Why was it okay for Ghandi or Mother Theresa to be nice and love boundlessly, without scorn or psychological analysis and dismissal, but the same feelings and behavior are not "normal" or "stable" when exhibited by the woman you dated three years ago and dumped because she loved you too much, or the guy down the street who's always friendly and there to help his neighbors who's viewed as creepy because he's too nice? This will never make sense to me.

But I don't think I'm in danger of loving too much today. I dunno, though. Maybe. Maybe I'll go out and tell a bunch of strangers on the street that I love them and give them my Pay Pal money. That oughtta get me a one way bus pass to the crazy part of town.

What's your favorite self-destructive behavior that's not typically viewed as a vice?

Also, I need to address an err, atone for an oversight. I did not, and do not, mean to diminish a cancer scare. And I certainly did not mean to diminish or judge people who are battling cancer. This was my personal issue and response, which has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I have utmost respect for anyone who is dealing with cancer. If I came off in any way disrespectful or harsh or judgmental I am really, genuinely sorry. That is absolutely not how I feel about anyone other than myself. I know life is precious and most people fight for it and I respect and admire that drive and courage.

*There's gotta be a joke in there somewhere. "Ghandi, Mother Theresa and the Dalai Lama walk into a bar..."

2011-10-11T14:30:00.005-05:00

So, I visited a different circle of Hell.

Okay. Well then.

It was, um, interesting.

Always nice to have a change of scenery, meet new people, have new experiences. Even if it is just a different circle of Hell.

I've long suspected I died and went to Hell in 1999. I don't have concrete proof, but there is an increasing body of substantial evidence.

If it's true, I'm not sure what that says about you. Either you're reading this via some portal, a gate of Hell accessed via your computer, or, well, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you're in Hell, too.

There is evidence to contrary, some glimmers of hope that I'm not in Hell, that this is merely very mortal run-of-the-mill existential malaise. For instance there's no way in, well, Hell, that my mother would be in Hell. And she's a daily part of of my existence, so...as long as she's part of my existence I think that means I can't be in Hell. Since 1999 I've seen some really gorgeous Earthly natural beauty and I'm pretty sure there aren't Earthly displays of natural beauty in Hell.

So, you know, there are experiences that give me sound reason to believe I'm not in Hell. It's not all Hellish.

But.

Hell-like, at times.

Okay.

Some of you might need to be caught up on a few things to really grasp what's going on.

In 1999 I was in a minor bike accident that didn't cause any serious injury, but I had some lingering pain in my hip. Nothing showed up on x-rays, which was good, of course, but, as a young woman with a lot of life ahead of her, a steady boyfriend and the plan to have children, my doctor wanted to make extra-sure that all was well in the pelvis area. So she sent me for a CT.

Okay. Maybe some of you know that typically for CT scans to really show every nook and cranny of our insides, iodine is fed through an IV. The iodine quickly courses through veins and creates an ultra-vivid contrast to the tissue, tendons and organs when viewed through the CT scan lens and images like x-rays are derived. Cool, right? Right. It is truly very cool.

Unless you're allergic to iodine.

In which case it's deadly.

As in immediate anaphylaxis deadly.

I'd never had a CT scan or any other need to ingest iodine. They ask some basic questions like, "Are you allergic to shellfish?" "Have you ever had sickness or irritation resulting from an Betadine first-aid treatment?" and, "Have you ever been involved in a nuclear accident requiring iodine tablet treatment?"

At that point in my life I'd a) been a vegetarian for several years; b) been reasonably healthy and injury-free; and c) not been directly exposed to nuclear fallout.

There were a lot of questions about food, primarily shellfish and salty food.

When I was a really little kid I tried shrimp and hated it. The texture made me gag. (Ditto scallops for that matter.) Never understood all the hullabaloo about it. (Ditto scallops for that matter.) Also, when I was a very small child visiting my aunt and uncle, they unwittingly took me to a restaurant where they did the whole, "Choose your lobster and we'll steam it in front of you" blood-lust thing. I, of course, was fascinated with the tanks full of lobsters but when I saw them being killed, well, let's just say a) scarred for life and b) even though I was too young to understand the term "vegetarian," I would never go anywhere near a plate with anything remotely resembling a sea animal after that. And it was relatively few years later that I refused to eat anything with a mother.

My mother was a hippie in June Cleaver clothing. She has been anti-preservative for as long as anyone who knows her can remember. She rarely buys bread or any packaged baked good - unless it comes from the local bakery. She always made bread and pretty much everything else completely from raw, scratch ingredients. And even those ingredients came from local farms. I was paid in eggs at my first job. Yes. My first job was to go across the road to the farm, fetch egg baskets off the farmhouse porch, then go into the hen house, collect eggs, give them to Mrs. Farmer, who gave me several eggs and occasionally a bonus of a dime. I had absolutely no idea that my mother was also getting other, um, parts of the chicken from Mr. Farmer who had a back-door barn operation where he sold milk, butter, vegetables, raw fresh-sheared wool and...chickens. The chickens were wrapped in paper and I had no idea what my mother and the other neighborhood mothers were procuring in those brown packages, at least not until I was old enough to connect the dots between the steady turnover of chickens in the hen house. But. That's a blog for another day.

Anyway, point being, my mother has been "eating fresh, eating local" for far longer than even the hippie granola movement caught on. My mother casts a dubious eye at the FDA and every time there's a food contamination outbreak my mother gets smugly superior and somewhat high-and-mighty about food. And she casts a disapproving eye on anything that has even the faintest taste of sodium. She thinks "they're trying to cover up the fact that the food isn't fresh" by liberally dosing it with salt. And she's right. And I'm thankful, my cardiac function is thankful, that she is so anti-sodium. This a long way to say: We didn't eat or use much salt in our family. We had salt in the house, and my mother did use small dashes in cooking, but there were no salt shakers on the table like at my friends' houses. And though we weren't Jewish, the only salt used in our house was Kosher salt, which is typically iodine-free. (I didn't realize/understand what Kosher meant until my dad's sister and cousin came to visit and I overheard a lengthy gossip session about the Kosher salt, my mother, and the possible religious skeletons in her closet.)

Ta-dah. And so it was that it came to pass that as an adult I had absolutely no idea that am allergic to iodine. And not just a little allergic to iodine. Not "just a little itchy" allergic. Full-blown anaphylaxis allergic.

And on that fateful afternoon in 1999 when, after a bike crash, I went in for a routine CT to make sure my pelvis was healthy and okay to sustain childbirth, I "died" for what's best calculated at 4 minutes. What happened pre, during and after is another blog, heck, another 12 volume set, for another day, another life(?)time.

Some of the long term readers know/remember this and know it's the main source of the (?) after Life.

And you may better understand why I have valid reason to believe I'm dead and in Hell.

So, yeah, the iodine thing is kind of a big deal for me. And so, you can understand why the term CT strikes fear in my heart. This reared its ugly head when I injured my foot a few years ago. "They" really needed a contrast CT to get a good understanding of what was causing the swelling, redness and pain. Without the iodine, the CT didn't really show much except enlarged tendons and tissue...and, well, duh, one look at the outside of my foot showed that. When I finally had foot surgery they affixed three, count 'em three, big red and orange warning tags to my body spelling out my iodine allergy.

Okay. So. I haven't been feeling well for several months. Longer, actually, but until a few months ago I attributed the symptoms to stress, depression, fatigue and anxiety, and not eating properly. And then some new symptoms emerged, kind of troubling symptoms, symptoms that could not be excused away by poor mental health and lack of nutritious food.

I bit the bullet, borrowed money and saw my doctor.

After a couple subsequent lab tests and doctor visits (more borrowed money), and conversations about the symptoms and the preliminary lab results, yadda yadda yadda my doctor wanted me to have a CT. I'm still not sure what scared me most: The possible health issue that would be exposed, the abject paranoia I have of CT imaging, or the cost without insurance.

At some point in all of this I asked my doctor what she was looking for on the CT. She just said, "Trillian, you're intelligent, you wouldn't be here if you weren't smart enough to know that we need to have these tests to rule out what we're both thinking. I don't need to say it, yet, because you don't need to hear it from me, yet. Get the CT, don't let them give you iodine and we'll talk when the results are returned."

The "it" to which she was referring was that every symptom and then the preliminary lab tests pointed to a serious health issue. And, when she didn't immediately dismiss the notion or my inquiries, I took that as "proof" that my suspicions were correct. I left her office with a prescription for a CT and assumption that I had cancer.

Yep.

I told you. A new circle of Hell.

Except.

Instead of being scared or angry or upset in any way, I was relieved. I felt emotionally unburdened and relieved. I felt mentally better than I have in a long time - years. By the time I went in for the CT, no longer afraid of pretty much anything, I was giddy over the prospect of what it would show, even without the iodine. (Even running into my former boss and would-be employer who rejected me didn't bring me down - embarrassed me, yes, bring me down? Nope.) For a few moments during those few days I thought maybe this was mercy. Maybe there was a God and He was finally taking pity on me and helping me bow out of this quickly, giving me an escape. Mercy.

Things made sense. In the past 5 -6 years things have been steadily falling away and I struggled to figure out why and what I could do to pull things back. For a few glorious days when I thought I could be terminally ill all the losses made sense. The Universe was winding down, alleviating my necessity, phasing me out. Think about it: I'm at a point in my life where the only responsibilities I have are for my mother's well-being and my own future. No one's depending on me for anything. The decks are empty. No job. No significant other. No kids. No pets. Except for my mother, no one's relying on me for anything. And my mother can manage without me. She'll be sad, but she can manage without me. Ditto my friends. So I was starting to realize, "Ah, okay, it all makes sense, now. I'm being downsized from life."

Now my questions were all related to: Not if, but how advanced? How much longer would I have to endure this life(?) in this body? I was hoping for a 6-9 month diagnosis. I'm not sure why, really, but it sounded like the right amount of time.

Okay.

I'm pretty sure I know what you're thinking.
A) Trillian needs a team of trained therapists. (Nothing new there, really.)
B) Wow, I didn't realize Trillian was such a hypochondriac. (I'm not...the symptoms were severe and scary.)
C) Wow, I knew Trillian was under a lot of stress but I didn't realize she was that depressed.
D) Wow, why am I reading this blog?

So. Yesterday I had a long talk with my doctor about the test results. There are a few things wrong with me. None of them fatal, even if I forgo treatment.

Painful, disconcerting and not exactly the way "we" like to have our bodies functioning, but not fatal. There are still some questions to be answered regarding a couple of the lab results, and a couple areas on the CT that "we" "want to watch" but without further, more expensive tests there's no way to get concrete answers. The possibilities aren't minor enough to be dismissed, but not major enough to warrant the concern "we" had prior to the CT and other preliminary tests.

It's not a run-of-the-mill infection and my blood test results indicate some unsettling issues which may, or may not, among other things, be attributed to a lack of, you guessed it, sodium and iodine. But. As of right now it doesn't appear that I have cancer.

Which is how my doctor phrased it. "There are a few things going on inside you, but, cancer isn't one of them."

This was final confirmation that "we" were both thinking what she wouldn't say out loud until we had the results. Now that she's certain I don't have it, she'll say the word out loud, which means prior to the test results she thought there was a chance I did have it.

Here's the real issue, though.

I'm disappointed.

Enter: Self-judgment and doubt. I'm not surprised that I was disappointed that I'm not terminally ill, but I'm concerned because it should surprise me. I should be concerned that I'm disappointed that I don't have cancer.

I should be leaping for joy and embracing life with newfound zeal. But instead, that's how I reacted when the possibility was hanging out there prior to the CT. I was relieved and elated at the possibility that finally, finally there would be something concrete, something certain and real in my life. It solved a lot of problems and answered a lot of questions...and helped me prioritize.

When you think you're dying, living becomes a lot easier.

Or, in my case, when you have reason to hope you're dying, dealing with life becomes a lot easier.

This is, of course, all a very, very sad reflection on my life(?). I have no job, just spent two and half months jumping through hoops interviewing for a job that I didn't get, and I have no prospects for a job. I have no romance or even bored complacency with a significant other, and no prospects for romance (or even bored complacency) with a significant other, further, I have successfully removed all interest in love. And other than my mother, I have no meaningful relationship with anyone. My friends...well, I mean, I have a few very good friends, but we're separated by very long distances and, yes, of course we still care about each other, we call and email, but day-in, day-out, we're unable to cultivate the relationships. And yes, I know a lot of people, I have used-to-be friends who've drifted to acquaintances and they're "around" but I dunno. With notable rare exceptions, unless I call or email I don't hear from them.

So, I have no money, no significant other, no job, no kids, soon-to-be no home, and very few friends. I'm a loser, baby. And I can find no way to change any of that - I've tried, I've tried really, really, really hard. I have gone many extra miles in every one of those capacities and all I have to show for it is a worn out pair of sneakers, a broken heart, more confusion, disillusionment, and an empty bank account.

Hence my relief at the possibility of a "get out of life free" card in the form of cancer.

And my disappointment and frustration when that possibility was removed.

You know you've made some really bad life choices when you hear yourself thinking or saying:

Crap. I'm not dying.

Crap. Now what?

Well, in the immediate I can either borrow more money to get a couple more tests, or, just forget about it, deal with the pain and the symptoms until they either diminish or increase to the point that I want to borrow money to do something to treat them. I'm leaning toward the latter.

I know, I know, just one phone call could change everything. One phone call from someone offering me a job would turn my situation at least 90° and eventually maybe even 160°. Let's be realistic, though. At this point those odds are as low as the odds of me getting married. Not impossible, but statistically unrealistic. Not dismal; bleak.

So.

Crap. I'm not dying. Now what?

Let's play a game.

Pretend this is 2011. Not much of a stretch because it is 2011, so far so good, right?
Now pretend you are single. (Really single. Re-virginated single.)
And you are unemployed and have been unemployed for two years.
And your financial resources are completely depleted (you have $24.63 to your name).
And you have sold everything you owned that held any monetary value including your blood.
And you're squatting in your former home waiting for the bank to kick you out.
And you have few (or no) true, reliable friends within a 1,000 mile radius.
And the only family you have who is remotely accessible/helpful/viable is your handicapped, senior citizen mother who is moving into a senior housing situation where no one under the age of 55 is allowed to stay more than 2 weeks.
Oh, and you have no car, just a bus pass with three rides on it, an old broken-down bicycle and some sneakers for transportation.
Oh, and your passport is about to expire and the renewal fee is $110.

You do have:
College degrees (plural, advanced).
15+ years of career experience related to your degrees (plural, advanced).
A reasonably well-functioning laptop.
A reasonably well-functioning camera.
A Starbucks gift card with $8.32 on it.
750,422 air miles on three different airlines (keep in mind there is a minimum $150 "booking fee" to use air miles for a plane ticket).

You want a job, you need money, soon you will have no place to live, and you have no one to rely upon but yourself.

What do you do?

I'm not asking for suggestions. I'm begging for help. Short term suggestions are welcomed, but because I'm not dying (crap) I need a long term solution.* I've exhausted all of the options/ideas I can mine out of my head and: Nothing, no results. Which of course means I'm not clever enough to find a solution on my own. My attempt at the whole "independent career gal" thing is a bust and I'm not exactly trophy wife material, and I've tried to achieve all of the options in-between that I can brainstorm. Nothing. And now that I've ruled out possibility of the luxury of terminal illness I have to figure out my life beyond the next 6 - 9 months. So. Any and all ideas are hugely appreciated.*

*A solution that doesn't include internet porn or prostitution. I know, I know if I were truly desperate I'd do porn, and don't think I haven't considered it. Here's what I considered: What would you pay for a nip or snatch shot? Right. Not exactly a long term financial solution.

And as for selling other services, like photography or design or online services like data-entry, believe me, I have tried, and am trying, but the income generated is insubstantial. Everyone and their brother and sister and niece and neighbor are trying to sell photography, design, data-entry services, etc. online. The internet is a great marketplace, but the competition is fierce and the money to be made is minimal and short term.

** And yes, yes, I know, it's crucial to have, or at least project, a positive, undepressed attitude. Positive attracts positive. Believe me, I know. And I have maintained a pretty darned positive attitude, or at least hopeful and optimistic with an accurate level of confidence in my abilities and career experience in terms of my job hunt. Truly. People remark on it. Family, acquaintances, former coworkers...people tell me they're inspired by my positive outlook and resiliency. And I have been told over, and over, and over, and over again by interviewers and HR people that they really like me, and for the most part they seem to genuinely respond favorably to me. But it comes down to me and one other candidate and that one other candidate has more industry-specific experience or whatever, some one tiny little professional edge over me, to get them the job. And in the rejection calls I'm always professional and say something like, "I understand, it's crucial for your brand/project/whatever that you have the right people on the team. It's great you found someone, please keep me in mind for future opportunities." I've managed to say that with warmth and sincerity that would impress Ghandi. So. While I'm depressed and melancholy in this forum, in real life I have been almost disturbingly positive and resilient.

2011-10-05T20:17:00.002-05:00

2011-10-05T20:08:00.004-05:00

In an plot device usually only reserved sitcoms...and my life...the Universe once again played the ironic timing ploy.

Because I'm used to this I usually know how to handle these situations.

But this time, well, I was in way over my head. If I did the wrong thing it's too late to undo it. But I'm curious to know if I handled it okay or if I should have said or done something differently.

Okay, here goes.

I'm going to meander off course a minute. Okay a few minutes. Buildup to the sitcom plot device and rant about the medical community all that. You can skip ahead if you want to get to the ironic plot device in a sitcom part.

So, I'm having a health issue. It's been going on for over a year. I saw my doctor about it last year. This is no small thing considering I have no health insurance. Doctor appointments are not cheap. So in the last two years I have seen a doctor twice: Once for this issue and once when I broke my thumb. And, when I broke my thumb I was in Michigan and went to a walk-in clinic. So I've sought medical attention from my doctor once in the two years. She is aware of my unemployed/soon-to-be-homeless/no health insurance "situation" and, while not crazy about me not having my usual check-ups, she is sympathetic and understanding, she knows I normally take care of myself and it's not a reflection on anything other than my employment and financial situation.

Right. So. I was in tremendous pain last year, to the point that even vicodin leftover from my foot surgery wasn't helping. There were also some other disconcerting symptoms I'm not going to disclose publicly. So I broke down and spent the money on a doctor visit. After a (very) thorough exam, my doctor thought I pulled some muscles which was causing the pain and the other issues were stress and sleeplessness related. Among others, the term chronic fatigue was used.

Okay, so, I've tried really, really hard to sleep at least 4 or 5 hours every night. It's not easy. But I make it my mission. And eventually I started to feel a little better. Not great, still having aches and pains, but at least not doubled over on the floor in agony. And the other symptoms abated, so I thought, "This is why I love my doctor. She's good. No drugs, no tests, no chastisement for not getting in sooner, just a pat on the back and a prescription to get more sleep."

Right.

Well, over the summer the pains returned. Still unemployed, still skint, still without health insurance, I did not seek medical assistance. Then last week some very disturbing symptoms sprang up, and I was fairly certain it was all related in one big morass of a health issue.

So I called my doctor's office to ask for advice. It was effectively the same thing I saw her for last year, and the prescription was: Sleep. But combined with these other symptoms I was concerned, to say the least. I was equally concerned about the cost of the office visit.

And here's my high-on-horse rant about healthcare. Why is it so difficult to get a price quote for anything medical related? I understand that sometimes an office visit leads to other tests/exams and it's difficult to predict the necessity of those tests/exams. But shouldn't an office visit be a) a standard fee and b) easily quotable/findable by anyone who works in said doctor's office? And for that matter, shouldn't urine/blood tests cost the same, or at least cost the same in tiers? I understand some urine/blood tests are more involved than others, and cost more, I get that, but, the cost doesn't fluctuate like stocks or gold, right? The cost is the cost, right? So why is it so difficult, even impossible, to get a quote for the cost before embarking on the exam? If I can't afford the office visit and/or subsequent tests/exams, I'm not going to have them done.

And before you get up on a high horse about health being a precious commodity, citing that you can't put a price on health, let me ask you this: When was the last time you went to a doctor's office or medical facility and did not see a notice clearly posted (in at least two places) that payment in full is expected at time of treatment, including co-pays. You can put a price on health.

Yes. "They" expect payment at time of treatment, and that's fair. But isn't it equally fair for patients to know what to expect in the way of cost? In most states there are laws requiring car mechanics to provide a detailed summary and cost of repairs before doing the work. And if, for instance, while they are aligning the tires they discover a bad wheel bearing, they are required to call and revise the estimate/cost before replacing the wheel bearing. If the mechanic fails to provide details and an estimate and does the work without consent (usually written) of the cost, the consumer is not required to pay. These are standard, basic, consumer protection laws.

And yet, there are no such laws regarding healthcare.

I'm all for capitalism. And I understand that a doctor affiliated with a world renowned major medical research facility is going to cost more than a doctor who has a small office behind the Sip and Curl Salon in Podunk. I understand that. I also understand that a specialist who has spent years of extended education and training treating very specific and complex issues is going to have a high fee attached to their service. I get that. I even applaud that. Yes, really. If a doctor went to the time, trouble and effort to advance their skills beyond the usual doctoral studies, then yes, they should charge more for their services. I'm totally okay with that.

However. They, or their office, should be able to tell any patient, any patient, the cost of a visit/exam before the patient shows up for their appointment.

I had this issue when I had health insurance, and honestly, it was worse. I got so much runaround about codes, and deductibles, and copays, and caps, and out-of-pocket, and out-of-formula, and blah blah blah, that I was always, yes, always, the monkey in the middle of the doctors/treatment facilities and the insurance company. I never, not once, got a straight answer on what a treatment or exam or test would cost me. Hence the over $25,000 in out-of-pocket costs I incurred over a two year period with my foot issues. Much of that was physical therapy expense that my insurance company said was covered, but several months into physical therapy, ooops! surprise! nope, that "type" of physical therapy wasn't fully covered and I had to pay thousands of dollars in out-of-pocket expense that I could not afford and never in a million years would have had done if I'd known I was going to have to pay that much for it. I fought that battle for 14 months, making payments all-the-while, calling the insurance company two or three times a week for help resolving the dispute, or, even, just an explanation why they told me it was covered and then, well after the expense was incurred, they refused to pay. I never got an answer other than, "it's not included in your deductible" and "it's out of formula." Why they couldn't/didn't tell me this beforehand, and yes, I inquired ahead of time about my cost, remains a mystery.

Honestly, it's a lot easier when you don't have health insurance. You're no long a monkey in the middle, a pawn or a cash cow. Yes, my healthcare is expensive, but, since all of my expenses are out-of-pocket there's no waiting and wondering what the bill is going to be.

I have learned something about the medical community: When you don't have that magic golden ticket in the form of a health insurance card, you are a) an anomaly and b) viewed with disdain, contempt and a little fear.

I triple dog dare you to call your doctor's office and ask them what an office visit will cost without health insurance. Go ahead, try it.

If, after being put on hold at least four times, you are connected with someone who knows what the fee for an exam is, you will be given a list of disclaimers about additional fees that cannot be quoted until the doctor completes the exam. The takeaway is, "The fee is $125 with a discount for cash payment, but, be prepared to have a lot more cash on hand because that's just to get you in the exam room and into a paper gown."

I've been going to the same doctor for several years. She is expensive. I know there are less expensive doctors. But. I like her. I trust her. She's good. Really good. And she's a decent human being, too. Smart, kind, compassionate, reassuring, funny, aware and chock full of information she's happy to share. Every time I see her I learn at least one new thing. I count her among the rare few good things and good people in my life. If I believed in blessings she'd be near the top of the list. So that's why I continue to see her.

Until two years ago, I had health insurance and was in the monkey-in-the-middle situation where I never had a clue what I was going to have to pay for my doctor visits. I tried, oh how I tried, to ask and get a handle the fees, but it was so complicated and inconsistent that I finally gave up and just opened the wallet and handed over my cash, debit and credit cards and let them take whatever they wanted. (This isn't my doctor's fault.) So, even after years of seeing the same doctor, I really didn't have a clue what an office visit costs. Sad, isn't it? Not right, is it?

You know what's more sad and not right? The way I'm treated by the front line artillery squadron when I call for an appointment. Here's a transcript of the call I made last week (we'll listen in after all the press one, press three, press five, press one again automated response stuff):

"Good morning, Fancy Schmancy Impressive Hospital Doctors' Office," a woman oozing with charm, professionalism and pleasantness cooed. Like if Miss Moneypenny had a twin who worked as a receptionist at posh hotel.

"Hi, my name is Tricia McMillian. I'm a patient of doctor M's. I'd like to make an appointment, but before I do so I need to know the cost."

"Hello, Ms. McMillian! We haven't seen you for a while!" she seemed genuinely happy to hear from me. "Certainly, Ms. McMillian, let me just check a few things for you, what insurance do you have, now? Still the Blue Cross, is it?"

"Um, no. I don't have health insurance."

"Oh. I see." Notable change in attitude. Abrupt click to hold and informative canned medical tips.

After at least five minutes on hold she returned.

"(audible exasperated sigh) Awright, how do you intend to pay for your exam?" She morphed from smooth, professional, slight air of sex Miss Moneypenny's twin to Jenny from the Block.

"Cash, erm, well, debit card."

"Not check or credit card?"

"Well, erm, I mean, I guess that depends on the cost..."

(mimicking me) "Well, I mean, I guess that depends on how you intend to pay."

I was totally knocked off guard by her attitude. I mean, I understand that I'm in the minority in their office. Most of their patients have health insurance and open wallets. And apparently I was asking an out of the ordinary question. But I've been going there for years. I know the people who work there. I once helped two of them figure out an Adobe Acrobat issue. I took them sugar-free Halloween and holiday treats and a swutting baby gift to one of them, for crying out loud. Had I not been so surprised at her attitude I would have had more presence of mind to react in ways other than a chastised school girl.

"It's just that, erm, until I know the cost I can't really say how I'll pay. I hope to pay with cash or debit card, but if it's really expensive I'll have to use a credit card."

"What's really expensive to you?"

I kid you not. She said, "What's really expensive to you?" And she was not joking.

Yes. She went there. We were firmly in, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it" attitude territory.

And to an extent, that's true. If you have to ask what doctor's exam is going to cost, you probably cannot afford it. However, in the interest of savvy consumerism, doing some price comparison shopping is always, always advised. Were this not my doctor, my doctor whom I trust, respect and like and with whom I have a long term history, I would have ended this phone call. I would have hung up with an incensed hurrumph long ago and already be on the phone with at least two other doctors. But, this is my doctor and she already saw me for this issue last year, and I really don't want to see anyone else, and, my pride and self-esteem are already nonexistent. I live in a state of constant humility. In terms of my dignity I can't be wounded any deeper.

For the record, I am sad and disappointed about this, though. I expected more from my doctor's office. The compassion and respect my doctor gives to her patients is obviously not reflected in the frontline phone staff. Or, at least not when dealing with swamp-bottom feeders like me who don't have health insurance. When I had health insurance the call and desk staff were all oozing with kindness and a helpful, professional demeanor, offering assistance for things I didn't even need. "Do you need a doctor's note for work? How about a care info sheet? Here's a list of websites we like to offer our patients." They tripped over themselves to help me and to be friendly and kind, like they'd just been to some customer service seminar.

The abrupt change in attitude happened the second I said I no longer have health insurance. And keep in mind, they made a shitload, oh yes, I said it, shitload of money off me and my health insurance. Yes, I know, they didn't pocket all of the money they charged, I understand it's expensive to maintain a physician's office. I know that. But. My out-of-pocket expense for office visits alone was thousands of dollars, probably around $9,000 over just the three-year period before, during and after my foot injury and surgery. And that was "just" 20% of the total cost my doctor's office billed and received payment for, the insurance company paid another 80%. So, I'm not "just" some Janey Comelately off the street who wants to see the doctor and has no insurance or payment history with said doctor's office. I'm a former cash cow who undoubtedly paid the equivalent of at least one front desk worker's salary.

I expect that sort of behavior at a fancy department store, for instance. The once "preferred customer" the sales people coddled and fell over themselves helping suddenly has a drop in her expendable income and starts actually inquiring about cost, comparing prices. Money is suddenly an issue and just as suddenly the sales team couldn't possibly care less about their previously preferred customer. And they abruptly start giving her the if "you have to ask you can't afford it" cold shoulder treatment.

I finally said, "Erm, well, I guess anything over $250 will have to go on a credit card."

I heard a bunch of clickity clack typing on a keyboard, then the click to hold and canned health tip info. No, "Hmmm, I'm going to have to put you on hold another minute..." Just a click and then the pre-recorded audio telling me more about prostate exams than any woman needs to know. (Yeeesh, I thought pap smears were bad...)

Then she clicked back and sounded like she was reading a script, "Okay, without insurance an office visit costs $125. But Dr. M sometimes gives a cash discount so if you can come up with cash it might be less than that. But remember, that's just the office visit. Any other tests or treatments will be additional. As you are aware, we offer premium state of the art healthcare. If you are having difficulty paying for healthcare perhaps you might want to look into more affordable healthcare options for your routine health care."

Oh yes, she did. She went there. From my perspective, the perspective of someone who's been unemployed for two years, has no money and is about to be homeless, this was an unnecessary kick in the already painfully self-conscious ass. I understand that sort of attitude when the situation at hand is along the lines of, "As you are aware, Saks Fifth Avenue offers premium designer fashion. Perhaps you should be checking out the Blue Light clearance bin at K-Mart." Price snobbery is the accepted norm in retail, but when did that norm seep into healthcare? When did a health insurance card at the doctor's office become equivalent to a platinum preferred card at Neiman's? Don't answer that.*

Also integral to my state of mind at this point is my mother. Yes. My mother. My mother is Scottish. And unfortunately, she is prone to behavior that happens to be cliché stereotype Scot. I'm 90% certain her thriftiness has nothing to do with where her DNA originated, but, there's a 10% margin of doubt that has embarrassed me since I was old enough to understand the whole "thrifty" and "Scottish" thing. My mother is just a savvy consumer, I tell myself. She's not cheap. (Truly, she's not cheap or stingy. She always tips well, overtips, actually, and she buys lovely gifts for people, and she doesn't buy anything that's inferior quality, like 1-ply no-brand toilet paper or cheese food instead of real cheese.) But. She always, always throws in the, "...and we'll be paying cash, today" card when dealing with sales people. And for some reason when she speaks this phrase she inflects it with Maggie Smith accent. I think it might be her way of exerting authority, or a way of trying to bring some class to this low-brow haggling transaction, or maybe it's just nerves. Whatever the reason, she sounds like a haughty, superior dowager. And she is completely, utterly unaware that she's affecting a Maggie Smith accent. "No, no we won't need financing on the toaster. We'll be paying cash today." And then gives a knowing look at the sales person, the knowing look that says, "and you swutting well better give 'us' a discount for paying cash or we'll march straight over to your competitor who will be more than happy to honor your sale price and give us a discount for cash. I am prepared to walk out the door right now if you don't cough up at least a 10% discount for paying with cash." When I was young I thought everyone did this, that negotiating a discount for paying with cash was standard consumer practice, including affecting a Maggie Smith accent, and that every sales person, in every store, selling anything, knew the universal knowing look and accepted the Maggie Smith accented cash discount gauntlet.

When I got older and realized my mother is a) from a bygone era and b) an embarrassing cliché stereotype, I started refusing to go shopping with her. I began to realize that certain sales people around town recognized my mother and didn't seem exactly happy to see her coming. Some of them would preempt her "...and we'll be paying cash today" look by beating her to it in their sales schpeel. At then end of their pitch they'd say, "And of course we're always happy to offer a discount if you'll be paying with cash today." This is where I first learned about phony smiles and passive aggression, so in hindsight those were valuable experiences. But embarrassing nonetheless. Discovering that your mother has a reputation as a cash discount ball buster all over town is not exactly a pleasant experience for a child. Or an adult.

When my dad was sick and the local pharmacy had to special order a prescription from a boutique drug manufacturer across the country, the pharmacist said, "Now, I'm not sure we'll be able to offer your mother the usual cash discount on this because it's special order. You might want to okay that with your mother." That was just a few years ago. I was an adult. Getting medicine for my gravely ill father. And the pharmacist was so aware and afraid of my mother's "cash discount" threat that he wanted me, an adult, to call my mother and okay it with her before he ordered the medicine for my seriously ill father. He wouldn't even let me use my cell phone. Instead, he dialed my mother's cell phone number on the pharmacy phone, put it on speaker and handed me the phone - and listened while I explained the situation to her, that the pharmacist might not be able to offer a cash discount on the special order prescription that was being flown in from 2,000 miles away. I was instantly reduced to a 10-year-old child, incapable of properly procuring a prescription for my father. My mother, who was at my father's side in the hospital at the time, knew that she was on speaker and the pharmacist was listening and said, in her Maggie Smith voice, "Well, your father needs it, we'll just have to pay whatever they're going to charge us. (pause) But make sure he gives you a few of those coupons for free Tylenol." Okay, to be fair, before you judge my mother, yes, we knew my dad was sick but we didn't know he was dying. So, you know, in the moment it didn't seem like such a big deal to negotiate a couple of free bottles of Tylenol in lieu of the usual cash discount. Embarrassing, but not a big deal. But it's moments like those that the 10% margin of doubt nags at me. Maybe there is something in her ancestral DNA that makes her that way. Which means there's a chance I might end up "that way."

So when the snarky receptionist at my doctor's office said there might be a cash discount available, it sent me straight to a complicated emotional place. Yes, I need and want any discount I can get and I'm grateful for any price reduction. But. The term "cash discount" triggers some very deeply rooted issues in me. Any shred of dignity I was clinging to was squashed. She said, "Sometimes Doctor M gives a discount for paying cash." I heard, "Yes, you cheapass Scot, we'll give you a cash discount, wouldn't want you to get your kilt in a twist, now would we?" So. Yeah. I was not exactly in a sound, healthy or stable frame of mind.

And let me reiterate: I would not have remotely considered going to any doctor if I wasn't worried, really, genuinely concerned, about this health issue. I'm in a lot of prolonged pain and I have a few disconcerting symptoms that warrant valid concern. The sort of symptoms that, when you tell someone, anyone, the response is always, "(look of shocked worry) You need to see a doctor. That's not normal. That can be serious. Don't let that go. Really, don't mess around with that. (stern look of 'I'm serious about this, go to a doctor, now')"

So.

You know. I was kind of in a situation. And really wanted to see my doctor. And I'd like to say, "Money doesn't matter when it comes to your health!" But money does matter. A lot. Apparently a lot more than I realized.

Yadda yadda yadda I finally got a quote and made an appointment. To say my reception at the front desk was chilly is a gross understatement. I used to be greeted with smiles and news from the office and even the gal from the back billing area would come up and say hello. This time I was greeted with an abrupt, dismissive, no eye contact, "Just your insurance information has changed, right? Everything else is still the same?"

"Yes, everything else is the same."

Pointing toward a sign taped over the counter, she said, "And you are aware of our payment policy." It was a question inflected as a statement. As in, "I presume you can read, and the sign clearly states payment in full is expected at time of treatment, so consider yourself schooled on our payment policy."

"Yes, yes, I am aware. I am also aware that there may be a discount for cash payment." Oh crap. I said that out loud. In front of a room full of people. Oh crap. I've turned into my mother and there are witnesses.

Insert: Years of issues with my mother playing out in my head;
Insert: "Well, that's it, I've turned into my mother" sigh of resignation;
Insert: "Really, does everyone in the waiting room need to know I don't have health insurance and that I'm paying with cash and want a cash discount? Because if they do need to know, I think there's an elderly gentleman in the corner who didn't quite hear all of this conversation so why don't you just speak a little louder, and hey, why not mention why I'm here, too? I'm sure all of these people pausing from their game of Angry Birds and looking over here at the woman who doesn't have health insurance would just love to know the gory details of the health issue that would bring someone with no health insurance and wanting a cash discount on her healthcare into the doctor's office."
Insert: Let it go, let it go, just let it go and don't say anything or they'll make you see a "special" doctor and you really cannot afford a "special" doctor or the "special" medication they'll mandate.

Finally the receptionist found whatever note she needed to refer to about the cash discount and said, "That'll depend on how the doctor writes it up. Have a seat. We'll call you when the doctor is ready for you." End of conversation. I had been schooled.

And I had to slink into the waiting room where all the other patients suddenly got very, very busy with their smartphones or extremely interested in brochures about Shingles vaccinations. Okay, maybe that was my insecurity and imagination taking charge of the situation. But. Still. I'm sure I noticed a few furtive glances. This is not the sort of place where people who do not have health insurance hang out. I truly was a K-Mart Blue Light clearance bin shopper in the couture velvet rope area of Saks. I'm pretty sure it was pretty obvious. But. Whatever. I didn't feel well, I had some scary symptoms and in a few minutes I'd be alone in a room with my doctor whom I trust, respect and adore and everything would be okay.

I did have to have a couple in-office tests but my doctor "forgot" to add them on my payment sheet. See? I told you she's great. Truly, she's a fantastic doctor and an even more fantastic human being. Worth all of the nonsense I dealt with prior to the appointment.

Unfortunately she's concerned about the symptoms and the preliminary exam and test results. So. She wanted me to have a CT. She knows I don't have money for a CT and so she told me about this incredible site called Leslie's List. If you're not in Chicago or Dallas, I am truly sorry you don't have this unbelievable service, but hopefully the idea will catch on and it will become a nationwide phenomenon, a true reform and revolution in healthcare.

Imagine this: A site where a patient can compare prices for prescriptions and exams. Which means, (bwa ha ha) the price for exams and prescriptions is made public. No, really? Is that possible? How can it be? Medical exam and prescription prices are trade secrets! The public isn't supposed to know the huge disparity in charges for the same tests and medications! My God, if the general public is allowed to shop and compare exam and medication prices, why, they'll, they'll, they'll be empowered! They'll be savvy and they won't just accept whatever price we ask them to pay!! They'll have, gulp, choices!!! We can't have that!!!

Get this: The prices for the exam I needed ranged from $278 - $3,211. Same exam. Same equipment involved. Same process. Same everything. That's quite a range in price, isn't it? Yep. It is. Holy price gouge. Holy we've been had. Holy crap. I expected some range in price, but I figured they'd all be within a couple hundred dollars of each other.

No. Not even close. $278 - $3,211 and everything in between. In the old days, days when I had health insurance and just went to the treatment/exam places in my doctor's hospital, I just did as I was told, went where I was told, and assumed with my health insurance the cost elsewhere wouldn't vary that much. And maybe, with health insurance, it doesn't vary. Now that I'm in the "no health insurance" "I'm paying cash for everything" legion, there may be some difference in costs. I don't have to take anything but price into consideration. And so, my eyes are now open. I'm starting to realize there is some freedom in not having health insurance. And if/when I ever do get health insurance again...there's no going back to the old way. Thanks to Leslie's List the medical price gouge cat is out of the bag. I'm really scared the site will be shut down, I'm sure some of the healthcare providers are fighting this, but I really hope there's some sort of Freedom of Information Act provision for this information that will allow the site to continue and spread to other cities. Empowerment and emancipation. They're beautiful things.

I called three of the providers on the list. I admit, I was kind of afraid of the lowest cost place, but, I called them anyway. And guess what? They were the nicest, most helpful and accommodating of the places I called. They had a long waiting time for an appointment, but when I told them why I needed the exam they had me speak with a triage nurse who said she'd find a way to get me in sooner. I went to the place and guess what? It's not some scary back alley clinic type of place. It's perfectly sterile and professional and the people who work there are super friendly and helpful. Oh, and by the way, it's in the same building as some of the city's most hoity toity doctors, surgeons and dentists. Just sayin'.

And now we get to the sitcom ironic plot device.

Okay, so my test required me to completely disrobe and wear a gown. The nurse was very nice and escorted me straight back to the changing room. The place does mammograms, and by the queue of women waiting wearing a gown on top and regular clothes on the bottom I presumed most of them were there for mammograms. Because I was having a different exam there was no wait for me! The nurse waited for me to change into the gown. (Which, by the way, was in a little vacuum hermetically sealed bag and when I opened it out popped a heavy-weight, real cloth garment with strings that weren't frayed or knotted beyond use, and ample room for coverage and comfort. Sanitizing, modesty and comfort? At the cheapest place in town?! Wow!) So I didn't pay much attention to the women sitting and waiting in their mammogram gowns.

The exam went okay, I mean, it didn't hurt or anything and the technician and nurse were super nice and I even got to take home a CD of my CT. Yeah, swag. Go figure.

When I went back to the changing room it was even more full of women in gowns reading magazines or looking at their smartphones. All the changing rooms were full, including the one where I had my stuff locked up. (Guys, maybe you don't know this, inside the inner sanctum of mammography/imaging centers there's usually an antechamber with chairs and magazines and sometimes a TV. Adjacent to it are little changing rooms with lockers where you change into your gown and lock up your clothes and purse, then take the key with you, then you sit around with a bunch of other half-naked women wearing gowns and holding locker keys waiting for their exams. Sometimes there's conversation but usually everyone just tries to mind their own business and avoid eye contact. I presume it's the same for men except it's a bunch of guys sitting around in gowns with ESPN on the TV instead a bunch of women with Lifetime on the TV.)

There were no chairs left so I had to stand there, naked except for my socks and the gown, and wait for the specific changing room where my stuff was locked up. Naturally the woman in "my" changing room was taking a stupendously long time. And no one was called for their exam, so no chairs freed up, and there was no television, and I had nothing but the locker key to busy myself with...and I was trying to avoid eye-contact but it was difficult because I was standing and everyone else was sitting...and did I mention I was completely naked except for my socks and the exam gown? Everyone else was at least wearing skirts/pants and shoes. Not me, the gown was nice enough, as exam gowns go, but it didn't hide my stupid ridiculously long and cartoonishly white legs and arms. And remember, I'm not feeling well. And I'm having some, um, symptoms. Not exactly my finest hour.

And then...I noticed one of the women noticing me.

Oh crap.

Who is the last person you want to run into in a situation like this? Dozens of people and types of people come to mind, I'm sure, but really, think about it, who do you absolutely not want to see you in this situation?

Perhaps the executive managing director of the department you spent two months and five interviews with and just got the rejection call last week? Yeah. That'd be an embarrassing person to run into in this situation, wouldn't it? Yeah. That's kind of sitcomical, isn't it? Yeah, that's my life(?). There, she was, in her executive managing director glory. The woman who put me through five in-person interviews, including one requiring a trip to New York with her to meet the rest of her team, the woman who courted me and dangled carrots in front of me for two months, put me through several phone interviews/conference calls with her team, the woman who called and emailed me evenings and weekends to "touch base and make sure I knew I was still a top candidate and that the process was gaining momentum and wanted to make sure I felt the same way and wasn't seeking other offers," the woman who then had her minion call me to let me know she chose another candidate instead of me.

Yeah. That woman. Her. She was sitting there half-naked looking up at me amidst a room full of half-naked women in exam gowns. And I was just standing there, all naked except for my socks and the gown, standing there unable to do anything because there was no place to sit and some woman was taking an inordinate amount of time in "my" changing room.

Once we made eye contact there was no going back. I mean, what do you do? You have to acknowledge each other, right? A nod, something, right?

I could not think of what the appropriate acknowledgement would be if I ran into her in any situation. "Hi, nice to see you again. Thanks for the opportunity to interview for a job I really wanted. I'm glad you found a good fit for your team, even if it wasn't me, even though I really wanted that job, even though you pestered me night and day for two months and made me jump through hoops so far and above the normal call of interview duty that I'm pretty sure you violated your company's code of ethical conduct. Really, great to see you again. I hope the person you chose instead of me is working out okay." Yeah, probably not the right words.

Then add in the weirdness of the waiting room situation and I mean, come on, really, Universe? You really did this to me? And to her, for that matter?

Cripes. It was awkward for me, but then as I thought about how awkward it must be for her I felt even more awkward, awkward for her, and, awkward for me, I mean, good grief, what does one do or say in this situation? They don't tell you how to handle this situation in business school or etiquette classes or ethics seminars. No one ever mentions that you might want to prepare yourself for the possibility, that, while standing naked in the changing room of an exam center, you may run into an executive director of a major corporation who recently interviewed and rejected you. At least no one ever mentioned that possibility to me.

I'm 100% certain I am the last person she wants to run into while sitting half-naked waiting for a mammogram. Or, ever, for that matter. She knows I'm crushed that I didn't get the job, and she knows I know she was the one who made the final decision. If I was her I would not want to run into me anywhere. At least not while it's still so recent, so fresh. The wound of rejection hasn't even had time to scab over and there I was, standing there before her, naked except for socks and a stupid exam gown. I'm still shedding tears over not getting that job, for crying out loud (literally). I'm still going over every detail of every interview and conversation trying to piece together when I made my fatal misstep. I'm still thinking she was a spineless coward for not calling me herself, for making her assistant make the rejection phone call. And there she was, half-naked in an exam room full of other half naked women, looking up from her Blackberry at me. And there I was. Stupidly overlong and overly white legs and arms made even more obvious by the stupid exam gown and socks.

Humiliation and irony, thy names are Trillian.

We just kind of nodded at each other. I think I managed a smile. That was my intention, anyway. "Just nod and smile, nod and smile. What the swutting Belgium is taking that woman so long in my changing room? Nod and smile, nod and smile." She nodded but didn't smile at me and then went back to her Blackberry. Whew. Okay. That was over. But. I still had to walk past her when (if?) whomever was in my changing room finally came out.

And you thought that was the sitcom plot device of irony moment, didn't you?

Yeah, well, you're right, that's a good one. But. Heh heh, this is me. This is Trillian. There are reasons why you read this blog.

And I suspect this is one of them.

So, the would-be manager who rejected me last week was engaging herself in her Blackberry and I was waiting for my changing room. The antechamber was chock full of women. (And let me take this moment to say how proud I am of those women and how pleased I am that so many of them were there to have what is hopefully just an annual routine exam. And also to remind the ladies in the audience that it's October and it's breast cancer awareness month so be aware of your boobs and take care of them. If you're in Chicago or Dallas Leslie's List has pricing and sources for mammograms.) Right, so the room is full, nowhere to sit, woman who interviewed me five times and then rejected me last week sitting there awkwardly trying to avoid me and occupy herself with her Blackberry, me standing there naked except for socks and an exam gown waiting to get into the changing room where my clothes and purse are locked up. I kinda had to stand next to the swinging entry door because there was nowhere else to stand except for the middle of the room. Which, I suppose, if I wanted to just go for broke ridiculous, I could have stood in the middle of the room waiting for "my" changing room. But I didn't. I opted to try to be as inconspicuous as possible for a 5'11" naked woman wearing nothing but socks and an exam gown to be and just cower against the only spot of bare wall which happened to be by the swinging entry door.

This was an "Are there God, it's me Trillian" moment. Sometimes I try really hard to give God a chance. "Okay God, I really do want to believe in you and I'm more than willing to Believe, but if you're there you know me, you know my issues. And you also know I'm a decent person, I follow your rules and respect you and those who Believe in you, I mean Thou, and maybe if you, I mean Thou just helped me out once in a while I'd be more receptive and so please, for the love of God, I mean you, I mean Thou, please get that woman out of my changing room so that at the very least I can put on some clothes and regain a shred of dignity in front of the woman who just crushed my hopes and dreams of finally landing a job. Please? God? Please? Just this once, please?"

If there's a God, and if He heard my prayer, he's a mean, sick, twisted, spiteful, vengeful deity because what happened next defies everything we've ever been taught about God.

Instead of mercifully freeing up my changing room, He presented me with the one thing that could make this situation worse.

The door came swinging open, almost hitting me, so I had to step out and away from the door and into the aforementioned center of the chock-full waiting room. And who do you think came strutting into the waiting room, fully clothed?

Yep, my former nincompoop boss.

To recap, we have:
Me, naked except for socks and an exam gown, 5'11" worth of sickly pale legs and arms sticking out of said exam gown the only one standing in the middle of:
A room full of seated women who are half naked, wearing exam gowns, including:
A half naked woman who interviewed me five times and rejected me for a job last week.

And my former boss, fully clothed, who laid me off two years ago.

Oh, life is sweet, isn't it?

My former boss, never, ever keeps her mouth shut. She's a nervous talker. When she's nervous she talks. A lot, about anything and everything. She's loud, obnoxious and usually the only one talking, saying nothing, really, but blathering on and on and on and on. (I know, kinda like this blog post, but at least I'm aware, and there is some shred of intent, whereas my former boss is the most self-unaware, aimless person I've ever known.)

So of course she said something. Something really loud and rambling and in no way covering the awkwardness she was feeling about running into someone whose life she ruined by laying her off.

"Trillian, my GAWD, how are you? What a coincidence to run into you here! Wow, they're really busy today! Are you here for a mammogram? October is breast cancer awareness month! What are you doing these days? I heard you moved. Did you move? Did you sell your condo? The market's horrible did you take a big loss? Someone said you're working at (competitor company). Are you working there? I heard they lost (XYZ account). Wow your hair is really long!" She made a move toward me. Oh crap. She was coming in for a hug. No, no, no, please, no. Not here, not now, not ever. No. Every half naked be-gowned woman in that room was staring at us, including the woman who interviewed/rejected me for a really good job that I really wanted.

And still, still, "my" changing room was occupied. What the bloody swutting Belgium was going on in there?

All I could think of, the only words I could consciously form in my head were, "Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, got nowhere to run, nowhere to hide..." Yes. The Martha and the Vendellas song. For a split millisecond I contemplated breaking into song because the whole situation couldn't possibly get any weirder anyway, so why not just break into song? Well, because, wasn't a dream sequence in a sitcom.

My former boss did, indeed give me a sort of half-assed air hug. I didn't reciprocate. For many reasons, but top on the list is that I wasn't sure how securely I'd tied the gown and I was afraid of what might happen if I moved too much or lifted my arms too high. I know a full frontal nudity hug in a women's changing room full of half naked women, including a former boss and would-be boss sounds like a titillating scene in a porn movie, but it's not.

I just stood there, enduring. I noticed the woman who interviewed/rejected me last week was doing that thing where you try not to notice what's playing out in front of you but it's too awkward and too public to not notice and everyone involved knows this so you just try to seem apologetic and sympathetic.

Then a nurse poked her head in the door and called out the name of the woman who interviewed/rejected me last week. Up she stood to move toward her summoning nurse, and, I and my former boss, who was obviously (and just this one time we can't blame her) clueless about my "relationship" with this woman, broke our "embrace" in the middle of the room to let her pass. As she passed me she bowed her head and mumbled an "excuse me" and gave me a slight apologetic grimace. I'm not sure if the apologizing grimace was for not offering me the job after all she put me through during the interview process, or for breaking up the reunion between me and my former boss.

I had another fleeting thought. "Wouldn't it be funny to introduce these two women? After all, they have a lot in common, they both held my future in their hands, and they both rejected me for employment, they both broke my dreams...so, yeah, really, they should get along really well. And it would add the icing on this many-layered cake of weirdness."

Instead the woman who interviewed/rejected me left for her exam and my former boss, our "moment" interrupted and over, went into a changing room and I took the vacated chair left by the woman who interviewed/rejected me.

Then, finally, finally, I found out why "my" changing room was occupied for so long. And of course the reason made me feel like a total callous bitch. A fully clothed middle-aged woman emerged with a be-gowned elderly woman walking with two canes. Crap. I'm an intolerant, impatient, horrible shrew of a human being and I'm going to rot in Hell.

Or, more likely, I'm already in Hell.

*Sorry God*

I sprinted into that changing room so fast I'm sure I left a contrail. I jumped into my clothes and hoped to be out of there before my boss, who was always kind of a slow-paced lumbering lunk, emerged from her changing room.

It was then, and only then, I remembered what I wore to this exam. It was an early morning appointment so I'd just thrown on the t-shirt on top of the pile and a pair of something that could pass for pants but as close to sweats as possible, and the comfiest sneakers I own. Which amounted to: A four-year-old pair of trainers with a lot of miles on them, loose fitting baggy crotched yoga pants, and a Spinal Tap t-shirt that's at least 15 years old and looks every day of that age. Oh. And a jean jacket that doesn't quite fit right anymore. Okay, normally this wouldn't be a big deal, right? Home, bus, exam place, bus, home.

Had I known I was going to run into the woman who recently interviewed/rejected me and/or my former boss I would have worn something more, oh, I don't know, professional? Or, well, something, anything, that doesn't make me look like I've been unemployed for two years. I mean, at least I bothered to take a shower and wear some makeup. Because, you know, I didn't want to scare the other passengers on the bus. (You know you've made perhaps at least a couple bad life choices when you reach the point that the only reason you take a shower and wear makeup is because you don't want to scare bus riders.) But hey, at least it was just my former boss who saw me in my schlumpy clothes, not my would-be boss who interviewed/rejected me, right? That's all that really matters, right? Who cares what my former boss thinks, right? Right.

I wasn't quite swift enough to beat my former boss out of the changing rooms, and so, there I was, in a pair of schlumpy baggy crotched old yoga pants, ratty worn out sneakers and a Spinal Tap shirt, running smack into my former boss who was now half naked and wearing an exam gown, standing up because the elderly handicapped woman took the only vacant chair. I was way too close in proximity to my former boss. Overlapping personal space close. Crap. Can I just get out of this inner circle of Hell? Please, can I just get out of this place? I pulled away from my former boss, smiled, again, and said, "Good to see you" and left.

As I left the antechamber and headed out to the hall to the exit, I nearly ran smack into the woman who interviewed/rejected me. She was standing in front of an exam room, apparently waiting for her exam.

Of course.

So much for avoiding her seeing me in my craptastic baggy crotched yoga pants, ratty sneakers and ages-old Spinal Tap t-shirt. And ill-fitting jean jacket. And so much for any chance of her calling me for any other job opening she might have in the future.

Closure. At least I have closure.

And that, my friends, is the sitcom plot device of ironic madcap hilarity.

*And spare me the hopeful pabulum about Obamacare. From what I understand based on a few conversations with my doctor and my mother's doctor, the Healthcare Reform Act doesn't reform this aspect of healthcare. The same "if you have to ask, you can't afford it" attitude will continue because the reform does not include reforming patients' rights to know their cost, with or without insurance, prior to making the appointment or even prior to receiving treatment.

2011-09-29T10:44:00.006-05:00

I have this idea. And I trust your opinion. So I'm running it by you.

Picture this:
Seven or eight or eleven laid-off professionals who have run out of financial resources and lost their homes live together in a McMansion that's bank-owned. The individuals are followed as they try to find: jobs, food, healthcare, etc. on only the limited (or no) financial resources they bring with them. The only thing they're given is a place to live. Internet connection, food, utilities (including phone) are not included, they have to sort those things out for themselves, either individually or as a group, that's up to them to decide. So yes, it's possible the show could be filmed in a completely dark house if they can't pay their electric bill. (Which could be kinda funny, the production crew would have to use a generator to power their equipment.*) The only way to be "eliminated" is by securing a full-time job. If/once a house member gets a paycheck from a full-time job they have to either leave the house or a portion of their paycheck is "shared" among the other house members for shared expenses like the aforementioned utilities. If a housemember gets a job and chooses to leave, they'll be replaced by another laid-off professional.

Working titles: Harsh Reality
This is the Real World, Baby
Shelter Me
Darwin House

Would you tune in and watch it every week?

I know, I know, reality TV is (thankfully, finally) dying.

But this is more of a documentary mixed with aspects of the more successful "reality" shows like Big Brother, Survivor, The Apprentice, Amazing Race and insert cooking/designing skills challenge show here.

Yes. This is somewhat self-serving because I need a job and place to live, and creating this show and/or being one of the house members would solve a couple of my immediate and pressing issues. And yes, that's what spawned the idea.

But. The more I think about it, the more I think it might actually be a good idea. It's a relatively low budget investment for any network, heck, PBS could do it. For the low, low price of working a leasing deal with a bank on a foreclosed home (of which there are millions all over the country) (or, better still, someone with a foreclosed or negative equity home could donate it and get the charitable tax donation credit) and a production crew, a network has a gripping, very real reality show. It would be the antithesis of the Kardashians, which, I think, would have huge appeal to anyone over the age of 22.

Why would any network want to gamble on this? Well, for starters, a little tax shelter called 501(c) status, for a start. Oh yes, charity. A) They're helping keep down neighborhood blight by leasing (or heck, even buying) a foreclosed home; B) They're helping the economy by taking one foreclosed property off the bank dole; C) And not least, they're giving unemployed homeless people a place to live. So it's not just a homeless shelter, it's a tax shelter! (Hence the possible title Shelter Me.)

And D) There are opportunities for some of the warmest, fuzziest moments on television. Yes, there's an uncomfortable schadenfreude morose aspect (okay, a lot of uncomfortable morose schadenfreude aspects), but there are loads of opportunities for "triumph of the human spirit" moments, too. Imagine the moment an unemployed mother whose children have been separated and are living with far-away relatives lands a job which will pay her enough to provide and care for herself and the kids and she reunites her family. Imagine an unemployed middle manager who's handy with gardening organizing a garden and the unemployed sales rep taking the produce from that garden and selling it at a farmer's market, with help from the unemployed marketing person. Imagine an unemployed copy editor helping an unemployed systems analyst rework his resume so it reads more approachable and showcases a broader skill set. Awwwww, working together. Isn't that adorable?! How resourceful people can be when they get creative and work together! We can all learn from these people!

And better still, imagine the moment a laid-off teacher with a background in special needs education finally lands a new job teaching autistic children. Imagine the moment the former call-center manager who was laid -off due to foreign outsourcing two years before her retirement gets a call with a job offer to manage a customer service department. Imagine that systems analyst discovering a new career path in CAD software design. Heck, maybe they'll network amongst themselves and use each others' resources to find jobs - that laid-off teacher may have a sister in advertising who knows about a job opportunity for the marketing professional. We hear a lot about networking, and that it's who, not what, you know that lands jobs. Maybe this could showcase whether or not that's true or even a factor.

Yes, yes, I know. Those glorious success moments will be few and far between. There will be far more disappointing moments when the housemembers receive the news they didn't get a job they interviewed for three times. The rejection moments will far outnumber the rejoice moments. But. That's reality. (Wanna see my spreadsheet detailing over 2,000 job applications/interviews and subsequent rejection?) There will be some issues and behaviors people who've never been unemployed for more than a few weeks won't understand. It will be uncomfortable to watch. Like depression behaviors such as prolonged sleeping and/or sleeplessness; like crying jags; like weight gain and weight loss; like sudden development of health issues such as migraines, stomach ulcers, high blood pressure and dental issues stemming from teeth grinding while sleeping; like the matter-of-fact way suicide is mentioned as a solution; like the profound isolation from society that occurs when you have no job and no money; like the obvious slow evaporation of the soul and transformation into a passionless hollow shell. Yeah. It's not pretty. But what I've come to realize and (unfortunately) understand and accept, is that the cliché is true: Unless you've gone through it you do not have a clue what it's like. You can imagine that it's awful, you can sympathize, but until you go through it the depth and range of issues and emotions are beyond comprehension. I would not wish it on anyone, and I mean anyone. Which is why I think it's important to spend time beyond the 5 minute newsbites and online forums to showcase what it's really like to be laid-off and homeless, let people observe and learn about the many (many) facets that aren't showcased.

And that also includes what happens when you do finally get a job. Finally being hired after prolonged unemployment is, of course, a triumph. But. You have lost your home and all of your financial resources...and you have horrible credit. And when you apply for anything - an apartment lease, utilities, a cell phone, a car loan, to name a few - the first questions are "current address/length at address" and "current employer/length of employment." When you have been homeless and unemployed those questions become huge hurdles. Throw in your social security number for a credit check that shows a bankruptcy, foreclosure and a lack of income for over a year and you've got some serious hurdles to overcome. You have a job, and that's great, but, you have to live somewhere and get to and from that job and with only a couple paychecks under your belt that can impossible. Which is why I included the option for people to stay in the house after they land jobs. Getting back on their feet will take a while. Having a place to live until they have a few months of current employment and a current address to show for themselves can make a huge difference for someone trying to start over after a prolonged lay-off. See? This wouldn't just showcase desperation and poverty, it offers viable solutions to challenges unemployed people face when they finally do land a job.

It can offer insight into some complex emotions. When a housemember gets job offer, the others will react in different ways. Some will view as hope for the rest and will be happy and share in the joy of triumph. Some will see it as proof of God and His love. Some will be resentful. (They hired him? Really?) Some will vent passive aggression. (Gee, that's great. Really. That's just great.) Some will fall further into depression. (Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, always the second choice never the hired.) It could be interesting to see if these reactions mirror their reactions to other issues, and if so, it could offer helpful insight to individuals. It will also show not only how some people are more resilient than others, but offer insight as to why some people are more resilient than others, even with the same problem and same odds stacked against them. You know, like LOST. (You're starting to realize I may be really onto something here, aren't you.)

And, of course, there are many opportunities for the ever-popular clash and standoff moments. A housemember isn't sharing or contributing. Someone gets sick and can't afford to see a doctor and infects everyone in the house with strep throat. A housemember has a car but won't volunteer to drive a transportationless housemember to a job interview. It's discovered a housemember has a drinking problem and is hiding booze and drinking themselves to sleep every night. A housemember gets a weekly care package from an aunt and hides and hoards Ramen Noodles and Twizzlers (ahem).

I know, I know!!! I cannot believe no one's jumped on this treasure trove of television opportunity! Whenever I think about all the aspects of this I think, "Geeze, Trillian, you're either effing brilliant or you're really stupid for not seeing an obvious reason no one is doing this."

It's also an opportunity for truly real reality. Very in-the-moment topical real reality. The house members aren't wannabe actors. They're not vying for cash prizes or a spouse. They're trying to find real jobs so they can get back to living their normal lives that were rudely interrupted and shattered by a company downsizing or outsourcing. They're not given anything other than a roof over their heads, so they have to do something, figure out a way to eat and pay utilities and transportation, it's not "hey, come live here in this luxury home/hotel with all expenses paid and then have sex and fight with the other housemembers!" It's "here's a roof over your head, a little nicer than your local homeless shelter, but no food, booze, utilities, maid service, healthcare, transportation or anything else will be provided, and in return we get to film you while you're in the house and watch as you figure out how to eat and cover living expenses and transportation, etc., and we'd like it if you bear your soul once in a while."

Another possibility is to have three Darwin Houses in different parts of the country. Again, not a big expense and very easy since there's virtually no part of the country that doesn't have foreclosed homes and unemployed people. This would compare and contrast the job market and homelessness issues in different regions. (For instance, in Chicago the heating bill would be a major challenge for the housemembers.) This would also broaden the scope of the housemembers which would provide more demographics, hence more opportunities for home viewers to relate to a particular housemember.

And, dreaming really big for a moment, if this television experiment works then there's a real chance it could be put into action in communities all over the country. Use those foreclosed or negative equity homes to help the unemployed rather than just let them sit there or be auctioned to profiteers hoping to turn them into rental income. And of course give laid-off, homeless people a place to live and a new network of living resources. They can share resources. At the very least they'll be less isolated which is a huge factor in suicide. Unemployment half-way houses, if you will.

I ran it by a couple of my friends to mixed reaction. One thinks it's too depressing, "people don't want to be confronted with that kind of reality. People watch TV to be entertained, to take their minds off problems like that." The other thought it might make for a better two or three part actual documentary about several unemployed people. Catching those harsh reality moments that happen before arriving at the Darwin House, like when their cars were repossessed or when sheriff comes to padlock their house might better showcase the intended issues. (I agree, there's a lot of griping melodrama to be had in the backstories, and maybe there's a way to combine them.)

That focus group is kind small and maybe not comprised of a good representative sampling of viewers, hence my request for your opinion. I'm looking to broaden my focus group before I work up an actual pitch.

*(Which is the one aspect of reality TV that interests me, the production/camera crew and what they endure to capture those reality TV moments. I've always thought a show about a reality show production crew would make for good TV.)

2011-09-27T21:56:00.000-05:00

*Sorry 'bout that.*

Not feeling well. Unemployed. All that.

*Sorry.*

It'll be okay. I'll be okay.

Time for a long overdue Viking Kitten interlude.

Which reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask the Universe. Does anyone else's iPod song announcer guy say Led Zeppelin in a French accent? Not en Français, just in a French accent. He doesn't say, "Led Zeppelin, Chien Noir," he says, "Led Zeppelin, Black Dog" in English but with a heavy cliché French accent. If so, any theories as to why? (I long ago stopped wondering why a chick with a rather cliché stern German announces Norah Jones. I just accept it.)

2011-09-26T15:38:00.005-05:00

a) Blogger is annoying the crap out of me by requesting my phone number every time I log in. Blogger, I have been logging in and using you for a very, very long time. Because you have the cache of posts organized by date, you know this. Unless I have some sort of extreme memory wiping ailment in my gray matter, my account is not in danger due to my cognitive recall ability to login. (And in the event I do suffer some sort of extreme memory wiping ailment that alters my cognitive recall ability I really should not be blogging. So please stop bugging me for my phone number.) Blogger, you're behaving like some needy, desperate, self-unaware jerk at a bar who keeps pestering a girl who is clearly not interested in you for her phone number or email. And like that needy, desperate, self-unaware jerk at the bar, you already bugged me about friending you on Facebook and that nice, polite girl quietly evaded your request leaving your dignity intact. I am that nice, polite girl at the bar who's there to socialize with a friend over drinks and is not interested in hooking up or being friends with benefits and is trying to help you maintain a shred of your dignity by politely ignoring your phone number requests. But it's becoming more clear that you're not going to stop pestering her and so, pushed to her limits, she's about to go off on you in a "leave me alone you moronic creep, I'm not interested and I will never, ever give you my phone number" tirade that may or may not include profanity and loud character assassination.

b) Hi, how are you?

So, I got really hammered a couple nights ago. I haven't done that for ages. Years. The thing I kinda forgot about getting hammered beyond cognizance is that sometimes you do things you would not normally do and worse, you only vaguely recall doing those things when you sober up.

Yes. I desperately needed to let off a lot of steam. This pot is combusting to the point of boiling over, heading toward core meltdown. Releasing some condensation might be the only way to save the core.

But. Alcohol never solves anything. It temporarily alters reality and numbs pain. But it never solves anything. I know this.

And. I didn't mean to get hammered. But that toxic combination of very little food ingested and a friend with a "Plus One" invite to an open bar party snagged me in its net.

Because you're reading this blog it's probably safe to assume you have "been there" at least once. I know, I know, assume makes an ass of u and me. I know. But. If you're reading this blog it's probably safe to assume that at least once in your life you've been accidentally or intentionally hammered.

So, yeah. That happened. Cripes.

I spent the next day remembering why I don't drink to oblivion. Man, those hangovers get more painful as you get older.

Although. From what I recall I had a pretty darned good time letting off that steam. My core reactor may be in eminent danger of meltdown, and the panic sirens are blaring, but, that doesn't diminish all the good things I'm capable of when things are running efficiently.

Over the past few years, especially since I was laid off, due mainly to budgetary constraints, I have not "done" much of anything. Friends have been great at getting me out - free concert tickets, a few classes, a dinner and movie out, occasional drinks - and that has been greatly, greatly appreciated. But. There's an omnipresent entity that envelopes me all the time. It has me shackled and even though it let's some slack on the lease now and then, I'm still tethered. I'm not free to be me. Try as I might, as optimistic as I have forced myself to remain, being unemployed and not finding a source of steady income and facing homelessness and the huge hurdles I will have to jump to get back on my feet if I do ever find a job, colors every thought, every movement, everything I do or think. I force myself to counter every negative or scary thought/aspect with at least one that is equally positive. But. It's not easy.

A few weeks ago I saw a friend I have not seen in over a year. She's the kind of friend who is honest. Tactfully honest, offering solutions instead of empty criticism, but very, very honest.

I smiled my "please don't worry about me, I'll be okay, really, I'm fine" smile. The one I was pretty sure I had practiced to perfection. I rarely get compliments on my looks. However. The one constant thing people, friends and strangers alike, compliment me on is my smile. Friends, family, people who know me, remark that I'm one of those people who has a sincerely warm smile that puts everyone at ease. And I think that's true to certain extent. I don't go around grinning all the time. I'm not really sure what my natural expression is or conveys, but it's not smiley gal. However. If I meet someone, or thank someone, I do it with a smile and that is a sincere smile. "Hi," "Nice to meet you," "Hi, how are you?" "Thank you!" elicit a smile from me. I'm sincere, genuine, as is the smile, I am truly happy or pleased or content to be interacting. So yeah, I guess my smile is generally warm, inviting, or at least genuine. Strangers - cashiers, bus drivers, bartenders - who otherwise dismiss me in passing will sometimes pause for a second and say, "You have a beautiful/nice smile." I think perhaps they are picking up on what my friends and family say - there's a warm sincerity in my smile, a safe place.

I have been resting on my smile laurel for the past two years, counting on that smile to cover for me, create the illusion, the façade that I'm okay. If I can smile, that warm, sincere smile, then maybe no one will worry about me.

Because that's the worst part about unemployment for me. I don't want to be a source of concern. I don't want to add another facet of worry in my family and friend's already stressed lives.

So I smile through a lot of conversations. My family and friends know I'm struggling. They know I'm in a very, very bad situation. They know I'm hurting. They know the financial aspects are only the tip of a huge iceberg of anguish.* No one has to discuss any of it, it's so obvious it goes without saying. So I don't say much of anything about it.

My honest friend, though, she didn't buy it. "Don't you dare sit there and smile at me as if nothing's wrong. I know you. I know your smile. There's barely a drop of sincerity in that smile you're trying to pass off as normal so don't bother trying to fake it with me."

At this point I had to give her far higher marks for perception than I have in the past. I've always thought she was a tad too self-involved, okay a lot too self-involved, to pick up on non-verbal cues. She's also led a very charmed life and lacks the depth of understanding one acquires through struggle, loneliness and hard work. That doesn't mean she doesn't have the capacity to care, she's not apathetic, but, she has absolutely zero experience in worrying about being alone, homeless, penniless and directionless.

If she notices something "off" in my smile, of all things, then I'm in far worse shape than I realized.

Complete, utter, soul and gut wrenching breakdown in 3-2-1.

Yeah. That was pretty bad.

Definitely the worst one yet. Because if I can't fool anyone with my smile then I can no longer fool myself that staying positive will make it bearable. Not okay, but bearable.

But now I'm pretty sure I've reached the point that it's not bearable. I'm struggling too much, drowning, really, and there's no one there to see, so there's no one there to help, or even call for help. For a while I've been pondering this take on the "If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one there to see or hear, did it really fall?" philosophy. If a single, childless woman loses her job and home, and there's no one there to notice or care, does she really matter?

I can't come up with reasons why she would matter.

The God people will jump all over this. "Of course she matters, everyone matters, God cares, Jesus cares." Save it for Sunday, God people. Facts and practical reality are what matter on this mortal coil.**

I have no husband or life-partner to help share the emotional burden. I have no children to find joy in, or the need to survive and conquer for their sake.

When I realized men, dating, marriage, and children were not in my cards and I turned off that part of my brain and put myself on the shelf, the plan was to focus on deriving passion, support and self-worth from my career and building a home and financial assets that would allow me to adopt or foster parent some children who, like me, drew the short stick in finding a loving family and home of their own.

And lots of people derive passion, support and self-worth from their careers. And my career has always been important to me, with or without a husband and/or children my plans always included a career, doing something or somethings beyond being a wife and mother. So for me letting go of the hope of a committed relationship was probably "easier" than it is for people who haven't always had career desires and ambitions.

Right. Long way to say that without my career I don't have an emotional outlet in which to channel my passion. Without a job I don't have money to pay my mortgage, let alone save the required financial security adoption agencies and social workers require of single would-be parents. And at this point it will take me years to dig out and re-establish myself, my credit...it's not starting over. Starting over would mean having no credit and no foreclosure. I triple dog dare you to try to get: A credit card, car loan, apartment lease, utilities, cell phone... with bad credit due to an extended job loss. And a mortgage? Please. Not in what remains of my lifetime.

So my Plans B, C and D are gone.

When the smile can no longer fool anyone, it's time to admit defeat.

I admitted defeat.

And got completely, utterly, obliteratedly hammered. I'd like to say I woke up in a stranger's bed but, come on, this is me. That would require someone equally drunk enough to have sex with me, and if a guy is drunk enough to have sex with me, he's not going to be able to, um, perform. And that's okay. I'm okay with that. I've made peace with asexuality. Or, well, I've accepted it. Working toward peace.

I'd like to say at the height of my intoxication I had some moment of insight and enlightenment. Unless there's something deeper in the act of stumbling into concert hall where an '80s band is playing and dancing with a bunch of middle-aged gay men than I realize, well, not so much. (Although there is a poignant "et tu, Trillian, et tu?" aspect to that.) However, apparently I did impress some people at a bar post-concert. My friends told me I had a bunch of people in tears laughing over my confession to being bad at the '80s. ("I didn't own a Swatch watch, never watched Dallas or Dynasty, hated Duran Duran, never wore acid-washed or designer anything and didn't make a crapload of money.") So, you know, at least I'm a happy drunk. And for a few moments, there, I let go of Now Me and let Old Me have some fun and I remembered that I am capable of having fun, that there's more to me than unemployment and homelessness...and failure. So, you know, that was good. Not insightful, but good.

I'd like to say I met some other people drinking to forget. I did meet some people, and from what I recall they were nice. But I don't recall their names and couldn't pick them out of a lineup. The friends I was drinking with were also quite drunk, but less drunk enough that we got home safely. And less drunk enough that they remember some of what we did, where we went and how we got home. So. You know, there's something to be said for that. I have friends I can trust to take care of me should I get hammered beyond cognizance. That's no small thing. I am grateful for them.

And I'd like to say that in my hungover reverie I vowed that this is the low point and from here on out it's all up, up, up! But truly, unless someone hires me this week there's nowhere to go but down. I've worked all the angles, tried everything I (and a pretty darned savvy team of family and friends) can brainstorm. The pain of the hangover only served to make me feel as bad physically as I do emotionally. A form of cutting, perhaps? Trying to salve the emotional pain with physical pain? Well, that wasn't the intended plan. And the pain of the hangover didn't really overshadow the emotional pain. So, intentionally or otherwise, we can rule out deep psychological compensation techniques.

I'm out of options.

So, that whole getting hammered beyond cognizance was a last hurrah, a few hours of relief from the past two years of all-consuming anxiety. I'm not proud of diving into the bottle, or several bottles. It's not a healthy coping technique. But let me be very clear: I am not crutching on alcohol. In fact, in the past two years I've consumed very little alcohol, almost none. Which was probably a factor in how drunk I got, and how quickly I got that way.

I'm sharing all of this for one reason: You can gain insight from me. Judge me, that's okay, I can take it. Really. There's nothing you can say to or about me that I haven't already thought or said about myself. I am very, very self-aware. However. Before you judge someone else, remember that there may be a lot you don't understand or realize about them. Their smile may be warm and sincere, but it may be a front, hiding a lot of anxiety and pain. They may be drunk to the point of obnoxious stupidity, but they may also be in desperate need of a few hours of emotional relief, venting some steam before the core melts down.

*Iceberg of Anguish = fantastic emo band name.
**This Mortal Coil - fantastic band name...oh wait...4AD beat me to that, speaking of the '80s.

2011-09-20T16:02:00.003-05:00

Dear Reed,

I messed up. I owe you an explanation.

It is clear from your email this week that you felt I lacked insight and clarity in the way I announced the separation of my credit card and Netflix and the price changes. That was certainly not my intent, and I offer my sincere apology. Let me explain what I am doing.

For the past two years, my greatest fear has been that I wouldn't make the leap from unemployment to career success. Most people who are great at something – like marketing or design – do not become great at new things people want (overcoming the competition of 14 million+ other unemployed people for me). So I moved quickly into canceling my account, but I should have personally given you a full explanation of why I am canceling your services and thereby decreasing your profit. It wouldn’t have changed the your profit margin, but it would have been the right thing to do.

So here is what I am doing and why.

Many members love your DVD service, as I do, because nearly every movie ever made is published on DVD. DVD is a great option for those of us who want the huge and comprehensive selection of movies.

I also love your streaming service because my laptop and internet connection are the only things I haven’t sold, and I can watch anytime I want, which is nice because I have a lot of sleepless nights what with the joblessness and all. The benefits of your streaming service are really quite different from the benefits of DVD by mail. I need to focus on saving what little money I have for food and shelter, without continuing your DVD by mail service.

As an unemployed marketing professional I realize that streaming and DVD by mail are really becoming two different businesses, with very different cost structures, that need to be marketed differently, but I need to let each go and find ways to entertain myself independently of DVDs and streaming movies.

It’s hard to write this after over 8 years of receiving DVDs with pride, but I think it is necessary: In a few weeks, your renamed DVD by mail service, “Qwikster,” will be moot to me because I will not have a mailbox to receive DVDs or any other type of delivery. I choose the name Givaratsasster because it refers to my sentiments regarding your new mail delivery service name and how little I care what you do with the name “Netflix.”

I really don’t care that Givearatsasster will be the same website and DVD service that everyone is used to. It is just a new name, and people who have jobs with incomes that allow them to rent movies will somehow find a way to carry on and choose movies. And for those people, the improvement you will make at launch to add a video games upgrade option, similar to your upgrade option for Blu-ray, will be nice for the few who can afford a Wii, PS3 and Xbox 360. I’m sure members have been asking for video games for many years, and you have ignored this demographic, but now that DVD by mail has its own team (and the economy is so bad that people are pawning or selling their kids’ game stations), you are finally getting it done. Other improvements will follow. Yay you. The fact that the Qwikster.com and Netflix.com websites will not be integrated is of no significance or consequence to me.

It’s great that there are no pricing changes (and that you’re done with that!) but I cannot afford to subscribe to either service because I have no money to pay a credit card bill, even though the total will be the same as my current charges. Don’t bother to let me know when the Qwikster.com website is up and ready because by that time I will be homeless.

For me the Netflix red envelope has always been a source of joy. I’m glad the new envelope is still that lovely red, because it reminds me of all the red ink in my personal budget and that DVDs are just one more thing I can no longer afford. I know that reality won’t matter over time, but still, it is hard. I imagine it will be similar for many of your other unemployed members.

I want to acknowledge and thank you for the years of fast, affordable entertainment, and to apologize again to you, I’m sorry you felt I treated you thoughtlessly.

It’s nice that both the Qwikster and Netflix teams will work hard to regain my trust but trust isn’t the issue. Joblessness is the financial blight. Money speaks louder than words. And declined credit card transactions help people to understand why millions of unemployed people are canceling their Netlix/Givearatsasster accounts.

Respectfully yours,

-Trillian, former member, Netflix

p.s. I have a slightly shorter explanation: movies are a luxury I can no longer afford - regardless of the viewing format.

2011-09-02T00:25:00.006-05:00

There's a popular theme on blogs that I refuse to succumb. Okay, there are a lot of popular themes on blogs. Most are kind of trite devices, thoughtful, but just sort of, well, overdone. And that would be okay if it weren't for the fact that the authors seem to feel they are the originator of the theme/device. I don't think it's my job to tell them they're cliché. But. They're cliché. I know. There are a lot of so-overused-it's-cliché themes floating around, especially in the the Blogosphere. (That's an ironic joke, I know Blogosphere is overused and cliché. Spare me the email.) The trite, overused device to which I am referring started, I suspect, with Back to the Future or Mitch Albom or Bill Bryson or that "Last Lecture" guy. Yeah. That sounds about right.

You know the one. "If I could go back in time and talk to 7th grade/10th grade/14-year-old/college freshman me, I would tell me ____________."

I know. I can see your eyes rolling and hear the weary sigh. I know. Trust me, I know.

Maintain that attitude. Keep it clearly in focus.

It's back to school time. I used to love back to school. Because I was a dork and I loved school. Well. I loved the education process, the learning part of school. The social aspects...not so much. Nonetheless, I always get a little misty-eyed this time of year when the displays of Crayolas and folders and #2 pencils and protractors hit the store aisles. I hear a little voice in my head whining, "I wanna go back to school! I want a new protractor and a folder with an illustration of kittens on it and can I have the box of 64 crayons please pretty please?" New school years and new school supplies hold so much promise. Who wouldn't miss that annual opportunity to feel that back-to-school-with-new-supplies feeling?!

The sorting, purging and otherwise disseminating of stuff from my parents' house continues. It's sort of an ongoing saga. But. We're making progress. Still, stuff keeps appearing from nooks and crannies. I thought all the photos surely must have been unearthed, sorted and divvied up amongst the subjects of the photos. But, nope, my mother found an envelope recently, aptly timed. The contents of which struck fear in my heart. And probably will in yours, too.

Yep. I'm betting I can strike fear in your heart with two words.

School. Photos.

I think there's a rule that school photos have to bring out the worst in kids. And I'm not just talking about me. I know some pretty darned adorable kids who look absolutely horrific in their school photos.

Even parents hate these stupid photos. My mother gave them such little cred that she kept them filed away brown envelopes so as not to get them entwined with the "real" photos. Until I was about 6-and-a-half I was actually kind of cute. You know, in that generic little girl way that most little kids are cute. I'm not saying it wouldn't have been impossible to take a bad photo of me, but, you would have to work a little harder to take a bad photo of me. So the school photographer who snapped the shots of me those first couple years of school deserves some kind of credit for managing to make a mostly normal looking little girl look like a) she just got out of a long, difficult stint in a chemo ward and b) just had her first taste of Mountain Dew. Yes. I look sick and crazed. And that's just the 6-year-old school photo. They get progressively worse.

I knew better than to stroll down that particular memory lane. I try really hard to choose to dwell on the positive aspects of my school years. I had some outstanding teachers. I learned a lot. I read some great books.

But school photos...there's no escaping the reality in those horrible photos.

The one positive thing about those horrible school photos is that they unify us. They are a great equalizer. We all have horrific school photos. Even the cool kids, the cute girls, the jock boys...no one escapes the tainted view from the school photo camera lens.

When I was in high school I wrote a short story about school photos. (I know this because I found it a few months ago amongst a folder full of essays I wrote in high school. I think my parents were keeping them in case they ever needed evidence to give the authorities.) It's not great literature, but it's not bad, either. Not surprisingly, I was clearly watching a lot of Night Gallery reruns at the time I wrote the story. The gist of the story is that the cameras they use for school photos are specially built for the purpose of school photos. They have a "truth-telling, soul-baring" lens that, through a complicated system of thermography and retina polygraphology (little did I know what the future held for retina scans...) the lens snaps the photo at the precise ultramillisecond that the kid feels insecure or anxious, thus producing those horrible school photos. And the school photographers are actually secret agents working for a secret bureau of the government working to make sure students are humiliated at least once per school year. The only way to ensure this happens is to take really crappy photos of every student. Crappy photos that expose the inner demons of the children. The cameras expose the ugly truths about the kids and then even the most popular kids suffer a small setback in their self-esteem in the form of a school photo.

Of all the craptacular school photos the junior high school years are universally agreed to be the worst of the worst. I've heard that school photos are "better" these days, what with PhotoShop and digital cameras and decent lighting, but I dunno. It would take some serious PhotoShopping to hide the horror of the junior high school years. And even if they are better, I wonder if better is really a good thing. The one thing everyone has in common with everyone else is: Horrible, laughable, atrocious junior high school school photographs.

Usually taken in a make-shift studio set up at one end of the cafeteria, you can smell the peas and mashed potatoes from a box wafting in the atmosphere of the school photos. Even in the happiest, smiliest, cutest junior high school school photos you can cut the pubescent social tension with a plastic knife. Throw in bad haircuts (styling and styling products are still a mystery at that age), teeth in flux - either mid or pre-orthodontia, not-a-girl/boy-yet-not-a-woman/man bodies awkwardly clothed in garments that are either too young (from the kids' department) or too old (from the junior/young mens department) for junior high school and you have a recipe for photo disaster. But we all share that same disaster. I also came across a year book from my junior high school. Even the popular girls, the pretty ones, the cute ones, even those girls' junior high school photos were awful. I know some of those girls were truly pretty in real life, a few were even in the beautiful range and that's not just my skewed memory. I went to school with some kids who were the recipients of some good DNA. But looking at their junior high school photos...well...I could never prove their good DNA to you.

You're thinking about your junior high school photos now, aren't you? It's okay. They're all bad. Truly. And that's a good thing. It's a humbling thing we all share. In my high school short story I called it The Humiliator. Those photos keep egos in check. No matter how pretty or successful you end up in life, there is a junior high school photo to keep you humble. I alluded to a book I'd recently read, The Picture of Dorian Gray. (Teachers like it when you allude to books or lessons you previously studied. It makes them feel proud and worthwhile and almost always scores extra credit.) Unlike the picture of Dorian Gray, these photos don't age. But like the picture of Dorian Gray, they provoke a lot of anxiety when viewed by the subject as they travel through their life. (If there were any lingering doubts as to why I didn't have a boyfriend or go to prom in high school that last paragraph banished them.)

So, yeah. That envelope of school photos. Ugh. Mine are awful. Really and truly awful. My 14-year-old school photo is far and above the worst of my school photo repertoire.

And here comes the cliché theme: If I could go back in time and tell that gangly, dorky, orthodontiaed girl 14-year-old girl in the photo something, what would I say?

That girl still believes, fervently, that good grades and a nice personality matter. That girl honestly believes that none of the stupid stuff that happens at school matters. She thinks college will be great (okay, she was right about that) and getting a good education will pave the way to a successful career and once she's out of school men, not boys, will appreciate her intelligence and humor and sincerity and career success.

Do I sit her down and tell her the truth? That right there, at 14-years-old, braces on her teeth, a couple errant curls that she hasn't figured out how to tame (this was the mousse era, so, give her a pass on not knowing about proper styling products), a gangly 5'11" body and a smartass response to any question posed to her, that she's wrong? That even though college will be great, she's absolutely dead wrong about the rest of it?

Do I tell her that she'll never really learn how to clothe her 5'11" worth of arms and legs, and worse, somewhere around her 18th birthday she's going to wake up with suddenly enormous boobs that will further complicate her wardrobe issues? And do I try to warn her that those boobs will garner attention from boys...boys who will objectify her and care only about her tits?

Do I tell her to stop watching NOVA and endless reruns of The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau and The Twilight Zone and The Muppet Show and Dr. Who because it's solidifying her dork status? (Or that the very fact that she has a "favorite doctor" is disturbing for reasons far beyond the salacious surface ones? (Shout out to the geeks who know that to which I am referring.)) Do I tell her the nickname her brother slapped on her will stick and thanks to a little BBC production of a Douglas Adams book she will be known outside the confines of her family and throughout the Universe as Trillian? (I'm pretty sure that would alternately humor and horrify that 14-year-old.)

Do I tell her there's some good music ahead, she has that to look forward to, but that there's a lot of crap music in the future, too? Do I tell her that somehow, some way, Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney and Steven Tyler are inexplicably still recording and touring all those years into the future? Do I tell her that very shortly a guy in Seattle is going to change her life and change the world and then break the world's heart when he kills himself? Do I tell her that in spite of how bizarre it sounds to her now, her parents really do have some fantastic albums and she should pay more attention to them because she's hearing some of the most phenomenal music ever recorded right there in her living room from her parents' embarrassingly out of style hi-fi?

Do I tell her to think less and put out more? Would she heed that advice? I kinda doubt it. Do I tell her that tequila is not her drink and to avoid it at all cost and steer her toward vodka, thus sparing her some painful hangovers and a really bad grade on her Business Finance 202 mid-term exam? Would she take that advice? I kinda doubt it. At 14 she's not aware of the wonders of alcohol or the desire to numb the mind and hence to imbibe. "Mindnumbing? Why would I want to numb my mind?" she'd say. Remember, she honestly believes The Future is going to be okay so she can't conceive of a reason why she'd want to escape it, what with that man who loves her for her personality and that great career and everything.

Do I tell her that, yes, she falls in love but gets left almost at the altar? And that yes, she has a career and then loses it and spends 2 years unable to secure employment of any kind? And that she will learn that tequila is not her drink but there are plenty of solid reasons why she wants to numb her mind into oblivion by any means possible?

Most people ponder going back and telling their younger self that it'll all be okay. That they turn out okay. That the future isn't great, but it's not awful, either.

But what if the future is awful? Would you, should you, tell your younger self that their future sucks? I suspect most people are saying, "Yes!!! I need to warn younger me so that they can change things, make a different, better future!!!"

I thought so, too. Until I looked at that horrible school photo. The only thing that girl has going for her is idealism and hope.

She's very aware. She knows she's a dork. But she's okay with that. She's purposely using this time to do the things she enjoys because she doesn't care about impressing the kids at school or being popular. In a few short years this will all be over and she'll be in college and life will be a lot better. She knows being the only oboist in orchestra is not exactly making her Miss Popular and that flirtation with the cello isn't helping her cause. But she worked her fingers off getting to first chair clarinet so she could take up oboe, too, and she loves it and she sees the opportunity to learn cello as a gateway to a Stratocaster. She knows no teenager has any business reading Ulysses but mentioning James Joyce in reference to the Odyssey during college interviews could serve her well. Because she's heard metaphoring Homer in reference to the education journey impresses academic deans. And she's playing the game. And who knows? Maybe one day Ulysses will speak to her on more significant level and at least then she won't have to trudge through it again. She knows taking those AP classes isn't going to get her a date to prom, but she'd rather get into a good college with like-minded students for four years than go to a stupid prom for a few hours with a bunch of kids she doesn't identify with or even like. She knows being the president of Language Club Alliance and the closing argument debater on the Lit Wit team are nails in her peer acceptance coffin, but she's politicking her way into those positions of after school club power anyway, purposefully.

Do you really think a girl like that is going to listen to a woman like me? No. She will not. She has goals and is taking steps to achieve them. She's doing things the right way. So it'll all work out okay.

But even if she would listen to me and heed my advice, what's she going to change and how's she doing to change it? Quit band and stop studying and get a decent haircut? Marry the first guy she can trap and capture, regardless of...everything? Just grab a man, any man? Would that really change her life? Wouldn't she still be unfulfilled? Differently - for different reasons - but still unfulfilled nonetheless.

So no. I wouldn't go back in time and tell younger me anything. I want her to have hope and idealism and dreams and goals. Because I know that girl very well, and without those hopes, idealism, dreams and goals she'd be a teenage suicide statistic. And I don't want the parents of that 14-year-old girl to have to deal with that.

No. I wouldn't go back in time and tell younger me anything. I want her to enjoy her back-to-school feelings of giddy anticipation.

No. I wouldn't go back in time and tell younger me anything about the future.

I wouldn't believe me anyway.

2011-08-26T00:47:00.000-05:00

I get really sick of people assuming everyone from Detroit does crack and owns a gun. I try my best to laugh off the surprise/jokes/insults I get when I tell people I'm from Detroit.

Here are the top 3 responses I get when I tell people I'm from Detroit and/or Michigan:
"You're from Detroit? But, but, you're um, you're *white.*"
"You're from Detroit? Really? I never would have guessed that. You seem like such a nice girl."
"You're from Detroit? No way. You're way too intelligent and cultured. There's no way you can be from Detroit."

Men, especially, seem simultaneously repulsed and intrigued. I was recently at a drinking establishment in New York. I was seated at the bar with a few friends on my left and strangers on my right. The evening progressed, alcohol was consumed, lively banter ensued up and down the bar and with the aid of beer goggles the guy seated next to me started his "Hmmm, it's getting late and there aren't many choices left in here, I guess this one will do" pick-up routine and started to make small talk. Earlier my friends were ribbing me about the Red Wings and Tigers so he used that as his in.

"So, why the Red Wings and Tigers?"

"Because I'm from there."

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

(Silence is the fourth most common response I get to the the "I'm from Detroit" statement. People react much the way they do at a funeral. They assume you're suffering and feel bad for you and don't know what to say to make you feel better so instead of saying something that might offend or hurt you they say nothing, thinking an awkward silence is better than an awkward comment.)

Finally, after I thought he thought better of his flirtation he said,

"Detroit, wow. So do you own a gun?" He may have been joking but only partially. I've heard this enough to know that when someone asks this, even in jest, there's a tiny part of them that thinks it's possible that I own (or should own) a gun.

I gave him one of my usual responses:

"Detroit's in the Midwest, not the Wild West."

And that's when he thought better of his flirtation. He could have just turned on his bar stool and given his attention back to his friends or one of the other two women remaining in the bar.

But no.

Apparently I offended him. And he proceeded to have a go at me. A "that's what's wrong with women like you" kind of a go at me.

I really do not like statements that begin or end with "that's what's wrong with" and "women/people like you."

And I wasn't really interested in him, anyway. But. I wasn't out to have some guy I just met in a bar give me a 10 minute lecture on "what's wrong with women like me," either.

Okay, yes, I could have been less snarky. I could have been less defensive.

But then, he could have been less idiotic. He could have been less insulting.

He could have had a better sense of humor.

But, later, in the cab, my friend had a go at me, too. "Trillian, that's why you're single. That guy was interested in you until you were such a smartass to him. He tried to show you his sense of humor and you shot him down, one upped his joke and were a total condescending smartass back to him. No guy wants a woman who's going to be a smartass to him, and especially not a condescending smartass."

"I shot him down? With the gun I don't own."

"I get your sense of humor and I like it but I have the benefit of a lot of years of knowing your other qualities. The good ones."

"Thanks."

"You know what I mean. Don't change the topic. You need a man. You don't have to have a boyfriend or dates or whatever it is that you're refusing to do these days, but you need to spend some time with a man or men. This whole, 'up on the shelf' thing is not healthy. And the longer you avoid men, the worse your attitude toward them gets. You know men have itty bitty fragile egos that need stroking and massaging. They pride themselves on their sense of humor and you. You know that. So why didn't you just giggle off his stupid gun joke? How was he supposed to respond to your come back? You deflated his ego by not letting him be the funny one and left him with no options. The most he could have managed was a 'Touche' but it takes a big man to give a 'Touche' to a woman in a bar with a lot of other men around."

"I presume my ego you mean penis. And I don't think he was entirely joking about the gun."

"Ego, penis, same thing. You wouldn't make fun of or insult his penis so why did you make fun of his joke?"

"Well, now, see, this is why I'm single. I don't see the logic in that logic. And I don't want to play that game. I don't want to spend my life, or even a date or two, keeping my tongue on a leash. Yes, I could be more tactful, but, I'd still think the things I think and after a while I'd just be sitting there having silent conversations with myself because I'd be so afraid of wounding his ego. Penis. Or whatever. That cannot possibly be healthy. And if that's why I'm single, so be it. It's quite nice up here on the shelf. I don't have to worry about stroking egos. Or penises."

It was a silent cab ride after that.

I know my friend is right. But I also know I'm right, too.

If the guy's pick-up line/joke hadn't been a dig at Detroit, an all too familiar dig at Detroit, I would have given him a giggle, stroked his egopenis. But he did make a stupid (and all too familiar) joke about Detroit. And I wasn't interested, anyway. Because I really do like it up here on the shelf. The shelf where I don't have to worry about coddling a man's egopenis.

But.

Upon further contemplation I do realize there's a thin line between carefree and cynical, outspoken and snarky.

So.

Guy at the bar in New York: I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me. I've heard every Detroit stereotype there is and I'm weary of them, so, yes, I was little too quick on the defensive. I didn't mean to usurp your humor. I didn't mean to shoot you down. It was nice of you to offer me some of your attention and I should have been more appreciative. I'd like to say it was the booze talking - and yes, alcohol may have been a factor - but mostly it was just me being me. I'm actually a nice person. My friend who was with me that night said I have good qualities, she'll vouch for me. I've had a rough time of it lately and I guess I'm just kind of in a weird emotional place and didn't really think before I spoke. I'm sorry about that.

But.

For the record.

I don't own a gun. And I intend to go to my grave never having even held one. And I find it offensive that you, or anyone, would either presume or joke that I own a gun.

And there's nothing wrong with women like me.

2011-08-05T12:08:00.003-05:00

Is the antonym of schadenfreude jealousy/envy or compassion?

I say jealousy/envy: deriving anger/sorrow over someone else's success or good fortune. Wherein both conditions of schadenfreude are opposed.

However, as was pointed out to me, that's taking the double negative approach to the definition, opposing both the pleasure and misfortune conditions of schadenfreude.

If one opposes only the second condition of the schadenfreude it could be: taking delight/pleasure in someone else's success; compassion.

Or, opposing only the first condition of schadenfreude: deriving anger/sorrow over someone else's misfortune; also compassion.

But apparently I'm an all or nothing kinda gal because I'm going with total opposition, both conditions opposite resulting in the antonym: Jealousy/envy.

Neither here nor there, really, but an interesting study in thought processes. And how opinions get misconstrued and communication can break down without intention and feelings get hurt.

I'm pretty sure there's a good country song in there somewhere.

Which is how this whole debate started.

A discussion over the best revenge/schadenfreude songs was taking place. As happens when hearts are broken and alcohol is a factor.

I have several contenders, but I always go back to the song that makes it feel good to feel vindictive about a former love.

Laugh, Laugh.

Yep, the Beau Brummels' classic. What puts this top on my list is the juxtaposition of truly vindictive lyrics set to a jaunty rhythm and melody with a chorus so mean spirited they come right out and regale in their schadenfreude: Laugh, Laugh, I thought I'd die, it seemed so funny to me, laugh, laugh, you met a guy who taught you how it feels to be lonely, oh so lonely. Yes. That's pretty much the definition of schadenfreude, n'est ce pas? (Yes, I'm still doing that, but I'm making great efforts to reign in my usage.)

And along with the vindictive schadenfreude there's a heavy dose of self-aware, self-acknowledged self-righteousness, it's spelled out right in the intro verse:

I hate to say it but I told you so
Don't mind my preaching to you
I said "don't trust him", baby, now you know
You don't learn everything there is to know in school

Wouldn't believe me when I gave advice
I said that he was a tease
If you want help you better ask me nice
So be sincere, convince me with a "pretty please"

Laugh, Laugh, I thought I'd die
It seemed so funny to me,
Laugh, Laugh, you met a guy
who taught you how it feels to be
Lonely, oh so lonely

Then it goes on to revel in the joy of the chick's misfortune in love and her realization that maybe she isn't all that and maybe she should have realized that sooner, before she dumped the good guy for a better seeming guy who dumped her sorry ass. (The Beau Brummels sing it more poetically)

Don't think I'm being funny when I say
You got just what you deserve
I can't help feeling you found out today
You thought you were too good you had a lot of nerve
Won't say I'm sorry for the things I said

I'm glad he packed up to go
You kept on bragging he was yours instead
Found you don't know everything there is to know

Laugh, laugh et al.

But if that's not enough schadenfreude and vindictive revenge for one song, they go on to add some sage advice mixed with the one caution that strikes fear in the heart of every woman who ever lived:

Before I go I'd like to say one thing
Don't close your ears to me
Take my advice and you'll find out that being
Just another girl won't cause you misery
You say you can get any boy at your call

Don't be so smug or else
You'll find you can't get any boy at all
You'll wind up an old lady sitting on the shelf

Laugh, laugh.

Oh yes, they say it. No mincing of words. You'll wind up an old lady sitting on the shelf. Coming from an old lady who has been sitting on the shelf for a few years, now, I can attest that, even though I like this song, that line packs a powerful punch. And I have never even behaved the way the storied girl in this song did. I've never broken up with a guy because I was lured by a guy who seemed better. And yet, still, that line always make me think, "I must have done something to wind up here on this shelf..."

And then they fade out with a trailing,

Lonely, oh so lonely

I'm pretty sure the first time I heard this song was on the Flintstones when the Beau Brummelstones blew into Bedrock to rock the local dance hall. I was a little kid and didn't have a clue what the song was about but I thought it was funny that the chorus said, "Laugh, laugh, I thought I'd die" and of course it's a catchy little ditty.

Then, when I got older and was held captive in the back of my parents' car and forced to listen to whatever my dad played on the radio*, my dad tuned in an oldies station and I heard the song again. Of course I didn't let on that I liked the song, or that thinking about the Beau Brummelstones made me laugh. I was about 13 and full of teen angst and loathing of my parents' for no reason except that I was 13 and being forced to listen to an oldies station. It was there, in the back of a Buick on a return cross-country trip to California, somewhere in northeastern Idaho, that I really listened to the lyrics and realized what a vindictive, mean-spirited, revengeful song it was. I'm not sure that I knew the meaning of schadenfreude at that point but I knew that the smug, self-righteous satisfaction of vindication it invoked felt pretty darned good, even if it was immature and wrong. I secretly loved the song, but in my own form of silent revenge didn't let on to my parents that I was enjoying riding through northeastern Idaho in the back of a Buick listening to an oldies station. Ahhh, to be 13 again.

So many times since then I've silently played that song in my head. Usually after yet another break-up with yet another guy who dumped my sorry ugly ass for a prettier/funnier/wealthier/whatever-er girl. I now know revenge and vindication, and schadenfreude, are immature wastes of emotion. I'm ever so much more enlightened. But. For the few minutes the song plays there is a nice, um, release. The realization that these feelings are resonate with a lot of people assuages some guilt. I've discovered a lot of people like this song. Emotionally mature, well-balanced, nice people like this song.

Sometimes a little schadenfreude-sing-along** can be very cathartic.

After the antonym of schadenfreude debate was off the table (feelings were hurt) the passive aggression was heavy in the air so, ever the, "oh, come on, it's not that big of a deal, let's not let this bring down the night" cheerleader, I went back to the Beau Brummels/Beau Brummelstones and pondered who would be on the Flintstones if they were to bring the Flintstones back from the '60s with a 21st century flair?

Soon levity returned, the air cleared and the special guest list for the Flintstones of the modern era was compiled. See if you can guess which one was my suggestion.

Coldplay = Caveplay

Joss or Emma Stone = Joss or Emma Stone

Jennifer Aniston = Jennifer Granitestone

Drew Barrymore = Drew Quarrymore

Ben Afflick = Stone Affrock

Jack Black = Jack Blackrock

U2 = SiO2 (Okay, a bit too cerebral for the Flintstones, but still, you gotta admit, a good one.) (I, for one, would pay good money to see mullet-era Bono Hanna Barberafied in a shaggy-edged leopard toga. Speaking of schadenfreude.)

Lonely, oh so lonely...

*"My car, my radio, my choice. When you pay for a car and the insurance you can listen to whatever you want." Which makes my dad sound like a brutish hardass, which he was not. It was more a matter of resolving the never-ending arguments between us kids about what we wanted to listen to in the car. My sister wanted all Beatles, all the time, my brother and I hated the Beatles, which always caused further arguments, so, the "my car, my radio, my choice" assertion was the easiest and most resolute solution my parents found to put a permanent end to that particular sibling argument. So yes, once again, we can blame the Beatles. (Speaking of emotional immaturity... Sometimes I ponder what my life would have been/be like if my sister wasn't such a huge Beatles fan. I wouldn't have been forced to listen to them non-stop thought the shared wall of our bedrooms from birth to age 7. I wouldn't have developed such a deep, negative emotional response to "All You Need is Love" and therefore I might actually believe that all one needs is love. At the very least I would not have developed a visceral reaction to blaring trumpet intros. Were it not for my sister's huge (read: disturbing) allegiance to the Beatles might I even like them? Embrace them? Might I be more popular and less socially awkward? Might I have had more dates and less time to read and therefore be blissfully unaware of what SiO2 is?

**Schadenfreude-Sing-Along. Good band name.

2011-08-03T10:56:00.001-05:00

Wow. Okay. Um. Wow.

Well then.

Apparently there are a lot of people who are a) living in isolated bubbles of prosperity, and/or b) self-righteous, pompous assholes.

Yes, I have been unemployed 2 years. That's not to say that I have worked, or spent every waking hour pursuing employment. I worked several part-time jobs, I consult/freelance, I do anything I can to earn money. But. I do not have a full time job. I have now applied to over 2,000 jobs in every range of pay, skill-level and location feasible. I am not "holding out" for my former salary or rank. Apart from jobs in the cigarette, porn and meat packing industries (yes, they are two different industries) I am not picky about where I apply/work. Yes. I have even applied at fast-food restaurants, and, yes, if there was a Wal-Mart within realistic distance I would swallow my hatred of Wal-Mart and all that it stands for and apply for a job there. (Wal-Mart, the new welfare.)

I did not qualify for the storied "99 weeks" of unemployment, so I have been without assistance of any kind for quite a while. My severance, savings, 401K and everything of any value I owned are gone. I used all of my financial resources and sold everything I could to shelter, and when I could afford it, feed myself.

I don't do drugs, I'm not an alcoholic, I'm not lazy and I'm not uneducated or unskilled.

I do, however, fall in the 36 - 52 year-old demographic where the majority of the long-term unemployed reside. Based on my age, education and years of professional experience the odds were stacked against me from the start. Big time.

But I am resourceful and creative and reasonably intelligent and I know a lot of people and I kinda hoped I'd beat the odds. Or, well, at least take the stats that comprise the odds and use that knowledge to navigate around the odds.

But.

So far, no full-time job offer.

And I know there are millions of others exactly like me, intelligent, professional, experienced, talented, nice people who do everything humanly possible to find a full-time job and: nothing.

However, since my previous post on my rules/vows/promises to myself about unemployment, I have been inundated with h8 mail. Even more than usual.

What I don't understand is why my (or anyone else's) unemployment plight invokes such venomous hatred.

The comments are not just, "eh, shut up and get a job at Wal-Mart or McDonalds you lazy bum, you and all the other unemployed people need to get a clue and get a job." That sort of comment - while ignorant, lacking in scope and depth of the issues behind unemployment and self-righteously dismissive - is to be expected. But the email and comments I've received in the past few days are abusive, including a couple physical threats. So far 23 people have suggested I kill myself, the prevailing reasons being that I am a waste of oxygen, contribute nothing to society, I have no children or spouse and therefore: as a few email counselors reasoned, I have "no real reason to live anyway."

To all those who have suggested suicide: Thank you for your insight. I don't talk about it, I don't post it in a public forum because it's personal and I don't want people to worry about me, but for the record, yes, I do consider suicide. Daily. Every night around midnight I think, "Well, there goes another day and you're still unemployed and still alive. Do you think it's worth adding another day to this dismal slog toward death or just end it now and put yourself and everyone who knows you out of the misery of worry and stress?" I weigh the factors including if my being alive is causing more worry and stress on my family and friends than my death would. Right now my mother needs some help recovering from a health issue, so right now, the answer to my suicide question is no. But she's improving every day and when she's well enough and the answer to my nightly question is yes, I know exactly how I'll do it. I've spent over a year working out the details of a fail-proof, fool-proof personal suicide plan. This is what I do on sleepless nights. And I know many other long-term unemployed people spend their sleepless nights in the same pursuit, especially us single long-term unemployed people.

And, it might surprise those of you who suggested suicide to know that thinking about it and having a plan, knowing it's an option, provides a lot of comfort and in fact kind of cheers me up. One of the worst aspects of long-term unemployment is the loss of control. Without money I have very little control over my life. I have no money to do anything. As I said in the earlier post, it's not living, it's existing, surviving. My life consists of: Looking for a job and breathing. That's it. Occasionally my mother or a friend helps me out with a diversion, a meal out, a movie, a road trip, but me, on my own, the only thing I can afford to do is look for a job and figure out how to keep my body safe and functioning. My physical being is one of the few things I still control. If I don't find a full-time job soon, suicide will be the only thing that makes me feel empowered, and knowing that I at least have control over that gives me some confidence. I do have at least one option left.

One of my former co-workers killed herself shortly after we were laid off. I know of two other confirmed suicides as a direct result of unemployment and several failed attempts.

Okay? There you go. It's not something most people want to know. But apparently, based on the h8 mail a lot of people think that unemployed people are worthless wastes of DNA, a blight on the economy and society in general and "we" would all be better off if they all just killed themselves.

And also for the record, I do not collect welfare, food stamps or any kind of medical assistance and I did not qualify for mortgage/housing assistance. Not that I'm too proud. A friend looked into it on my behalf, and, I don't qualify. I hadn't considered it, but when she told me she made a few calls on my behalf and found out I don't qualify, the question of whether or not I am too proud to use government assistance was a non-question. (And that homeowners' assistance program was a complete and total joke, someday I'll tell you about what I went through with that nonsense. Suffice it to say, it helped almost no one, especially the unemployed.)

As for my home, the value has dropped so drastically that even if I could sell it I'd still have a 20 years of a mortgage to pay. But that's a moot point because selling it is/has been highly improbable due to the glut of condos on the market in my neighborhood. In my building alone, right now, there are five foreclosures and eight others at ridiculously low prices. Seriously, there are new Buicks that cost more than the asking price of one of the units in my building.

So, there you go. The dirty underbelly of unemployment that I prefer not to discuss. But maybe I should have been discussing it more openly. Maybe my "keeping it to myself" plan is being read as apathy, laziness and stupidity.

I'm kind of surprised the depth of emotion the long-term unemployment problem invokes. Based on my post, it causes a visceral reaction in people.

And let's be clear, I do not care what these (or other people) think. None of the people who emailed me offered any constructive insight, suggestions or ideas other than the aforementioned suicide and Wal-Mart/MacDonalds suggestions.

Let me be very clear on this, too: I am not, nor have I ever been, looking for pity. I do not, and have not, ever blamed anyone for my unemployment. I am not looking for pity or a handout, I'm looking for a job. I have always taken full responsibility for myself, my career and my life. A little compassion - some empathy - would be nice. But I don't expect it.

If you have something constructive to offer me and/or other unemployed people, then please email me, I'll take any and all bits of wisdom, advice, ideas and insight. I will pass along helpful and positive words.

And you can continue to sling your hatred at me, I'm pretty tough, thick skinned, and I can take it. But. I would ask you to ask yourself one question before lashing out at me (or anyone else): What does what I'm writing/saying accomplish? Will it help the intended target or will it help me feel better to just get this off my chest? If it's just a matter of getting if off your chest, fair enough, but that's a self-serving purpose, one which might be better served by, oh, I dunno, talking to a trained anger management counselor about the true source of your anger. You see how I did that? I offered a little insight and a constructive suggestion.

The reason I'm publicly responding to all this h8 mail is that I have concerns that if my little post that was generally positive invoked such a huge hateful response, there must be thousands (millions) of people carrying around this sort of hatred and ignorance regarding unemployed people. And that concerns me. I know I'm not the only one who considers suicide on a daily basis. So I worry that someone will spew some self-serving, self-righteous insult at an unemployed person who happens to be teetering on the edge of "yes" to their suicide plan and that self-serving remark will serve as their final proof that by default of death, today is the day that is the last day of unemployment.

Like I said, I don't expect it, but a little compassion would be nice.