Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Saturday, February 02, 2008
It's Groundhog Day. Yipppeeee!! I love Groundhog Day.
You're sitting there thinking, "Huh? I mean, I know Trill's got some funny quirks but this is kind of a weird one, even for her. And aren't there animal rights implications to Groundhog Day?"
Hear me out on this. I'm not superstitious or a farmer or whatever you'd call the whole Groundhog Day thing.
1) The groundhogs they use for the "official" proclamation are treated pretty darned well and have a better life expectancy than groundhogs living in the wild. Am I okay with "taming" and exploiting wild animals? No, not really. But. Given the choice between giving some groundhogs a really cushy comfy life v. the thousands of groundhogs who are killed in roadside accidents, well, I'd have to go with the perspective that "taming" and exploiting few is saving a few who would otherwise have a life expectancy of about 2 years at most.
2) There's one huge red downer of a non-holiday holiday that gets all the attention in February. Since February 14th is a stupid, overmarketed, depressing (to some of us) day, I love to revel in the oft overlooked non-holiday holiday in February: Groundhog Day. While people are getting all hopped up high in anticipation of Valentine's Day, I'm all hopped up high, too, but in anticipation of Groundhog Day. The disturbing and telling fact that I'm all hopped up high on a chubby rodent called upon to forecast the fate of weather while other people are hopped up high on a cute little cherub bringing romance does not escape me. Given the state of my lovelife a chubby weather predicting rodent is the most excitement I'll be getting in February.
3) I have an annual tradition on February 2.
I watch Groundhog Day. The Bill Murray movie. Sometimes I even throw a little party. This year is a party year. I'm making rodent and weather related treats. He saw his shadow this year, so I'll be making snowflake cookies and mitten shaped brownies this afternoon. There will be warm libations like peppermint schnapps in hot chocolate and hot buttered rum. I've got fuzzy socks, mittens and Chapstick® as party favors. If Phil hadn't seen his shadow I'd be whipping up sunshine cookies and flower shaped brownies, serving margaritas and Hurricanes and sending people home with beach balls, rattan beach mats and suntan lotion. Yeah, that's the down side of a Groundhog Day party, you have to be prepared for either prediction. Still, after you do a few of these parties you get the drill down to a science.
There are two types of people in this world: Those who hate Groundhog Day and those who think it's layered and brilliant. I'm in the latter group. It's one of my all time favorite movies.
Oh sure, the first time I saw it the obvious comedic aspects were great. Time passed, I got a little older, a little wiser, a little more aware and depressed about the monotony of life, feeling stuck in a place where you don't really fit in, where you're accepted on the surface levels and manage to get along, but inside you know something's wrong, something's weird, something's not right. You're not alone but you're lonely because, well, really you are alone because you can't make anyone, not even one special person understand what's happening to you. Every day feels the same, you do everything you can to change it, and yet you can't quite escape the monotony. So you try everything you can think of to deal with it. You try to mock it. You try to accept it. You try to end it. And yet, sure as I've Got You Babe is one of the all time chirpiest guilty pleasure camp songs ever recorded, you wake up the next morning and face it all over again.
The more years that pass since the first time I saw Groundhog Day, the more I identify with it. It's still funny to me, and that's the crucial aspect of the movie. It would be a horrendous downer, brilliant, but a downer, like Eternal Sunshine... And therein lies one of the great aspects of the revisions to the original screenplay and Bill Murray. This situation, real or metaphoric, sucks. Bad. It really sucks. Suicidally bad. But. If you squint hard enough at it, there is a humorous aspect to it. Schadenfreude except you're not laughing at the misfortune of others, you're laughing at your own misfortune and misery. Maybe that's not a healthy psychological technique, but, it can lighten the load enough to keep the lure of an overdose of pills and alcohol under control. So, clinically healthy or not, seeing the funny side of your own misery can save your life. Bill Murray was perfect casting for this. He's funny, but not over the top funny. He's charming, but not sugary, dull charming. He's got bite, he gets it. He can be annoying, cynically mean, and doesn't suffer fools lightly, but, he's funny. And he does have it in him to be less annoying. We know that from the get-go. We see that he's a jerk, but there's depth to him and his character, there is a possibility for redemption and maybe even salvation. And he's funny. I mean, his lines and his delivery of those lines is funny. Quietly, intelligently, darkly, deeply funny. (Yes, as we know, I'm a huge Bill Murray fan and he and I had quite a little thing going there for a while. But still. He's fantastic in this movie. Oh, and, I've decided to use blog labels where appropriate. So instead of linking to previous Bill Murray posts, if you're interested in my history with Bill Murray, you just go to the end of this post, click on the "Bill Murray" link and all my previous Bill Murray posts will magically appear before you. It's better than "search this blog" because the I've chosen which posts are relevant, whereas search will bring you every post where the words are written. In this case of Bill Murray, for instance, only the posts about Groundhog Day or my history with Bill Murray will appear when you click on the label link. If you search Bill Murray you'll get all those and other random posts where he's mentioned offhand and not really relevant. (Though you could argue in this case, given my bizarre psychology with Bill Murray, all references to Bill Murray could be relevant.) Anyway, I've jumped on the label bandwagon. I ♥ tags. I ♥ the internet. Al Gore, The Future owes you so much, things we can't even dream of right now, we owe you everything for inventing the internet.)
The end, the theme of change and redemption triumphing and love conquering all, well, yeah, I mean, that's Hollywood for you. And this isn't alternative indie theatre Eternal Sunshine..., after all. It's mainstream '90s cineplex Groundhog Day. The isolation and depression themes are pretty heavy for the cineplex, so a chirpy little ending was required to keep viewing audiences from going home, examining the drudgery of their lives and killing themselves. And I never get the impression that Bill/Phil is going to live a life of kittens and rainbows even after he wakes up on February 3rd with Andie MacDowell. He may live a life less alone and with more personal insight, but there's no indication that poof! he's now going to live every day in a high-on-life giddiness. He's elated, of course, and life will never be the same, but, let's face it, even with deeper understanding and a special someone, life is still life and we are who we are. A little less loneliness and isolation can go a long way to assuaging the pain of solitary existence, but, better than average perception of life leads to cynical insight, no matter how fulfilled you are on a personal level.
And as for the "sweet" predictable ending, well, really, even the loneliest and most cynical among us want Bill/Phil to realize he was a pompous jerk with a bad attitude about women. We want him to realize that he needed to learn a few lessons about himself, "grow as a person." We want him to want Andie MacDowell for the right reasons. And we figure, hey, if it can happen to Bill/Phil, maybe, just maybe, if we keep trying, keep growing, one day the monotony and loneliness of our own life will ease. Maybe we'll find a way to be understood and accepted, at least by one special person and then we won't feel so isolated and lonely. If Bill/Phil can learn and grow and eventually succeed and escape, albeit with a lot of trial and error, certainly we can, too.
So. Happy Groundhog Day. If you haven't seen the movie in a while, I recommend it. Give it another viewing now that you're a little older and wiser than the last time you saw it. There's a 15th anniversary DVD out this year. (I know, 15 years?!! Really??? It's been 15 years??? Crap, talk about the monotony of life dragging on and on and on...) Oh, and, on the DVD there's great commentary by Harold Ramis and the original screenplay, "The Weight of Time." (Which is more dark and plays on the themes of loneliness and isolation.)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Bill Murray showed up again. This time at my parents’ house. He was giving me crap about my little girl bedroom, or well, laughing at it with me, not at me. I think it’s safe (and definitive) to assume that Bill Murray is in some way connected to my subconscious stress synapses. Why Bill Murray? I dunno. The now obvious fact that stress in my life triggers a Bill Murray response in the form of dreams is something I can’t (and do not want to) tackle. It’s not hurting anyone, even me, so no big deal. Just kind of weird. Or maybe not so much. I’ve always liked Bill Murray’s certain, um, can you call it charisma? Whatever it is that he has when he does something like Broken Flowers or Lost in Translation (to name just a few) is something with which I identify. He has something not quite identifiable to which I deeply relate. Which sounds ridiculous and nonsensical. If I relate so deeply why can’t I even identify or label it?
Enigmatic. I guess. Sort of. Perception. I guess. Kind of. Existentialistic wisdom. Yeah, that, too. Knowing and sardonic smirk. Oh yes. Almost always. Does all of that equal charisma? I don’t think so, but I don’t know another word for it.
But he’s got it and I relate to it.
So on that level it’s not at all weird or surprising that Mr. Murray would show up in my dreams. But why when I’m stressed? Am I channeling some sort of buddy thing with him, a knowing comrade united in the war against life? Maybe that’s it. And you know, a person could do a lot worse in the dream manifestation capacity, especially when said person is under a swutting load of stress every aspect of their life. Bill Murray is non-threatening, generally easy going and gives you the feeling a really funny comment is just about to spring from that smirk and make you laugh till your sides hurt. There are indeed much worse things which could appear in dreams in times of stress. So I’m not complaining. It’s just, you know, kind of weird.
And if my subconscious stress synapses are craving some relief, I can think of plenty of men other than Bill Murray to manifest in the form of, um, “stress relief.” Because much as I like Bill, I’ve never thought of him, you know, “that” way.
Oh whatever, it’s not for me to unlock the mysteries and stupidities of my brain. Bill Murray’s back in my dreams again offering proof that the Bill Murray dreams are stress related.
Last night we were at my parents’ house. Which probably indicates that I am trying to get to some sort of safe place in my life. And, sadly, the last (and only) time I’ve ever truly felt “safe” is in my parents’ house. That childish trust and belief that nothing bad will ever happen to me because my parents will take care of me and protect me is difficult to shake. Especially since the fact is that nothing bad has happened to me while under their supervision. Everything bad or scary or stressful in my life happened when I ventured away from their home. A = B, B = C, therefore I never should have left my parents’ home. Okay. Well. Maybe that’s more than a little psychotic. But. Welcome to the life of a lonely career single person. You think about stuff like that in the sleepless dark hours of the night. There’s no one there beside you to curl up to and make you feel less alone, so your mind starts wandering to comforting and safe places so you don’t feel so scared and alone.
Now that I’ve been single a really, really, really long time I find more comfort and safety in the one sure, unwavering thing in my life: My parents. No matter what they’re there for me and love me and support me. They don’t always understand me but they care enough to try to understand me and even when they can’t understand me they still accept me and love me. They would never, ever say or do anything to hurt me. They are simply not capable of that. That’s a good thing. I know I’m lucky in that respect. But. It bugs me that the only sure, safe and unwavering people in my life are my parents. And. Well. Now Bill Murray.
For a while I had HWNMNBS. That was nice. I liked that. He had all that and more: For the most part he understood me. And even now, still, that’s what I miss most. He was the one port in the storms of life, that one safe, unwavering place that’s not my parents. Okay, sure, my stupidity is to blame for trusting him, my stupidity is to blame for thinking he was incapable of hurting me, but still, there for a while I had no reason not to trust him. There for a while I felt safe.
Which probably has something to do with Bill Murray, too. In all his roles he’s reliable in terms of not hurting anyone. He’s trustworthy. Okay, sure, in Where the Buffalo Roam his Hunter Thompson role was a little, well, you know, Hunter Thompson. But even then he didn’t have an air of hurtfulness or hatred, just an air of, well, Hunter Thompson. Even when he was a jerk in Scrooged there are hints that this mean guy is not really who he is, that he’s a tormented and conflicted person who is actually quite nice and funny and makes the right choices.
Ta-dah.
And now we come full circle.
I’ve been kind of, um, well, not myself for a while. The past year has been especially, um, “odd” for me. My mother almost died. Twice. My cat is very ill. I had some scary health issues. Money has been a problem. Work has been more difficult than usual. Friends have become even more scattered. Polar bears are dying at an alarming rate and no one seems to care. Daley was re-elected. I’ve been existing from day to day as best as I can, but I know I haven’t been me. My sense of humor fails me. I simply do not see the humor in many situations. I see the harsh ramifications of medications and aging and financial cut-backs and unskilled coworkers and friends who are simply too far away to “be there.” Global Warming is here, now, and it’s on a killing spree. Daley will probably die in office collecting taxes and fees on anything he can slide through under the table legislation. There’s nothing funny in any of that. For me or anyone else.
And I’ve become Murray’s Scrooged Frank Cross. Well. Maybe not that bitter. Yet. And unfortunately not that wealthy. Which is probably a good thing because some of the most bitter people I’ve ever met are also the wealthiest people I’ve ever met. Money truly does not buy happiness, by the way.
It does, however, make life a lot more easy and comfortable.
So. Bill and I were at my parents’ house and I was in my little girl bedroom complete with ruffley canopy bed, Barbie Dreamhouse (with real swimming pool that holds water, thank you very much, and that was no dream, I really did have that set-up, and yes, I was spoiled within a whisker of rotten) and loads of books and various achievement awards and trophies and a heck of a lot of art I created. Oh. And. Cats. Every cat we ever had and the Furry Creature were all sprawled out around the room. None of these cats were ever alive at the same time, but hey, my dream, my cats.
Happy place, indeed.
Bill was leaning against the door smirking and laughing at me. Or, at the room. Or, more probably, at the situation. Me, an adult, sitting in the middle of this amalgamation of my entire childhood created a jarring and ironic tapestry of weirdness.
What wasn’t weird was that Bill Murray was there. Like a big brother or kid from next door or sister’s boyfriend, he wasn’t out of place. He just smirk/laughed and then we went downstairs and had French toast that my dad made. Then he had coffee with my parents. Then he went outside and played street hockey with my brother and I and the actual kid from next door (which is also kind of poignant or weird because in real life the actual kid from next door died a very tragic death a few years ago). No one seemed to notice or care that it was Bill Murray. The Bill Murray.
Game on.
They say you shouldn’t take dreams too seriously and I believe that. They’re just your brain having some fun when you close your eyes and let the synapses run free.
But these Bill Murray dreams, well, they’re different from dreams I usually have. They’re more, I dunno, more real. More topical. Less dreamy and more messagey than my usual dreams.
Maybe my subconscious is telling me to lighten up a little, try to laugh more, get out, go see some movies. Or rent some old Saturday Night Live DVDs. Or maybe they’re just dreams.
Remember when Bill Murray lost the Oscar for Lost in Translation? Remember that look, that defeated, what the… look? when Sean Penn’s name was called and not his. The only real contender of note was Ben Kingsley, but since he already garnered an award for Ghandi (and can we talk fear factor and shoe-in? How can you not give an Oscar for the role of Ghandi? I mean, who would mess with that karma?), since Kingsley already had an award and Jude Law was too cute and too young and too bad of an actor to be considered (we shan’t mention Mr. Depp), Murray’s award was obviously in the bag. Everyone knew it. Everyone knows who really won that Oscar, and he was never married to Madonna. Not that anyone takes award shows seriously. But. Here was a chance to turn that around, here was a chance to prove to the world that these awards can mean something, and once again they failed. The weight of that decision was visible on Murray’s shoulders. In those brief moments all of that and more was expressed on his face. Gotta be a good sport about these things, right? Right. Still. Everyone, including Bill, knew, and knows, he’s the one who really won.
Right. Well. I’ve been feeling like that for a while. I’ve been working hard, taking care of people (and a cat), helping out wherever I can, doing the very best I can possibly manage and: Nothing. Nothing but more crap. Not that I’m doing anything for the purpose of recognition.
But.
Would it kill the Universe to throw me a little nod, a little, “Hey, Trill, you’ve had a rough go of things for a while, you’ve been working really hard, here’s a little break, a little something nice, a little recognition of the fact that we know how much effort you’ve been expending and how difficult things have been for you.”
But, as we all know, these award shows don’t really matter and certainly don’t mean anything. The right people never win.
Instead, an "internet and technology coordinator" who doesn’t know how to download photos from a digital camera, load songs onto an iPod and who has never heard of RSS gets a promotion and a raise which pays for a lavish wedding and a swanky condo. Instead, a "media manager" with an alleged journalism degree who writes, “the door is broke, do not use” (apparently the door has fallen upon difficult financial times and until it can get some money together we're to stay away) and “there was eight of them” (Was there six of them yesterday?), this perons who writes this horrible grammar in daily press releases, brings in a tidy salary which affords a four bedroom home, two cars and private schools for the kids. Which is probably a good thing because with grammar like that being spoken at home they’ll need all the schooling they can get. Meanwhile, I churn out project after project, on time, using the latest technology and resources (which I learn by reading and going to classes and making swutting well sure I keep up with the advancements in my field) and what do I get? Certainly not more money. What I get is a mortgage approval because I qualify as a low income single woman.
Okay. Better that than nothing, right? Yeh, I guess so. Count blessings and all of that.
But. It’s finally hit me that I’m like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, reliving the moment of deflation and disappointment for not getting the deserved award for Lost in Translation.
There’s a point where it’s insulting. There’s a time when you say, “Okay. Enough already. I quit.”
That time is now.
Except there’s a slight problem.
I’m homeless in a few weeks and somewhere between my lawyer and another lawyer, there’s a real estate contract with my name on it. The good news is that I haven’t closed on the property and I can still back out of the deal. It’s not the right thing to do, and it’s certainly going to cost me a lot of money to get out of it.
But.
In the long run it’s seeming like the best thing to do. My job sucks. Or rather, the people with whom I work suck. It’s not just that they’re incompetent in their alleged areas of expertise, they’re stupid. Really. They are literally stupid. And they are being rewarded for being stupid. While I, and a few others, who are not stupid, toil away and are ignored or even insulted for doing great work. I can’t live this way any longer. It’s already killed huge part of me. I know this, I have known this for quite a while. I’ve been trying to find the “right” opportunity, the “right” location, the “right” salary. But in case you haven’t heard, the job market isn’t exactly booming and neither is the economy. I’ve come really close to being rewarded with a couple of jobs, but second best isn’t good enough when there’s only one job being offered.
I got the news about the latest rejection yesterday. I really thought it was a viable possibility. I really thought finally, finally things were turning around for me. I honestly thought, “hey! New home, new job, change is good, might as well change everything at once, woo hoo! finally some progress!” Sure, the compartment building going condo is a nightmare, but it led to me finally being accepted for a mortgage which led me on a whirlwind househunt which led to a teeny tiny condo and then: Nothing. Lawyers. Contracts. Negotiations stalled. The deal might not go through, or at least before I’m homeless. The recent promotions of undeserving people at work is an insult, but it led to a whirlwind flurry of applications for a few jobs I wouldn’t have normally considered, which led to some interviews and one of them looked like done deal and then: Nothing. HR directors. Contracts. Negotiations stalled. The job was given to someone else.
And along comes Bill Murray to remind me that the only true safety I’ve ever had in my life, the only sure thing, is my parents. And suddenly all I want to do is move in with them and play with Barbies and cats and read books and play street hockey. All those ideas and dreams that sprang from the haven of idealism and support otherwise known as my parents’ house have not materialized. All those dreams and ideas I had about who I am and what I wanted from life remain more elusive now than they were when I was a kid. That goofy, nerdy, buck toothed kid who was alternately too aware and too shy for her own good is lost in transition to adulthood. Something, somewhere went horribly wrong and led me to where I am now. And where I am now is not a good place.
Unless and until the lawyers can sort out the contract and settle on some issues, I am homeless. Unless and until some miracle happens and I get another job, I am stuck in a hateful job situation.
The “good” news about the real estate contract problems is that it’s given me space to consider what I’m doing. Maybe everything does happen for a reason. Had there been no contract problems I would have closed on the teeny tiny House of Mirrors and I would have been stuck in a mortgage when I got the news that I didn’t get the job. Now that I know I am stuck in the torturous and confounding nightmare I call my job, before I sign that final commitment to real estate, maybe it’s time to make a clean break. Cut my losses, pack up the cat and run home like a little girl. Nothing says failure like an adult moving back with their parents.
But then again, nothing says failure like a job rejection letter, real estate issues (homelessness, for that matter), and no boyfriend for years, either. So really, what's the difference between staying in situations which spell failure deluding yourself that maybe things will get better because they can't get worse, or, just admitting defeat and moving home to what is sure to be a fast decline into obscurity and more failure. But, at least that obscurity and failure come in a safe, comfortable home with people who love, care and support to the bitter end. As one of my friends reasoned, "Trill, you don't have a boyfriend or any viable prospects, so it's not as if moving in with your parents is going to put a damper on your romantic and sex life. You don't go out with friends that often because you can barely afford food and CTA fare, so it's as if moving in with your parents is going to curtail your 'active' har har social life. You already live in a really small space, so it's not as if moving into your little girl bedroom is going make you feel claustrophobic. You hate your job, you hate Mayor Daley, why stay in job you hate just so you can pay rent or a mortgage on a tiny place to live when you could quit your job and move in with your parents rent-free? It's not as if you've got any kind of a life, you're not giving up anything of any substance or purpose except some volunteer work, and I'm sure you can volunteer where your parents live and at least you'll have your parents to keep you company."
And that's really what this is all about: Nothing like mortgage and homelessness issues and job rejection news can make a single person feel more alone. These are big and tough life issues. They're hard. Yes. Many of us can deal with them on our own. We're skilled and capable. But that's not the point. It's not a matter of ability. Navigating the home buying process on my own doesn't make me feel any more empowered than I've ever felt. I mean, it's a pain in the rear end, the process stinks and costs a lot of money, but people do it every day. Apart from the headache and stress and money, it's not a big deal. It's not worth playing "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar" nonstop while clutching a paycheck to bosom while the wind billows hair behind a power suit and sensible, not sexy, shoes. But. It is a lot of money and stress and time and effort and all the process does is make you feel lonely. And getting that dreaded phone call of job rejection stings that much worse when you are going home to deal with the disappointment on your own. Can you do it? Sure, of course. But like I said, this isn't a question of ability. It's a question of mental health.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Emergency pet hospital exams and boarding: $750
Exploratory surgery on cat: $2,600
Lab tests on biopsies taken during exploratory surgery on cat: $800
Prescriptions for cat with cancer: $150
Special diet cat food: $3/can
Making best friend's last days comfortable: Priceless.
For everything else there's a maxed out MasterCard.
Yep, my worst fears were confirmed: Furry Creature has cancer. The prognosis is: Terminal. But fortunately it's not leukemia. So there are medications which will make him comfortable in his last days. Which is all I want for him - no pain and a comfortable progression to the end of his life. He's been acting pretty good the past few days, which is a sliver of hope that even though it's spreading to several organs we caught it relatively early. Early enough to keep his organs from malfunctioning and causing him pain and discomfort and affiliated health problems.
We might have a few months or, optimistically, a year. Depends on how well his body responds to the medication.
His doctor and I are in agreement that we will not make him endure difficult treatments and exams which won't offer any real hope or extend his life any longer than the medication will. And we agree that his comfort is the number one priority. When that is compromised we'll let him go peacefully.
After what I've been through with my mother, the accident, the muggings and HWNMNBS I was thinking I didn't have the capacity to feel any more hurt. I thought I'd hurt as much as a person can hurt. I thought I didn't have any more tears left. Well. Once again, I was wrong. And once again, the one person (in this case animal) who could make me "feel" better is the one person who's the source of the pain.
Except here's where animals are different from people: Furry Creature has been snuggling and cuddling and purring and comforting me nonstop since he came home from hospital. Obviously I have no way of knowing if he knows he's ill, or that he has a bad thing happening inside him. I know he knows he doesn't feel right. But rather than go off to a quiet corner to rest he's been giving me his trademark "s'okay Trill, we've got each other, why don't you pet me and I'll purr and it'll be okay" treatment.
There are all the lessons people talk about learning from their pets, but for me there's nothing really new here. Furry Creature's been showing me the benefits of affection, camaraderie, a good laugh, and the joys of playing since the day he chose me at the shelter.
Once again my hopes, reasonable hopes, are cut short. He's not that old. It was realistic for me to think we had a few more good, healthy years together. But. Cancer doesn't care about reasonable hopes. And cancer doesn't care that this is a very cool cat and my lone daily source of affection, joy and companionship. Cancer doesn't care that he's too young and has a lot of games he wants to invent and play. Cancer doesn't care that I'm lonely and I need him. Cancer has a quota to meet and will take any living thing it can find to make that quota.
I know, it's just a cat. People are suffering. People are dying. He's a lucky cat who's had a good home and a good life and we all die of something sooner or later and his last days will be relatively pain free. It could all be so much worse. It is so much worse for a lot of people. Right now, this second, people are enduring horrible pain and suffering. People are dying horrible deaths. I know. I know it's just a cat and in the grand scheme of life, the universe and everything my cat and I are insignificant tiny little specks. I know this. I'm a big picture kind of person. I get it. I understand. I accept it. But. That cat makes life in my tiny compartment on my speck fun and cuddly. And as long as I'm stuck in this speck of a life it's nice to have a fun, cuddly companion who always makes me laugh. It makes the speck feel a lot more important or at least a lot more comfortable, a lot less lonely.
A few months ago one of my Bill Murray dreams turned into a frantic nightmare. My compartment was foggy and I couldn't find Furry Creature. I could hear his meow growing fainter in the distance of the fog and my heart was racing as I frantically called for him and tried to chase after him and find him. I'm not saying I'm psychic. I'm saying one of my remaining fears is the health and safety of Furry Creature. And now I have to face that fear. I'm losing him.
Thursday, June 22, 2006 Trillian and the Bee I went to a church pot luck and ended up in ER.
I love that sentence. It’s complete and perfect in its incompleteness and imperfection. I could begin and end with that one sentence and leave the rest to your imagination.
It could be a contest. See who comes up with the best fill in the rest of the blanks submission. Why was I at a church? Why was I at a potluck? Why was I at a church potluck? Was there a man involved? What fate befell me that put me in ER? Food poisoning? Struck down by the wrath of God? Stoned by the faithful congregation for my questions about the existence of God? And my vegetarianism? What about health insurance? Is it covered under the new health insurance plan?
I could also store it away for the title of yet another book of bad poetry or album I will never produce.
Or I could just say two words: Bee sting.
And one more word to develop a scary plot: Allergic.
And three more to create a cliff hanger story arc: No epi pen.
And throw in 11 more to add an ironic sub plot: Making nice for my parents by attending a church related event.
Yep, I’m allergic all right. No doubt about that. Didn't outgrow that allergy. Good to have clarification on that.
Fortunately my parents’ church isn’t far from a hospital.
My dad’s borderline dangerous driving finally paid off, got me there in record time. Apparently just in time. I was really dizzy and having difficulty breathing. Kind of cool, though, I had that weird standing back and watching it happen from a distance experience. I’m not really sure what happened after that, the next thing I clearly remember I was in one of those little ER curtained rooms with a Benadryl IV and an oxygen tube stuck in my nose.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the bee got me in the same ankle I broke. When I looked down at my ankle for a few seconds there I was all disoriented and thought I was back in the ER with a broken ankle.
Fortunately this time the swelling rapidly decreased and I walked out of ER in relatively little pain.
But with a fresh perspective on life.
That bee could have killed me. Or, well, I dunno, caused more brain damage. I know, I know, he didn’t mean to kill me. Defending his turf or mad at someone else or any other justifiable homicide reasons bees have for stinging people who are allergic to them. I don’t blame the bee. It’s society’s fault for overbuilding and overpopulating the once human-free meadows where bees could buzz and pollinate to their little bee hearts’ content. Anyway, I was sort of out of it there for a few hours and had a little bee venom v. Epinephrine and Benadryl smackdown going on in my blood stream. I remember feeling lots of prickly tingly sensations inside me, sort of between my bones and skin. That was really weird and uncomfortable. At the time I was pretty much unaware and out of it, but now I envision little bees with stingers for swords fighting medical compound molecules with biceps and tights, the molecules grabbing the bees by their bee necks, their stinger swords falling away, and the molecules punching the now stinger swordless bees in their noses and little birds chirping in circles around the maimed bees. Yeah. That’s how it felt exactly, now that I think about how it felt.
It doesn’t matter how it felt, though, really, because I’m okay, I’ll die another day. What matters is the drug induced thoughts I had.
This wasn’t an “as I lay dying” experience. I was pretty much unaware of what was going on with me at the time. I mean, I knew I was stung by a bee, I knew I’m allergic to bee stings, I remember the last time this happened and how it was a pretty awful experience and the doctor said the next time would be worse so always carry an epi pen. (be quiet, I usually have one with me. I needed to get the prescription refilled and those epi pens don’t come cheap and how was I supposed to know I’d be communing with nature at a church potluck?) I knew my ankle was rapidly swelling. I knew I was having difficulty breathing. I knew I was dizzy. I knew I needed to seek medical attention and I did. I trusted my dad and the medical community. I didn’t feel like I was going to die right then that evening.
But.
I was kind of disappointed I didn’t.
I thought, “Darn it all, this would have been the perfect accident. Witnesses and everything! Life insurance payout for everyone! Or, well, at least my beneficiaries,” and, “ya know, this really isn’t that painful, this might not be a bad way to go. Just drift off into an delusional sleep and never wake up again. Funny, I was under the impression it would be more horrific, more painful, more uncomfortable.” That last part must have been the drugs talking. I didn’t know what was going on at the time, you know, drug intervention-wise. I just felt all sleepy and tingly and sleepy. I remember trying really hard to hold onto someone, reaching and reaching and trying to hold on, it might have been my dad, it might have been a doctor or nurse, it might have been no one at all, but, I do remember desperately trying to hold someone close to me. I have no idea why. Well. I mean. I have several ideas why, now. But at the time I had no idea why. So yeah, that was kind of weird. I think maybe it was because I was swollen, everywhere, and my skin felt tight and constricted like I was being hugged and my brain got confused and was trying to hug back whomever was hugging me. I don’t get a lot of hugs, you know, really tight hugs, so when I get them it’s from a few people, people whom I want to hug so maybe that had something to do with the desperation. I dunno. It’s allergies and drugs, it’s pointless to try to explain.
Except.
Right.
When I was conscious enough to realize what happened and what was going on I was disappointed I wasn’t dead. And that should sound and feel tragic to me. But it doesn’t so don’t feel bad for me on any level, pro or con death.
New lease on life?
Well.
Sort of.
After I realized I could have died and didn’t and got over the disappointment, after I thanked my dad and the doctor for saving my life, after I apologized to my parents for scaring them, again, I laid there waiting for my vitals to stabilize so I could go back to my parents’ house and sleep. I was in that drug induced contemplative state of awareness. And I thought about work and a lot of other stuff. Stuff that annoys and angers me.
Yes. The experience made me angry.
Or, well, made me think about things that anger me.
And that’s what scares me. I apparently carry around a lot of unresolved issues mostly to do with repressed anger.
Big surprise there, right?
Maybe it is me. Maybe this stuff really doesn’t bother other people. Maybe I really have become a really angry person. Or, a person repressing a lot of anger.
For instance, I thought about the woman who interviewed for a job in my department a few weeks ago. It’s a mid-level job, a job dealing with people outside of the office. A professional job requiring a college degree and 5 years experience, which she had. I had high hopes for this woman. She looked promising on paper. I juggled my schedule to accommodate hers. Wait. Let’s stop right there. Her: Applying for a job. Me: Interviewing a lot of people for that job. Her: Job seeker. Me: Hirer. Her: Not in a position to make demands of my time. Me: In a position to dictate appointment times. Both of us: Busy people. I don’t flaunt the Me: Hirer thing. I really do try to accommodate other peoples’ schedules. I don’t have children or a husband or any reason to be home before 6 PM, one night late in the office is no big deal, particularly since I tend to stay late anyway. No big deal, right? I didn’t think so. But in hindsight I’m having doubts. This woman told me since she’s currently employed she would have to interview after her work day. She graciously offered to “try to leave a few minutes early” one night to get to the job interview with me. Now, that’s some kind of confidence, right? Or, some kind of false sense of entitlement. Okay, so I accommodated her schedule, stayed late to interview her. And she shows up wearing khaki Capri pants, a sleeveless blouse, no jacket, hair in a sloppy pony tail and, you guessed it: Flip flops. And not even “nice” flip flops. Standard $1.99 at Walgreen’s red rubber flip flops. And not even new flip flops. These were very worn flip flops.
Insert comment your grandmother would make here.
I’m pretty easy going about this sort of thing. However. I do believe in a sense of decorum. I do believe in professional attire. I do believe in respecting yourself and your colleagues enough to dress according to the type of work being done in and out of the office. I’m not saying expensive. I’m not saying the latest fashion off the runway. I’m saying something that doesn’t look like you’ve been weeding the garden for the past few hours and decided to mosey over and drop in for a job interview.
And. For swut sake, if you insist on wearing flip flops or foot revealing footwear of any type in public, much less a job interview, MAKE SWUTTING SURE YOUR TOE NAIL POLISH ISN’T CHIPPED AND FLAKED OFF PARTS OF ALL YOUR TOES.
Yes. I notice. Other people notice. You can’t help but notice. It’s not being picky or catty, it’s having the gift of vision.
I let all this go, you know, focused on her skills, her presentation, her ability to communicate. She was okay. There were better candidates. She didn’t get the job. And no, not because of her attire. There were better candidates.
But.
For some reason I remembered this when I was in my contemplative post-bee sting buzz. (get it? Buzz? Bee sting? Oh never mind.) And then I thought, “Wait a minute, who the swut is she to dictate when I will conduct a job interview? And how dare she show up to interview for what she knew was a professional level job wearing that outfit and cruddy old flip flops? It’s disrespectful and lazy. It actually really does make me mad. It shouldn’t matter, I tried to reason with myself. It doesn’t matter. What matters are her abilities which fell short of the mark. But. If she’d been a better candidate for the job I would have been put in the position of overlooking her lack of respect for me, herself, vendors, clients and job. I’d have to not consider the fact that she’s completely unaware or unconcerned about personal grooming and office decorum. Part of me really, really, really wants to send her a copy of Dress for Success. I won’t, I wouldn’t, but, part of me wants to really bad. She really annoys me now.
Her behavior reminded me of people in my office, people I already work with in a confined space. People who take the last cookie/chip/pretzel/chocolate/whatever and leave the empty except for crumb laden container behind. You had the guts to be the one to take the last one, so have the courtesy to throw away the bag/container. I mean, if you’re the one who takes the last anything, always in secret, wouldn’t you want to destroy all evidence that there was ever any treat at all? “What cookies? I didn’t see any cookies. There were cookies? That crumb on my lip? Oh, har har, that’s um, that’s from lunch.” But they don’t think that way.
They think, “Ha! I took the last cookie and no one saw me! No one saw me because I waited until no one was looking! And then, I left the empty except for crumb laden container behind because a) maybe no one will notice it’s now empty except for crumbs, b) someone else can/will throw it away, c) maybe someone will want the crumbs, or d) as a snarky calling card flaunting the fact that the treats are now all gone, someone finally took the last one, no one will ever know who, but I know, oh, I know, and I want them to know they didn’t get the last one. They didn’t win this time. This time I won. I got the last cookie.”
I didn’t know people felt this way until one night I was working later, (yes, it’s a theme with me) and I was in the restroom. There was birthday cheesecake earlier in the day and the lone last piece had been coagulating on a cardboard crumb laden plate on the community food area all afternoon. People would walk by it, look at it, reach for it, then look around, pull back and retreat to their offices, leaving The Last Piece there to fester and stink up the office. I was washing my hands when in came a coworker. I saw her reflected in the mirror. She was shoving the last piece of cheesecake in her mouth. I didn’t care. I don’t care. Take the last piece, please. I hope you don’t get sick because it sat out all afternoon, but really, have at it. She knew I saw her. Through cheesecake crammed mouth she said something about it being her dinner. “Har har, yeah, I know the feeling,” I said, trying to make her feel less self conscious. She was blushing. I know that feeling, too. I didn’t say anything about it, just talked about the project she was trying to complete. She continued talking about the cheesecake. “No one else ate it, I only had a small piece earlier and I really liked it and if I didn’t eat it Kevin would. He thinks because he bought it he’s got some right to it. He gave it to us. It’s no longer his. He doesn’t understand that principle.” Ummmm, okay. You go, girl. Justify all you want, it’s okay, really, I’m the one person in the office who doesn’t care. As long as you threw away that cardboard plate.
But of course she didn’t. There it sat. Empty except for the crumbs and still stinking up the joint. The cleaning people had already removed my trash for the day so I took the swutting cardboard to the break room trash can. She saw me. She glared at me and said, “That’s Kevin’s plate.”
“Um, it’s just the stinky cardboard which supports the cheesecake during transport. I don’t think Kevin or anyone else would be able to re-use it,” I said.
“No. I mean, that has Kevin’s name on it. I want him to see the cheesecake was gone, we all it, there’s none left for him.”
I’m not kidding.
This is a woman I used to respect and kind of liked. I thought she was one of the few sane people in my office.
But sooner or later they all reveal themselves to be one episode away from a nice quiet rest in the country at a facility surrounded by an electric fence.
Not only is she nuts, she’s vindictive and nuts. Which is a really scary combination. (See above, sending Dress for Success to failed job candidate.) She makes me angry. She expects the rest of the office to suffer, happily breathing in fumes of decaying food, looking at decaying community food and crumbs and dirty cardboard or plastic disposable serving wear left behind after they stealthily take the last piece. Disrespectful, rude and either lazy or weird.
Like revolving door/elevator conversationalists. The people who walk off an elevator or to a revolving door (or really, any entry/exit) as if to depart/enter, and then stop and carry on a very deep and long conversation. Blocking the way for anyone else who’s trying to exit or enter. This has happened to me a lot lately. It’s as if I’m jinxed with these doorway conversationalists. Standing there engrossed in their discussion while I try to politely squeeze by them to exit or enter. It’s particularly bad with elevators/revolving doors because you’re putting yourself at risk of having the doors shut on you if you don’t time it just right. If that elevator door shuts or someone else pushes through the revolving door before you’ve had a chance to make your away around the conversationalists, you’re pinched by the elevator doors or splatted up against the non moving portion of the revolving door. And even then the conversationalists continue to talk, oblivious or uncaring about their ridiculously rude placement in front of the entry/exit.
The only public conversationalists worse than this are the escalator platform conversationalists. They reach the end of their escalator ride and then stop on the platform and stand there having a conversation about where they’re going next. Meanwhile they’re blocking the way for everyone who’s been escalated behind them. It’s either shove through them or be gobbled up by the escalator. There really are no alternatives. Big mechanical metal sharp rotating staircase v. comparatively small, fleshy soft person unable to move because of the conversationalists blocking the exit platform. Machines: 256 billion, Humans: 0.
Well. There are other public conversationalists who are worse, but not a serious threat to human safety. Mobile phone talkers. I don’t really need to get into this. We all know the types. We’re all plagued by them. We all rue the day mobile phones were invented at one time or another. Usually in the grocery line or on the train, any place we’re held captive and forced to listen to the scintillating details about the fight with the boyfriend, the seven skirts tried on at Saks, the sister's episiotomy, the fact that this person is apparently completely incapable of selecting and purchasing cereal on their own without help from whomever is on the other end of that phone. The day anyone, any member of my family or any of my friends calls me from a grocery asking my advice on what brand or type of food product to buy is the day I pay to block their mobile phone number. It’s food. It’s the first world. It’s not a big deal. Yes. There are lots of choices. Choices can be scary and overwhelming. There's risk involved with choice. But. It’s food. If you feel uncomfortable, to the point of having to make a phone call, about whether or not you should buy it, or what kind to buy, chances are pretty good you shouldn’t be considering the purchase. In fact, chances are pretty good you should be spending time at a facility where they not only choose your food for you, but also give it to you in a community dining room with only plastic spoons and plates. Or, you know, maybe grocery shopping's just not your thing. So from here on out why not send whomever is on the phone telling you what to buy to the store since they know what to buy and you don't? **
And let's talk about food for a minute, shall we? Why is it waiters, servers, are snobby? And why is it they expect, and we deliver, generous tips to them even when they're snobby and full of "so much better than you" attitude? And I'm not just talking about ritzy restaurants. The attitude is universal, from esteemed cuisine establishment to lunch time fast food eatery. The uniforms and name tags are all that's different. There's a place I sometimes grab a salad at lunch. Their ingredients are fresh and the prices are cheap. My kinda place. Several times I've ordered a specific salad without the bacon and chicken. Sometimes I get exactly what I ordered. Sometimes I get something completely not what I ordered. And yet, every time, without exception, universal to every wait person there, when I say, "That's not what I ordered," they insist it is what I ordered without the bacon and chicken. What I should have is a plate of spinach, mandarin oranges, almonds, carrots, red pepper and topped with sesame seeds and dressing on the side. It's difficult to confuse that with a plate of iceberg lettuce, blue cheese, tomatoes, eggs and green peppers hidden under half a bottle of creamy ranch globbed on top. And yet, every time this happens I get attitude and blame and an accusation of ignorance. I'm told this is what I ordered and if I want something different I'll have to a) pay for it and b) wait for it. Sometimes I ask to speak to the manager. But usually not. That takes more time which I don't have at lunch. I usually voice my complaint, take the insult of not knowing what I ordered then pick through whatever they put in front of me. And they expect a tip. Which I leave, I think something to do with being a better person, rising above petty differences and conforming to social mores in an effort to fit in with society. Why do I keep eating there, you ask? Because it's close, cheap and fresh. And it doesn't really matter - I get attitude from wait staff in a lot of restaurants. I get "not quite" what I ordered or slow service or basically an unpleasant experience in a lot of restaurants. I just assumed it was me bringing out the worst in wait staff. Then I started talking about it and learned a lot of my friends have the same experiences. Food service people take note: We appreciate your hard work and efforts but we're not gonna take it much longer. Treat me badly, bring me the wrong food (and insist it's what I ordered), and we will stop leaving tips altogether. I'm sorry you work in a tip-based industry and have to wear a uniform and maybe a name tag and spend a lot of time on your feet. Really I am. But your attitude doesn't say, "I'm tired and cranky because I work long days on my feet serving food to disrespectful patrons." Your attitude says, "I'm a snob, I know more than you do, you're wrong, I'm right, I'll bring you what I want to bring you when I want to bring it to you, and for this you will tip me generously." I can only fantasize about what it would be like to throw around that kind of attitude at work, to customers, and not get fired and expect and receive a tip, encouragement, for bad behavior. I think maybe it's the sort of thing that sounds fun and good but in practice unless you're a naturally snobby, defensive, rude person would be more shameful and guilt inducing than fun.
And then: Men. Women. Dating. Urrrgh. Teeth clenching hostility on this topic. Men who tell you, often in lecture format, every way you're bad and wrong and not worthy of their time and affections. Not pretty enough, not young enough, not rich enough are the usual reasons. I've heard every combination possible from a lot of different types of men. It's weird when I don't get the not pretty/young/rich "friend to friend" line. Or the insult to my intelligence finale and stab at redemption and assuaging of guilt: "there's just no chemistry."
Right. No chemistry because I'm not pretty enough, young enough or rich enough. You already told me, "friend to friend" all the reasons why I'm unacceptable. The "there's just no chemistry" finale is a goes without saying statement of the obvious. Apparently you also think I'm stupid. Funny you didn't mention that in the "friend to friend" part of the date conversation. You weren't too polite to tell me I'm not pretty/young/rich enough, surely you could throw "smart enough" into the lecture if you think I'm too stupid to hear the feeble stab at redemption for your guilty conscience in "there's just no chemistry."
I've slated a few men for this. Not for my sake or theirs, but for the next poor woman who dates these shallow, ignorant losers. The hope is that the guy will forgo the "I'm doing you a favor and being really honest with you" lines and just jump straight to the "there's just no chemistry" bit. Which is a totally fine way to end things. Chances are really good she's not feeling any "chemistry" either.
The complete and utter crap and insulting, self esteem stealing, confidence crushing, rude behavior we endure for the sake of dating is revolting. I'm not excluding women from that, I know we're capable of doling out a lot of crap, too. And that angers me. I mean, what happens to people when they go on dates? Or meet someone they think they might want to date? I'm not into The Rules thing, but, who calls a person they barely know but want to get to know better and asks them "out" for a "date" in a few hours or even minutes. Again, not an isolated incident. I've had this happen so often I accept it as normal behavior. Why this angers me is that it puts me in a position of having to either drop everything and go on the "date" or turn down the "date" thus being branded as lacking spontaneity or a "Rules" bitch or risk giving the impression I'm not interested in the guy. It's disrespectful. I'm usually up for any sort of spur of the moment plan, you know, in real life. But in dating life, particularly early dating life, I like to have a little notice, get myself ready, take my medication... Stupid dating. Stupid men. Stupid shallow superficial people who say they care about what's inside but only if what's inside comes in a pretty/young/rich outside.
See what I mean about this repressed anger? One minute I'm laying there thinking, "Darn it, I could have died, accidentally, end of problem, end of story." The next minute I'm all mad and ranting. All that voiding of emotion, all the work, all the progress, all that no feeling, no expectations, all of it gone with one sting of a bee.
Or. Well, maybe not all of it. Apparently the feeling and emotion I've got an issue with is anger. I figured this out a few months ago and thought I was doing better about simply not feeling anything over things which would normally make me angry. But old habits apparently die very hard.
And it's difficult the tell the difference between repressing an emotion and simply not feeling it in the first place. That's the wisdom of the bee sting. Repression = bad. Not feeling it all = good. This was kind of a good test for me. I know where I need work. I know people are still annoying and angering me, I'm just repressing my angry emotions, not voiding them.
The good news is that I didn't swell with feelings of regret or sadness or, what's that word? The four letter one? Oh yeah, love. I think that may be because somewhere in all of it I didn't "feel" like I was in serious danger, or, if I was, that I was okay with it.
That's cool to know, useful. I must have felt that things were in control. Oh sure, the trust in the medical community factor is a little disconcerting, but the "eh, if I die, so what?" aspect is reassuring. I've never been afraid of death, but it's nice to know, by way of life threatening situation, that it's not just false bravado or delusion. Maybe if the whole thing had been more horrific or painful I'd be singing a different tune. Yes, the sting hurt, yes, the not being able to breath thing was unpleasant at first, but then it was all quite hazy and distant and removed and really not so bad.
Well.
Until I was released from ER and went to my parents' house and slept for 12 hours straight. Which, you know, for me, is unsurpassed. And what's the problem with me and sleep? Dreams. Weird, bad, dreams. Bill Murray showed up in one of them but I don't remember much about it except that I thought, "hey, Bill Murray's back in my dream, that hasn't happened for a while." HWNMNBS showed up in another one, I don't remember much about that either except he had a haircut and mustache from 1976 so he kind of looked like Burt Reynolds which is a really, really scary bit of Freudian weirdness. My sister and I were arguing in another one, something stupid, something which was making my mother upset and I was trying to get my sister to stop because it was upsetting our mother and you wanna talk about repressed and Freudian issues with that one?
But then I had a really long and vivid dream. I was sleeping in my little girl bedroom, exactly like it was when I was a little girl, right down to my favorite doll and teddy rabbit in the bed. Except I was old and not a little girl. And I was alone and I wasn't feeling well and having asthma problems and calling out for someone to bring my inhaler but no one came, and the room was all sunny and bright and cheery and happy little girlish, and I was struck by the irony of that happy cheeriness while I was laying there suffering and I was thinking how irony has plagued me from my moment of conception and how I could really do with a lot less irony in my life and how it doesn't matter anyway because it's just me and none of it matters and hey, sometimes it's good for a laugh, and then I woke up and discovered somehow during all of this I'd got up, crossed the room, reached up and plucked my doll and teddy rabbit from a shelf without knocking off the Beatrix Potter Royal Doultans or photos or books or other stuff on the shelves and taken them back to bed with me. I marveled at my somnambulistic prowess. Then thought my mother must have tucked them in with me, which would be a little weird, but not entirely, because my mother's kind of that way. Daughter not feeling well in little girl bedroom = give daughter her favorite little girl things.
But given the positioning and height of the shelf it would be more of a feat of accomplishment for my awake and aware mother to procure the doll and rabbit without knocking off anything else than it would be for me to do the same in my sleep. And that realization was the one that hit me the hardest. Okay, sure, it's a little freaky weird to think I was wandering about gathering toys in my sleep and taking them back to bed with me, but hey, I was on some pretty serious drugs and at least I wasn't dreaming about gathering pollen or living in a hive or building a honeycomb-like structure or working as a drone for the queen and I didn't wake up covered in honey.
Weird is relative.
The realization that my mother is incapable of basic things like maneuvering toys off a shelf without knocking other stuff down and maybe even losing her balance and falling in the process is scarier than any drug induced nightmare or somnambulistic escapade. So how about that? Not afraid to die but nearly scared to death that my mother's struggling and maybe nearing death. What the swut does that mean? I care more about my mother's life than mine. Well, duh, yeah. But there's something else there, more to it. Something about fear and anger and my complete lack of regard for my own life and paranoid concern for my mother's.
Ah. Well. Maybe there is something about that love thing. Not romantic love because I've made peace with the fact that that ain't gonna happen for me. I'm okay with that. It's not even sad to me anymore. I don't need to know what love is, I do know. Been there, done that, got the heartache and jaded cynicism to prove it. That's one feeling I don't miss. I used to miss feeling love, but the broken trust and broken heart suck and and I didn't miss those feelings. Stop remembering love, stop missing love, don't think about it, ever, and everyone's a lot happier.
But then there's that other love, that family love, friend love. Those kinds of love can suck sometimes, too, but somehow they don't suck the same. What I think I'm fearing is that even though I think I'm bitter and cynical and can face anything, even death, the fact is that none of this has prepared me or calms the fear over losing my mother.
I have no idea what the anger thing has to do with any of that. Maybe I'm angry at myself for not sorting this out sooner. Or maybe I'm kicking the jaded cynicism up a notch to embittered. Soon I'll be the weird cat lady who's always by herself shaking a cane in the air and yelling mean rants at the world.
Oh wait. Apart from the cane I'm already there.
Stupid bee sting. Dumb drug induced dreams. Idiotic ironic life. It would have been so much simpler if I'd just died or, better, never been stung at all. I was doing okay before the sting. Not happy, not sad, feeling nothing, merely existing. It had it's moments. Emotionally vacuous moments of nothingness bliss between plodding toil of work, eat, sleep if you can, life, death. And now this. Anger. Fear. Great, it's gonna be another rockin' Summer.
**Frankie's got a tactic with these loud public mobile phone talkers: She joins in the conversation. So far all she's had are dirty looks, scoffs and some "I'm not talking to yous!" Frankie thrives on this reaction. Because she then says, "Oh, excuse me. I'm sorry. It's just that you're talking loud enough in a public place to include all of us in your conversation so naturally I assumed you were talking to us so I joined in the discussion. Perhaps you might consider carrying out your private conversations in private place or quietly enough so as not to include the public in your private conversations." So far no one's scratched her eyes out or pulled a weapon on her which surprises me. I swutting love Frankie. I'd miss her a lot if someone pulled a weapon on her so I hope that doesn't happen.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Bill Murray came back a few nights ago. He came to my compartment and I made him tofu tacos. He liked them. He liked how I put the cheese in the shell before the tofu because it made the cheese all melty on the shell. Which is why I make tacos that way. It just seems obvious to me and I never understand why people always put the cheese on top of tacos. I think I said pretty much that exact thing to Bill and he felt it was symptomatic of the decay of and decline of creativity, everything's prepackaged or ready to assemble and people don't bother to think about the actual best way to do something. He liked that I used real cheese instead of soy cheese. I told him sometimes I use soy cheese and when I was vegan I didn't bother with soy cheese because it's gross and not cheese at all and that's finally why I didn't make it as a vegan because I missed real cheese. He seemed to understand and approve. He stood and looked out my living room window drinking a bottle of Vernor's for a really long time. The forward momentum in this dream is that it's the first time Bill appeared somewhere I recognized. Not only did I recognize the location, it was my own compartment. Surely that Means Something. After dreams set in unrecognized locations, this one was in my apartment. Bill was in my compartment. Having tofu tacos. Oh, and the cheese thing has got to be pulled from Broken Flowers. I think that's good. Something that's really just more of a memory from one of Bill's movies as opposed to some weirdo emotional concoction I've literally dreamt up makes me feel better about my psyche. I'm trying to think of this as a break through and maybe soon I'll dream about something or someone other than Bill Murray.
Anyway, Bill was really depressed and he just kept standing there looking out the window into space. It was one of those moments when the silence wasn't uncomfortable, but I was wishing I was a wiser person better at saying the exact right thing without having it come out like a smarmy platitude. But I didn't know what to say and I knew it didn't really matter because Bill just wanted silence and really, so did I.
Then he was taking a bath. A really, really hot bath in my bathroom. No. Not sexy hot. Hot hot. Temperature hot. My entire compartment was filled with steam. The windows were fogged. I couldn't see anything. Furry Creature meowed and I tried to follow the sound of his meow to find him. I'd call him, he'd meow, and he'd be farther away. I was panicking because my compartment's not that big but Furry Creature sounded like he was getting really, really far away from me and I couldn't see anything because of all that steam pouring out of the bathroom from Bill Murray's hot bath.
And the next thing I remember after that Bill was telling me how much he liked my Lush Veganese hair conditioner.
Later I slipped a new bottle I'd just bought into Bill's messenger bag. Yes. He carries a messenger bag sometimes. At least in the dreams he does. I dunno. I guess he's got a lot of stuff. I saw an iPod Nano in his bag and I thought it was weird Bill Murray's only got a Nano. But I couldn't say anything because I didn't want him to think I was going through his stuff when in fact I was merely slipping a bottle of hair conditioner in his bag as a surprise for later.
Then I worried that when he found the conditioner in his bag he'd know I saw in his bag and he'd know I know he only has a Nano and maybe he'd think I saw other stuff, too, and he might be really embarrassed and upset instead of happy about the surprise of the conditioner in his bag.
Hey, you know I'm a mess. What do you expect from my dreams? Fluid streams of brilliance unrivaled? If so, you're at the wrong blog.
I'm messed up bad and I want my mother.
The irony in that plea is that she's laying right in front of me.
Or. Well. Her body's there. Or what's left of it. The "food" she gets via a feeding tube, while "packed with nutrients!" and keeping her alive, is not exactly bulking her up to a weight anywhere near normal or healthy. Even by Hollywood and advertising female weight standards she's too thin. But hey, she's alive. Maybe it's easier to keep less of her alive. The real time display of her vital stats assures me that she's still alive. I take a lot of comfort in those stats because sometimes she scares me. Her face which is normally full of expression is now gaunt and, well, lifeless. I know it's my mother but, well, I would have difficulty picking her out of a lineup at this point. That thought simultaneously scares and confuses me. It's my mother for crying out loud. No matter what I should be able to recognize her. But I don't. Sometimes when I've spent nonstop hours at her bedside I get kind of, I don't know, disoriented. I half forget why I'm here and what's happening. I have to remind myself that's my mother laying there attached to all that medical equipment.
Call it coincidence or the supernatural power of the maternal bond, but it's almost always at those moments that she'll snap alive into a moment of lucidity. Which is nice for me but I think scary and confusing for her. And that really stinks. Ever have anyone grab your hand with desperation and fear? Ever have anyone on life support do this to you? Ever have your mother on life support do this to you? I hope not. I really hope not. But if you have, you've got my strongest sympathies.
I thought, "Hey, Trill, you've been through a lot, you've endured a lot, you've had your emotions hurt and abused so badly you developed a coping technique wherein you voided all emotions from yourself. I mean, c'mon. If anyone should be siting here dealing with this it's you. Who better? You're an experienced and trained professional when it comes to dealing with pain and suffering."
"Yeah. Well," I thought back at myself, "nothing prepares you for this It's my mother we're talking about here. My mother."
"Ha! Not so tough are you now, Emotionless Girl," I thought back at myself.
True. All true. Not so tough. Not so emotionless. Not so able to cope. I want my mother.
Yes. I'm running like a sissy girl to my mummy. Except she's not there. Well. She's there. But not there. There's a woman laying there who has a tag with her name and birth date, and every now and then she responds to her name. So. You know. I guess she's there. I keep pretending for her sake and what's left of my sanity that she's there just like always. But I dunno. Maybe that's annoying her. Maybe she's laying there thinking, "You stupid girl, I'm obviously not normal, here. Why are you talking to me as if there's nothing wrong? All the nurses talk in that condescending baby voice for a reason. This is ICU. This is not normal. Placate me, will ya?"
The doctors and nurses look at her but talk to me. Like I'm her interpreter. Or because they think I'm conscious and cognitive. I'm not the one on life support so you know, it's all relative. But. I don't feel conscious and cognitive. In fact I feel like I could benefit from a couple of days on life support myself. I'm good at sleep deprivation. I've been deprived of sleep since, well, forever. So it's not the lack of sleep. It's the hours upon hours of time spent sitting in an ICU room waiting for something. I don't know what I'm waiting for until it happens, but mainly I wait for my mother to show some sign of consciousness which might result in her having an increasingly rare moment of lucidity. In those moments she's afraid or confused. I try to calm her and explain stuff to her. She can't talk but she mouths words and pleads with her eyes.
A few days ago I completely misunderstood what she was trying to say, and when I said, "Agnes can't believe what, Mum?" My mother actually laughed. Not a big guffaw or anything, but, you know, a laugh. Turns out she was trying to say "I just can't breath well." Which made the fact that I made her laugh with my misunderstanding beyond bittersweet. Sometimes when she's "awake" she cracks her eyes open a little and just smiles at me. On a really strong day she'll try to raise her hand and point a finger at me and then at the window. That's her way of telling me to go home. She once mouthed Furry Creature and tried to point to a photo of him.
There are a few good signs, a few glimmers of hope. I cling to those. Delusional though it may be, little bits of hope is all I've got.
My parents know a lot of people. Lots of friends. Very involved in their community. Church people. This is good. Except. The ICU is allowing my mother to have some visitors. One or two at a time for a few hours a day. So friends have organized visitation schedules. Again, very nice, thoughtful, you know, great. That's what friends are for and all that. But. These people parade in, cock their heads in that beatific funeral kind of way, sigh, pat my hand and say, "She looks peaceful/at rest/calm."
Okay.
Um.
She's not actually dead.
But every time this happens I find my gaze rushing to her vital stat monitor thinking these guests know something I don't.
I know it's difficult to find words at times like these.
I wouldn't know what to say to me. I wouldn't know what to say at all.
But.
Even if I thought, "Wow. She looks peaceful/at rest/calm," I think/hope I would have the common sense/courtesy to not say the funeral clichés in front of her or in front of her daughter. Maybe I would. I know sometimes words just slip out before people realize they're talking like they're at a funeral. But. You know. Worried and upset daughter at her mother's ICU bedside, here. Just a little scared. A little jumpy. Might wanna not frighten the poor girl more than she already is.
But people continue this funeral speak. I really want my mother to recover. I want her to be well. Mainly for her sake. And my father's. And mine. But mainly for hers. Because her very recovery and consciousness will spite all these funeral cliché talkers. She probably won't know how they effectively wrote her off, but they'll know and maybe they'll wonder if she remembers how they talked about her when she was in intensive care.
Yeah yeah, vengeance isn't healthy or even fun. I know. But it's so irksome and rude of these people to talk this way. If that's what friends are for I'm going to have to rethink this friend business.
Makes me kind of glad I'm leading an increasingly isolated life. If it comes to this point for me at least there won't be people parading by and saying funeral clichés at me when I'm clinging to life on life support.
And about this peaceful/at rest/calm thing. Sometimes my mother really does look restful and calm. But a lot of times she looks uncomfortable and afraid.
I wonder why no one ever says, "Wow. She looks so panicked," or "She doesn't look she's at peace?" I know people say these things in an attempt to make everyone feel okay about what's happening, but the fact is that it's not okay. We all know that. So why pussyfoot around the obvious? No, I don't expect or even want anyone to say, "Whoa. Trill. Your mother looks really bad. Waddaya think, a week, two tops?" In fact I have no idea what I want people to say. I guess nothing. Or whatever they'd normally say. Nag me about the woeful state of my life. I'd welcome an innuendo laden "still not married, eh Trill?" at this point. I'd enthusiastically join into a conversation about my lack of home, car and major appliance ownership. But no. Instead they come in, do the beatific head cock and smile, pat my hand and say, "She looks so restful/at peace/calm."
Want to say: "Um, she's not actually dead and she's far from calm or at peace. She's scared and confused and so doped up she doesn't know up from down. She's got machines performing every bodily function for her and do not get me started on how uncomfortable that bed is. So wipe that smarmy beatific smile off that cocked face of yours and deal with her reality. She might get better, she might not. Hold you comments for the end, okay? Because it's not helping anyone now."
Say instead, "Yes, she's having a nice sleep."
And then there are the ones who come in, plop themselves down and spend a couple of hours talking about what they or their cousin or their spouse went through before they died. Detailed descriptions of procedures and bodily functions and medical anomalies all of which inevitably end in disaster. "'Course, it was too late, lost him the next day," "Made it through the surgery but came down with a staph infection and died two weeks later." "You remember Carole, she was on life support for four months before they finally pulled the plug and let her go in peace."
Yes. People have said these things to me and in front of my mother who's on life support.
Hell is other people.
Yes.
Hell.
God. Heaven. Hell.
One of the few reasons I allow some wonder about a supreme deity is that life can be so crappy for some people that it makes me wonder if this is in fact Hell. There can't be a Hell without a God and therefore, at Hellish times like these I think, "Yeah, maybe there's a God because this sure seems like Hell."
And the thing that's really put me on an existential bent is that fact that I've been sitting here in the ICU of a large hospital off and on for several weeks. My mother is in the second to highest critical care room. The only higher care room is across the hall. I've learned why it's the highest care room and why it's placed where it is. It's the last chance room. It took me a few days to figure this out. But after the fourth Code Blue and everyone running to that room, lots of hubbub and then uncharacteristically quiet hallways I realized: That's the scary bad last chance room. I didn't keep track at first, but somewhere in all of this I started an unconscious tally of doom. There have been 24 Code Blues since I started unconsciously keeping track. One of those was my mother. (She's been Code Blue twice, but only once since the unconscious conscious tally of doom began) The rest were all in the room across the hall. Unfortunately for them, most of those have not ended well for the patients. Or. I don't know. Maybe it was a good ending for them. Maybe they were in pain and suffering. But the thing is, it's not a calm way to go. It's frantic and noisy and desperate. Healthcare professionals are great, you know, really great. They save lives, care for sick people, I mean, I have no words for how great most of these people are. But. Imagine laying there, you know, dying, and having alarms ringing and people in smocks running all around you and beating on you and injecting you frantically trying to keep you alive. But if it's your time, all the medical care in the world isn't going to do a thing. I'm not saying they should just give up on people, but you know, it's just not a very calm or peaceful way to leave.
I’m learning a lot. Mainly I’m learning a lot about how I don’t want to die. I mean, I’m okay with dying. I’m ready. I just don’t want to do it in a hospital. I want to be DOA. No life support, no friends visiting and making funeral comments before I’m even dead, no Code Blues, no alarms or people rushing around trying to save me. Nope. Not for me. DOA is definitely the way to go.
I know. I know. I need to get out more. I need to not spend so much time hanging around an ICU ward. It messes with your mind. If you’re not actually sick, spend a day or two in ICU and you’ll be sick and in need of therapy. Which makes me wonder about the people who choose to work in intensive care units. I mean, you know, glad there are people who make this choice, hats off to them. But. Still. I’m just visiting and I’m getting seriously sick, physically and mentally. I cannot even begin to imagine what it’s like to work in this environment. I hate my job but it’s looking like a fun day at the park compared to what these people deal with on a daily basis.
Speaking of work, you know what stinks? I have to leave my mother and go back to work. “Trill I know this is a bad time for you, but you know that Big Project? Yeah. Well. The client wants it now instead of next month so could you come into the office for a few days?”
Okay. I realize the world doesn’t stop because my mother’s in ICU. I realize this will probably go on a long, long time and I cannot possibly be with her until she gets better or, well. The other thing. I have job. I have a responsibility to that job. It’s not more important than my mother or my responsibility to her. But. It’s a responsibility nonetheless. I’m almost out of vacation and sick days so I’ll have to go on family leave, which means I don’t get paid which means I can’t pay rent which means I end up living on the street or in the ICU but they don’t allow cats in ICU so that’s a problem, so yeah. I have to back to work. I have to leave my mother. Like this. Now. In her condition. It’s wrong. It’s absolutey wrong. But I have to make the choice.
“Travel! See the world! Be independant!” All the things my mother wanted me to do. Grow up, move away, live my life. Okay, check, check, check. But now she needs me and all that moving away and living my life business is causing huge conflicts. I can’t be with her and live my life.
I’m scared to leave. I’m afraid “something” will happen when I’m gone. I’ve seen what happens here when there’s a Code Blue. They pull me out of the room so fast I don’t even know I’m gone. So if “something” happened I wouldn’t actually be at her side anyway. But. Still. I wouldn’t be six hours away, either.
The nurses and doctors tell me this is a good time for me to take a break. She’s critcal but stable. Critical doesn’t sound at all stable to me. Critical sounds critical to me.
My boss said the Big Project deadline is critical. That annoyed me. Lady, you don’t know what critical means.
Mother in critical condition. Job in critical condition. What do people do in these situations? To me, there’s no choice. My mother is more important than any project or job.
But business is business. And if I can’t manage my personal life, if it’s interfering with my job, then I have a problem.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Last night I ran into Bill Murray at the ATM. Which I thought was weird. I guess I thought people "like" Bill Murray don't need ATMs. I don't know why I thought people like Bill Murray wouldn't need cash, but for some reason I thought I never gave it enough thought to care about thinking about why I would think they wouldn't need cash or use an ATM. I think I might have thought they had their people do that for them. But then how would the whole exchange of cash happen? Would they have their gopher bring an envelope of cash to their house or hotel? That would be kind of weird. And inconvenient.
This is why it's a good thing I will never be rich or famous. Not only do I not know how to play the game, I wouldn't know how to perform regular tasks. I'd be a really bad rich or famous person. I'd constantly be caught by the National Enquirer in those candid photos of rich and famous people doing regular stuff and looking really bad.
Anyway, I was in a mad panic rush depositing a check at the ATM. I was upset and worried because I hadn't arrived before close of business because I had a problem at work so my deposit wasn't going to count until the next business day which wasn't until Tuesday and it was only Friday night. But I was still feverishly trying to get the deposit in there thinking maybe 2 minutes past the hour might still count as that business day. But I knew it wouldn't because this is the same bank which charged me a $35 overdraft fee when I once dipped 3¢ negative for approximately six hours between close of business and 12:01 AM when my direct deposit clicked into my account. (That wasn't just in my dream, that actually happened in real life.) So I was all stressed and tense knowing I was a few minutes too late but for some insane reason still all worked up to a fever pitch trying to speed up the ATM deposit process. I was thinking the ATMs are purposely programmed to operate slowly so that the bank can potentially make a lot of money in $35 overdraft fees with the extra minute the ATM takes to process the deposit. Yes. I'm a little on the paranoid conspiracy side of things in my dreams.
I was standing there trying to shove the deposit envelope into the ATM faster than it would accept it when Bill came into the lobby. He seemed happy to see me and not the least bit surprised to run into me. I thought it was weird to see him there but I didn't want to embarrass him or myself so I just tried to act casual. I mean, I was happy to see him, too, and it wasn't weird for me to be seeing and talking to Bill Murray as if we were lifelong friends, but weird because I thought "here's this guy I know well enough that I don't think of him as a celebrity, yet I wondered if he carries cash or why he would even need cash." So it felt awkward for me because I felt like I wasn't a very good friend. Even though we've been through so much together I had no idea he used ATMs or that he even needed cash, but then, why wouldn't he need cash?
Seriously, this is why it's really good that I will never be rich or famous.
Anyway, he invited me to go to the movies with him and his wife.
More real life stress in my dreams.
I really felt like taking in a movie with friends but because I was making a mad dash deposit and missed the close of business deadline I knew I was cash poor. I couldn’t afford to go to a full price evening movie because I wasn’t certain without that deposit posting that day I’d even have enough cash to feed Furry Creature until Tuesday. So I thanked him and made up a polite excuse.
This happens to me a lot in real life, too. People, friends, invite me to go places and do things but I decline the invites because I simply cannot afford to play with them. They don’t worry about catching a movie at the matineé or cheap theatre pricing. They don’t worry about going out to lunch instead of dinner because it’s less expensive. They don’t worry about waiting for final mark-down sales because they can afford to shop at full retail. Basically, they don’t live on a fixed income like a poor or cheap senior citizen or college student. So they can live their lives like normal people, going to movies and dinner on weekend nights and shopping for in-season goods when the goods are, well, in season.
And there was this issue playing out in my dream. And, as with my real life friends I’m sure if Bill knew the truth he’d happily offer and even insist on paying my way. Which is really swell of my friends (I have really swell friends) but I’m really sick of being a charity case. Not that they view me as charity or in any way imply that. It’s all me and my own dissatisfaction with my ability to bring in a decent income or find a husband to share financial burdens.
So, just like in real life, I moped off home to my tiny compartment wishing I could afford to go to the movie with my friends instead, but too stressed about missing the close of business at the bank to spend the cash on something as frivolous as entertainment.
Sleeping = dreams, dreams = stress and anxiety, so for me sleeping = stress and anxiety.
So I think I’m going to cut off the medication and go back to not sleeping. At least that way I’m not plagued by all too real and every day stressful situations via Bill Murray.
Meanwhile, back on the dating sites a similar issue is cropping up. All these drinks after work, cups of tea for coffee dates, transportation to and from the rendezvouses have cost me a lot of money. Money I could have spent doing something with my friends. Money I could have spend enjoying myself. Money I could have not spent at all.
As much as I just want the whole 50 first dates thing to be over, I’m not exactly eager to spend more money, another penny, on a wasted first date. And yes, at this point, no matter what sort of inspirational/motivational greeting card platitude line of crap you want to spin on it, these dates have all been wastes of time and money.
Have I learned anything about myself? No, not really, not anything particularly useful other than confirmation that I am in fact not only unloveable but also undateable.
Have I learned anything about men? Well. Now. I suppose yes, I have. Although again, nothing particularly useful for my purposes. What I’ve learned about men in general during this whole thing has mainly concerned or annoyed me. What I’ve learned about men is that they deem me not only unloveable but undateable. I’ve learned they are (generally, guys, generally, I’m not talking about you, I know you’re swell) selfish, egotistical, hypocritical, shallow, arrogant, lying, real estate hawking jerks with little sense of humor and even less intelligence who really just want quick and easy sex with a slim petite blonde or Asian between the ages of 18 - 25.
Easy there, boys, easy. I know, I know, you’re not all like that. I know. But you’re married or dating or living thousands of miles away or gay or not interested in me.
And I also know the source this treasure trove of men must be considered in the equation. Go fishing in shallow muddy water and you’re going to catch a lot of bottom feeders.
Right. Back to my situation with the dates. I am beyond broke. I have medical and dental expenses like you cannot believe. If the choice is a) meet a guy for a first date or b) do something with a friend or c) feed my cat, well, I think it’s meeting yet another guy for a first date is not my first choice.
Maybe if I were more psyched for the dates or the men. Maybe if some, or even one, really swell guy were interested in me I’d feel very differently.
But now I absolutely have to add the financial factor into my decision making about what men I will actually meet in person.
Not only do they now have to pass a few email and phone call hurdles before I’ll consider meeting them, they also have to pass the money worthy test. I have to ask myself if I honestly think he’s worth the $10+ I’d spend on that meeting. Well. Maybe not him so much as the date. Yes. That’s better. Is the date worth $10+?
In most cases so far: No.
So with that in mind, here’s this week’s
Okay, this week's creeps might have potential. But I'm not sure. My intuition says no but maybe I'm wrong.
Right off the bat I had misgivings. Why? Idiotic and possibly suggestive screen name. AllNightLong. Okay. He's either bragging or is a big Lionel Richie fan. Either way, big red flag on the screen name.
Okay, I could live with the bragging but I could never seriously date a Lionel Richie fan.
His winning first impression letter of introduction? Oh, he's quite the charmer. He found my profile "really funny. I LMAO! No one makes fun of loser on these sites. Its [sic] awesome you do."
Okay, um, see, the thing is, I don't make fun of anyone, loser or otherwise, in my profile. When I mention the sort of man I'd like to meet I'm very serious. Credit to AllNightLong, though, because he actually read my profile. Apparently he took me at my word that I have a sarcastic sense of humor. Apparently he thought my profile was one long sarcastic joke at people, "losers," who use online dating sites.
Because he then went on to say, "How many losers think your [sic] serious?"
Well, AllNightLong, a lot of jerks and weirdoes, but so far only one bona fide loser.
But maybe I'm too harsh.
Maybe AllNightLong is exactly the sort of guy I need to meet. He's interested in dating or a serious relationship. But not marriage. Okay, I usually bottom of the list the guys who aren't brave enough to admit or really do not want to consider marriage. But he's open to a serious relationship. And after all, he's a few years younger than me, doesn't smoke, is employed in sales and he's tall. I mean, what more do I really need? A non-smoking tall young stud in sales. A girl could do worse for herself.
Except I have concerns about his career. One of the key strategies of selling anything, including yourself, is to never assume anything. If he's bold/stupid enough to assume I'm making fun of people in my profile, and even bolder enough to write me explaining he thinks it's funny that I'm making fun of people, well, I'm guessing he's not the top earner every quarter. I'm guessing he barely makes his quota. If it weren't for the guys down at the shop putting in their monthly order he'd be in big trouble with the team drive leader.
It's not that I want a rich guy. It's not even that I want a man with a "good" job. But I don't want a guy depending on a sales commission which he's too stupid to earn because he goes around making assumptions and offending/alienating/angering potential customers by broadcasting those assumptions.
But then, on the other hand, my assumption is he's a bad salesman who either goes all night long or listens to a lot of Lionel Richie. So what if his people skills are lacking and he's a jerk about labeling people losers? I could be in for all night long fun or torture depending on the Lionel Richie thing.
I don't know. Normally I'd think no. But, if I'm going to waste money on a date maybe wasting it on a guy with almost no potential for compatibility would be a healthier way to waste money. Like buying a lottery ticket or playing a slot machine. Except I don't do either so why would I gamble what little money I have on a very long shot date?
Well, because the other contender for my time and money is a guy who has also took the insult route in his bid for my affections.
Maybe this is a trend. Maybe this is something I've missed in my spotty dating career. Maybe there are women out there who respond favorably to being insulted. Maybe it’s completely normal for men to insult a woman they claim to want to meet and date. I realize manners have gone the way of the typewriter (only used by a few old fashioned, stubborn or quirky people). I realize being rude is the accepted behavioral norm. I am more surprised and bewildered when people are polite and mannerly than when they’re rude and inconsiderate. At least in the realm of every day life. What I didn’t realize and find confusing is rudeness and inconsideration in the realm of dating.
If a person is not interested in meeting or dating another person, a) why approach them and b) why bother to insult them? Why take and waste the time to send emails explaining all the reasons why they’re not interested in a person they found on an online dating site?
And if you think I’m making that up, guess again. One thing I haven’t mentioned is all the email I get from men, men who I have not contacted, by the way, men who are making the first move and contacting me, solely to tell me all the ways in which I am wrong and horrible and have no business being on an online dating site.
Yes. This is unsolicited and abusive. Yes. I forward some of the scarier and foul language laden emails to the site administrator. But most of them are not threatening (though I’ve had a few threats of physical violence. Seriously, there are some seriously bad people on dating sites. Hence the much needed and respected veil of anonymity.) Most of them are men who are mad at me for being, well, me. I’m not what they’re hoping to find on an online dating site so they don’t hesitate to tell me the mere presence of my profile on the dating site has offended, annoyed or bothered them. Actual quotes from email I’ve received from men over the past two years: “Who let you on here? I’m canceling my membership because I don’t want to be associated with women like you.” “Go back to the farm with the other pigs and cows.” “Women like you give online dating a bad name.” “No one’s that desperate, don’t waste any more money, cancel your membership.” And my so far all time favorite: “UR ugly and stoopid and ur profile is dum. Ur so NOT hot. I hate you.”
Yeah. Online dating is a lot of fun.
Actually, it is because you get to see the inside workings of a lot of mens’ minds. I can only conclude a lot of men are harboring Playboy-esque fantasies and are moved to violence and abuse when they realize they can’t fulfill those fantasies on an online dating site. Which is why I am very against sites like True which has not resorted to heavily marketing and selling the sex angle by using very hot young models with suggestive headlines luring in young boys and immature men who respond to those types of images. What these men don’t understand is that they’ve been duped by marketing. They’ve been suckered in by the oldest form of advertising. They fell for the oldest trick in the marketing book, splashed out their credit card and then blam! they looked at the actual women on the site and realized the girls in the ads were not actually posted in profiles. Then they take it out on the women who are not like the models in the ads. No. Not exactly mature and intelligent, but when it comes to dating and especially sex I’ve learned men can be really immature and stupid.
To be fair to a few men who have been led on and used by online dating sites there are a few really seedy sites who use fake profiles - good looking model photos and hot profiles - to lure in the above types of men. They tease them along, maybe even have one of the administrators send an email once in a while to keep up the interest, but they will never result in dates with the models in the photos. Just so we’re all clear that that happens on some sites. Yes. It hurts everyone which is why people need to be savvy and cautious and realistic when using these sites.
Still, I have a difficult time excusing the insulting and unsolicited comments from these men. I understand their frustration. Sort of, well, not really. I mean, come on, if they’re stupid enough to think they’re going to find comely women like the women in the True ads who want to do Jell-O shots and get freaky in the hot tub with them, well, then, harsh as it sounds, they’re stupid enough to need a lesson or two in reality.
If a guy can’t score with comely girls in real life he’s not going to do any better on online dating sites.
It’s just a fact.
A fact apparently a lot of men don’t understand or want to face. They’ve got the Jell-O shots ready and they want to get freaky with hot young bikini models in a hot tub. They’re frustrated. They’re little boys denied their candy. So they lash out at any woman who’s not what they want. Try to feed broccoli to a three-year-old who’s got sugar on the brain. Watch what happens. You’ll see that three-year-old respond exactly the way these men do: Pouting, screaming, kicking, crying tantrums.
Yes. I have achieved quite a level of understanding about all of this.
And in some ways I’m the same. I’m frustrated and annoyed by the whole process. The difference is I blame myself in most cases. I find and meet some really great guys but they’re not interested in me “that” way. I’m always too something. They find me to be too old, too young, too smart, too stupid, too sarcastic, too boring, too ugly, too tall, too professional, too nice, too (and I hate this one most) too good for them. Mainly, the men I meet who are interested in me are nothing but relationship disasters waiting to happen.
I’ve tried, you know, I’ve really tried, but it’s so obvious these guys and I are not right for each other. I can’t see us wasting time on dates which are never, ever lead to the kinds of relationships we want. And that’s frustrating for me. But it’s an age old situation. Finding the right person, that mutual thing, is really difficult. Other people make it look so easy, but it’s not. It was just complete, utter, dumb (and now I realize bad) luck that HWNMNBS and I met. There’s no formula, no plan, no easy way to make it happen. Online dating is potentially a good way to narrow the field a bit, but really, it’s all luck in the sense that it’s a right place, right time sort of thing.
I do not believe in fate or kismet. I reconsidered that opinion when I met HWNMNBS, I really did wonder if there was something to the whole fate thing. We just instantly got along so well and we seemed so right together that there was a “this is fate” feeling to it. But obviously now in hind sight if there was any fate involved it was only perilous fate. Hardly kismet and destiny. Unless of course my destiny is to be a jaded, confused, lonely spinster who was spurned by the only man she ever really loved. In which case I’m fulfilling my destiny quite nicely. All that’s left is to die alone with a bunch of cats.
Right. Creep #2.
Insulted me in his first email to me.
“Your [sic] not like the girls I date but I need someone mature to take to some work functions. Realistically this the best you can hope for. I don’t want a relationship but I’m a great catch. Good looking, inteligent, [sic] (I cannot tell you how hard I laughed when I saw that he misspelled intelligent) wealthy and well connected. You must be able to dress well and make polite and professional conversation with my clients. There will be no sex and you won’t be dating me but that will be our secret. You will have to be ready and willing to go out at a moments [sic] notice. I have photos I can send you so that you can see what a great deal this is for you if I choose you.”
Um. Yeah. Okay. Sign me up for that version of The Bachelor.Yet another example of reality television distorting peoples’ ideas of reality. He’s proposing that I be his business function concubine without sex, of course. Because I’m not like girls he dates. Girls who apparently cannot dress well and/or make polite and professional conversation and are immature.
The thing about this guy is that I partially understand his situation. I have work functions, too. Having a date not only makes them easier to stomach, but also acts as a reassuring visual for clients. Clients want to know they’re investing their money with someone who is capable of doing a great job. They want to put their money with someone who is normal and well adjusted. Being repeatedly seen alone or, apparently in this guy’s case, with badly dressed rude unprofessional women, is not reassuring for clients. Yes. This is so old school that it makes me cringe to even think about it. I had no idea this outmoded train of thought still existed. But, take it from one who’s been through this for a while. It makes a subtle difference. People perceive you differently. People assume there’s something really wrong with you when you never show up with a date or several bad ones. So when it comes time to get down to the business of business, in the back of their mind is that very subtle difference between you and your competition for the business. If the competition is a normal person with a normal girl/boyfriend/spouse, the subtle difference in perception of well adjustment can make a difference. It’s impossible to prove apart from what I’ve seen and heard.
So I understand his situation. He could be useful for me, too. If he agreed to by my date at work functions we could have a mutually rewarding partnership.
Rent a date.
But, I just, well, I mean, as much as I understand his situation and as much as I, too, have thought about resorting to a similar tactic, the “realistically the best I can hope for” line is so insulting and rude and just plain mean and unnecessary that I’m having difficulty getting past it. Not that I’m interested in him. His profile didn’t interest me. He’s a cliché “comfortable in jeans or tux” guy. The 10 photos he posted show an okay looking guy: In a tux, and jeans, and on a boat, and skiing, and in a hotel suite with NYC in the window in the background, and on several beaches, and oddly, eating in someone’s modest kitchen.
And he wants to send me more photos. Apparently he either thinks I need persuading or he really likes to show off photos of himself. I think we all know which is the case. Ego. Huge, stinking, gross ego.
Normally I’d delete. But, the “you never know who he might know” thing is nagging at me. And no, I don’t mean he might have a less narcissistic friend, but that going with him to his business functions might put me in front of people who could be useful in my career.
Yes. I am considering using him for his business connections. He would be my career networking concubine.
If you’re sitting there thinking, “Gosh Trill, that doesn’t really sound like you...” You’re right. It doesn’t. But. I really, really, really have to secure a new (and better paying) job and I need to do it very soon.
Obviously based on my stressful money related dream I’ve got financial problems which need resolving. Mr. Insult You, But Here Look at Me and How Wonderful I Am could be a way to make some different contacts than I usually have the opportunity to make. I can’t very well go around letting people, my clients, know that I’m so miserable at my job at my work functions.
But, at someone else’s work functions, under the guise of social intercourse, I might be able to get a fresh perspective on the job market.
Yes. I know. This sounds like the plot to a really bad movie.
But then, my entire life has been like the plot to a really bad movie.
So I don’t know. Maybe I’ll try to forget about the insults and give Mr. Insult You, But Here Look at Me and How Wonderful I Am a try. Waste a little money on meeting him, in this case a better bet because even though it won’t pay off in the relationship aspect, the career aspect has potentially good odds.
