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
Monday, March 30, 2020
So, I'm going into week three of working from home.
The isolation aspect is okay. I rode out the recession freelancing, consulting, contracting and working odd jobs, most of which were home-based. And those jobs didn't pay much. So I'm used to spending days...weeks...months...working odd hours, rarely going out and generally being socially distant.
The difference, of course, is now there's a pandemic. This isolation at home is mandated and enforced by something other than my lack of money.
During the recession my fears were personal: Keeping a roof over my head. Eating food other than rice and beans and peanut butter. No health insurance. My world, then, was very small and very focused on earning enough money to pay for basic existence. My fears, my sleepless nights, were based on keeping a roof over my head, having an occasional nutritional meal and trying to stay healthy.
The fear now, is bigger. I now have a decent job and health insurance. Ironically, that doesn't calm the fear of, well, you know. A pandemic with growing numbers of cases and fatalities.
But.
Though the long days and nights of isolation are difficult, this time around I have a job that keeps me very busy. So far, at least, I have a salary and health insurance. I have a great manager and coworkers I genuinely respect, enjoy and care about. We are staying connected by phone calls and various social media not just because we have to collaborate for our work, but also because we care about each other and, yes, we miss the daily work banter and personal connection we share.
My company started taking Covid-19 seriously earlier than a lot of other companies in the US. We're a global company so that was a factor driving the early concern. Our colleagues around the world were severely impacted by early January. By early February our leadership curtailed all work travel - globally, nationally and locally - and issued daily updates. It was made very clear to us that working from home was an accepted option for everyone, and those who were not set up to work from home were to prepare for that eventuality. That eventuality happened on March 2 when we were told working from home was strongly encouraged. All who could do so were to start migrating to home-based work. One-by-one, day-by-day, our corporate campus grew quieter. My team was finalizing a large project. Most of us worked in the office until the 9th. Some of us had another week of studio-based work to complete or worked with large files requiring the secure and robust server. By the 13th we were all working from home.
March 20 we were informed that at 5:00 PM Saturday, March 21 Chicago, and Illinois were to go on lockdown. All non-essential businesses were to close. We were to stay home and only go out for essentials: groceries, medication, health-related emergencies, dog walking. The lockdown was to be in place until at least April 7.
I was okay with that. Because I heard grim news from colleagues in other parts of the world in January I knew this was no ordinary virus. I knew it spread swiftly and indiscriminately. I knew when (not if) it made it's way to the US we were not equipped to effectively manage it. I've spent time in ER rooms at good hospitals that were not efficiently staffed or equipped enough to handle more than a few trauma patients at once. I've endured tense hours worrying about my mother's soaring heart rate in the ICU waiting for a doctor who was already overworked due to the more urgent heart attack, stroke and pulmonary distress patients.
I knew the preponderance of open plan offices with coworkers crammed less than three feet from each other was essentially a lighted match sparking instant outbreak across corporate America. I knew our overcrowded classrooms spelled C-O-N-T-A-G-I-O-N. I knew healthcare is expensive, even with "good" health insurance that 20% copay can add up to hundreds or thousands of dollars, and most people avoid going to a doctor until something internal is intolerably painful or malfunctioning. I knew Americans are a freedom-at-all-cost loving, stubborn, and kind of stupid group of people when it comes to public health and safety. The Darwin Awards are dominated by Americans. Read the fates of some of the past winners for proof of our individual disregard for common sense that adds up to a collective whole of...well, a whole lot of stupid when it comes to personal health and public safety.
So. My outlook for America's handling and ultimate fate at the hands of Covid-19 was not optimistic.
I was, and remain, relieved that I work for a company who takes this seriously and wants us to work from home as long as necessary, and made sure everyone has everything they need to work efficiently from home.
I was, and remain, relieved that I live in a city and state that went on lockdown before the reported cases hit the 600 mark.
I was, and remain, irritated with the Chicagoans who did not take the lockdown (or the virus) seriously and went out in droves to the lakefront and parks on a sunny afternoon, which resulted in the closure of access to the lakefront and many parks and trails. Thanks, selfish irresponsible jerks, for ruining it for the rest of us who were smartly distancing ourselves from others on our lakefront work break walks. (See above, stupid, stubborn, freedom-at-all-cost-even-death American idiots.) This is why we can't have nice things.
I've been exceptionally busy with work the past few weeks so the shorter commute time (30 seconds each way) has been helpful. I've been taking time to actually make and eat decent meals, including a lunch break, something I rarely do in the office, but that's the extent of healthy habits I've adopted during this work-from-home era. Routines? Yeah, not so much.
I resisted making personal self-improvement goals during the lockdown. I was too busy with work. I was hoping it wouldn't last "too long." And mainly, it seemed inappropriate and unaware to concern myself with such superficial, selfish goals when people are dying. "Oh what a shame, 200 more deaths today. Ah well, best get at those lunges and the charcoal mask, those pores aren't going to shrink themselves and there's that Zoom meeting this morning." See what I mean? Cringeworthy.
But now that it's clear this work from home situation is going to last much longer than a few weeks I'm determined to find some positives and use this social isolation time for a little self-rebalancing. I know from painful experience that staying in - for whatever reason(s) - has mental health ramifications. Those issues are amplified for us single-zeroes. We live alone, so we are really, literally self-isolating. We're socially distanced under normal circumstances. Throw in a pandemic and the constant reminder of just how alone we really are comes into even sharper focus than usual. As if we needed that. Thanks, Covid-19. Jerk pandemic.
So, for my physical and emotional well-being, I decided a few goals for healthy habits isn't a bad thing. My working to stay healthy doesn't diminish the pain and suffering of others. My concern for those infected and the people caring for them is ever present and omnipresent. We're forced to stay inside, and as the days wear on it's becoming obvious that I need some structure and non-work goals to my days.
I'm staying home. And I mean really staying home. I'm hoping to limit my grocery trips to once every two weeks, longer if possible. I don't want the regular flu, much less Covid-19. More importantly, I don't want to expose myself to it then (unknowingly) infect someone else. Especially my mother and other people in my life who are at high risk. Staying home is just the right and smart thing, the socially responsible thing, to do.
I'm cooking and eating healthy. Really healthy. Every day.
Which means limiting alcohol intake. I purposely left booze off my isolation shopping list because I didn't want to spend evenings drinking and binge watching mindless series. Okay. Yes. I plan to enjoy a cocktail or two and finish Schitt's Creek. But that's, like, important enjoytainment, right? (Anyone want to talk about Catherine O'Hara? I could devote a blog to her brilliance..) And I'll admit this openly right now: if season two of Dead to Me happens to release during this lockdown, well, you won't hear from me while I plow through it.
I'm taking vitamins. All of them. Every day. Regularly. No forgetting, no skipping.
Thanks to a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of screen time for work and some environmental factors, last year I developed very dry eyes. There's a wonderful treatment that involves spending 20 minutes with specially designed warm compresses on your eyes. It does wonders. When you do it regularly, that is. So. 20 minutes every date devoted to eye care.
I'm sleeping. Or trying to sleep. That's the goal. It's a difficult one. But I'm working on it. My Fitbit shows slow progress toward more sleep. I wouldn't call it a trend, yet, but there have been a few nights with more than four uninterrupted hours of sleep.
I use the gym at work. Yeah. Uh-oh. Office closed = gym closed. And now there are no walks on the lakefront. So. I'm going to not only figure out home workouts, I'm determined to return to work fitter than when I left the office on March 13. I have this blouse that I really love but have never worn. Goal is to wear it on our first day back in the office, whenever that is. And it would look a lot better on me if my stomach were a little more, um, toned. There's also a pair of jeans mocking me...
There's a drawer full of perfectly good skincare products promising to shrink my pores, lighten my dark circles, tighten my jawline and give me the flawless youthful glow of a healthy baby if only I'd bother to use them daily, weekly, or however instructed. So, beauty regime: Game on.
I've been in the process of growing out my hair, nothing super long, just fewer and longer layers. By the time I can get a haircut again I think I'll be almost at my goal length. Okay, this isn't really something that requires any effort on my part, but it's an upside of self isolating. If you happen to be growing out your hair or growing a beard this is a great time to let your follicles do their thing.
I'm moving (more on that later), and that move is supposed to happen in April. Closing date is "fluid" and moving date is a moving target, but every day I'm told it's still going to happen. Real estate services and relocation/moving services are considered essential. So. More on that later. I'm pretty much packed, stuff is in storage, I'm down to the bathroom, odds and ends and the stuff I can move myself. But, sure, there's a drawer or two that could use some purging.
Writing. Yep. This is proof that I'm doing more of that again. I've been writing but not blogging here. I'm going to see how this goes. Maybe I'll have time for it, maybe I won't. Probably it will be boring and stupid. But the goal is the exercise of writing, working those muscles for something other than work or subject specific pieces. We'll see how it goes.
This is all healthy, do-able stuff that I "should" and can do to prevent self-isolation from becoming self-destruction. They say you should write your goals and tell people about them. It helps cement them and ultimately actualize them. We'll see how that goes, as well.
I know you expect me to moan about Valentine's Day.
Because I hate this stupid excuse to force romance and affection. It's all a ruse, a marketing ploy, and even when I had boyfriends I refused to be a victim. If you're Catholic you get a free pass (yes, it's technically a Catholic holiday, St. Valentine's Day). If you need Valentine's Day to be romantic, instead of flowers and a box of chocolate you might want to invest in some therapy. Romance...affection...showing it, "proving" it, admitting is, professing it...if you need the marketing hype of Valentine's Day to spur you on or as an "excuse," well, I mean, you know, whatever, I'm not going to judge, but you do realize Cupid doesn't actually exist, right?
Call me cynical, but if I had a significant other who only professed his feelings for me one day a year, I'm pretty sure I would have some serious concerns about the status and future emotional health of that relationship. And if that one day happened to be the heavily hyped and marketed Valentine's Day? Well. Emotion - romance, affection, compassion, passion, love - shown, "proved," no, forced by guilt, appearances and jewelry, card and flower delivery companies isn't exactly the genuine, healthy sort of emotional relationship I want or need.
There. There's my annual Valentine's Day moan. Happy?
Yeah, me either.
I don't hate love.
Really, I don't.
And I don't hate marketing. Really, I don't.
Most marketing is based on triggering an emotional response thus creating a need, a deep emotional need, for a good or service.
So marketing all things romance makes sense. Love is the mother of all emotions, the Big Kahuna. If you're going to market something, go for love. No one can resist it, everyone wants it, needs it, craves it, longs for it, hopes for it, dreams of it and gets high on the feeling of it. Powerful stuff, love. And marketeers know that and use it. Can't blame them. If you're going to evoke emotions, go for the big one. Sex sells, but love sells more and brings in repeat customers.
One really fantastic aspect of being unemployed is that you don't have to endure Valentine's Day in the office. Amen to that, right? Other peoples' romances aren't thrown in your face while you're just trying to do your job.
My Valentine's Day Twilight Zone marathon continues. I feel suitably creeped out and philosophical and definitely not in any way longing for romance or love. Rock on, Rod Serling, my Valentine's Day savior.
But here's the thing.
No, I don't have the big kind of romantic love in my life. And that causes a lot of lonely nights.
But. I do have a lot of love in my life.
And as the Mayor of Singleton I feel it's my duty to provide leadership and guidance through one of the worst days of the year for singles. A moan about it is cathartic, but not helpful. What we, Singletonians, need are survival tactics.
Here's the one that works best for me. It's time tested, mother approved and...it works.
It's not the "buy a nice bottle of champagne, light some candles, take a luxuriously long bubble bath and read a good book, be nice to yourself, love yourself, 'be your own Valentine'" kind of tactic. I mean, you know, that's a good tactic, but it can backfire, badly. It can make you feel even more alone, lonely and pathetic. I know because I've tried that one on more than one Valentine's Day.
Here's another idea.
I've had trouble sleeping since I was a wee tot. This perplexed my mother. She knew I needed a lot more sleep than I was getting but nothing eased or sped my nightly journey to Nod. Songs, stories, counting sheep/kittens/turtles, threats...none of it worked. I couldn't turn off my brain, and mostly, at night, alone, in the dark, sentenced to solitary confinement in my room, I worried. (Yes, I still do this.)
Finally, exasperated, frustrated and tired, one night my wise (and weary) mother said, ""We've read three stories. We sang two songs. Daddy did a stuffed animal re-enactment of Act III of King Lear. That's it, young lady, that is it. Just lie there and think about all the people who love you and all the people you love. Okay? Just think about all the love and happiness you have and don't worry about anything else. All that love is a fortress that will keep out all the scary, mean thoughts. Go. To. Sleep."
It's way better than counting sheep. Mum, Daddy, Gran, Grandad, Nana, Papa, Aunt Daphne...the list included far-flung cousins, friends, neighbors, sometimes even my brother and sister and on particularly difficult nights, every member of our church.
This technique tied in nicely with my parents' ongoing lesson of: "Find contentment within yourself, be happy with what you have, count your blessings. Longing for things only leads to sadness, discontent and an empty life." If I had a penny for every time in my life I've heard, "Find happiness with what you have, not sadness about what you don't," I'd be very happy with all the money I'd have.
And of course it's true. Of course they're right. But. They had good jobs that provided a nice home and a few extras, and, oh yeah, a really solid, good, healthy marriage. So, yes, it was easy for them to go around spouting all zen and hippie-love.
Still.
They're right, you know.
Of course they're right.
Love is not all you need.
Would that it were, of course. Wouldn't that be a pleasant world? But that place doesn't exist for most of us. Most of us do not live in a clothing optional commune where we grow our own food and make vegan soap and pottery to sell at local craft fairs and support the commune.
The notion that love is all you need is ridiculous, foolish and drug-induced fantasizing.
As a review of my nightly list of people who love me and who I love will attest, I have a whole freaking lot of love in my life. But it's not getting me a job, paying my mortgage, or even fulfilling all my emotional needs, and it's especially not fulfilling the biological/hormonal needs. Love is clearly not all I need.
But.
Night after night, when the anxiety, stress, worry and fear are making their nightly rounds in my head and bed, invoking my mother's plan to list off all the people who love me and the people I love as a fortress against the hate and loneliness and fear in life does, you, know, help.
No, you can't roll over and cuddle up to thoughts of people who love you. And most of those people, even though they love you, would probably not want you to roll over and cuddle up to them.
Though. I will openly admit, that after my dad died and there was a house full of relatives, one of my cousins, who I see only at family weddings and funerals, came down to the living room where I was "sleeping" on an air mattress. She couldn't sleep, either. So she sat down next to me on the air mattress and we talked. It was like when we were kids and had to sleep on the floor at our aunt and uncles house. Their den was full of scary stuff and two little girls with overactive and vivid imaginations had a hard time sleeping in there. We surrounded ourselves with the couch cushions and our stuffed animals and hunkered down together. That night, after my dad died, we cried, and eventually we did cuddle up to each other. No, it wasn't some incestuous back-woods lesbian thing. Though we did get a few laughs about it giving new, modern meaning to "sleeping with my cousin."
And at night, when I count her in my list of people who love me, I chuckle at that shared laugh.
Ahhh, love. 'Tis naught more than a shared laugh, n'est-ce pas?
I don't need anyone to prove they love me. I know the people who love me really love me. They don't even need to say it. It's just...obvious. Shared laughs. Shared tears. Shared insights. Shared burdens.
One of the more complex love relationships is the one we have with siblings. For me, it's the most complex. My brother and sister...oh, man, I mean, sigh. It's complicated. We're adults and it bugs the crap out of me that either one of them can reduce me to a 5-year-old in seconds flat. Three adults. Who, by all outward appearances, are mature, reasonable, somewhat sane individuals. But get us together and we're three kids threatening to "tell" on each other. I dunno. I'm not proud of this. But the more I fight it, the more I try to rise above it, the more they push my buttons to invoke the, "I'm telling" response.
But most of the time one of my siblings is capable of doing the very thing I want/need without me even asking or mentioning it.
Today I got the best "Valentine's Day" gift I've ever received.
My brother sent me a whole range of his gently used camera gear. My "good" cameras are film, my digital cameras are either a) crap or b) no longer functioning. My brother's kind of anal, I mean fastidious, and takes impeccable care of his belongings. He could have sold the gear for several thousand dollars. At least. But for some reason, love, perhaps, he instead gave it to me. And yes, I'm telling on him.
It's not about the expense of the camera equipment. It's that he wanted me to have it instead of selling it for a decent amount of cash. The box showed up, completely unexpected, a surprise, for me, on Valentine's Day.
And, that wasn't the only delivery the UPS guy had for me. My parent's neighbors used to do a lot of SCUBA diving, in exotic locations. When they returned from a diving trip they'd invite me over to show me what they found under the sea - exotic shells, coral fragments, sunken treasures from shipwrecks, but mostly photos. Mr. Williams got so he was pretty handy with the underwater camera. They'd pull out a Jacques Cousteau book to correlate their dive to the scientific relevance of the region. That was before Mr. Williams' back and hip started acting up and Mrs. Williams' problems with Lupus prevented them from diving. Lupus, combined with some other health problems, claimed Mrs. Williams a few years ago. Mr. Williams sold their house for a pittance of its value and moved into a retirement condo village. Last Summer I helped him sort through his storage locker, a ton of books and odds and ends their kids didn't want. And hundreds of VHS tapes. I helped him find a place that transfers VHS to DVD. It will come as no surprise that I was one of those nerdy kids who loved Jacques Cousteau documentaries. And of course the Williams' had every Cousteau VHS ever released. Well, yadda yadda yadda my UPS guy brought me a box from Mr. Williams. Every Jacques Cousteau special ever made, transferred to dvd.
Oh. And. A couple books signed by Jacques himself. Oh yes. He did.
It might not be "love" but it's certainly genuine affection. Mr. Williams or his kids could have sold those books for, oh, I dunno, some money. But instead he gave them to me.
And, my mother sent me a care package. Twizzlers and a Snoopy card. I love a Snoopy card. And $20 with a Post-it Note affixed to it saying, "For wine."
I ♥ my mother. Twizzlers, Snoopy and booze. Rock on. Who needs a man with a mother like that?
So.
Do I have a big, romantic Valentine's Day? Not in the usual sense.
But. Do I have lots of love? Yes. I have people who know me, care about me and bother to do nice things for me.
After the UPS guy made his surprise visit I went to the grocery to procure wine, as instructed by my mother.
Wow.
The desperation in the air was palpable. It was late afternoon, normally the first few after-work shoppers would be trickling in. But today, Valentine's Day, the place was thronged with men. Frantic men.
You might be thinking, "Hey, there you go, Trill! What a great time to meet men!"
You would be wrong. Because these men already have someone special. How do I know this? Because they were not flocking to the frozen pizza section.
They were frantically buzzing around the floral/bakery/Valentine's Day candy display section. And the greeting card section. And the "seasonal" aisle. And the booze aisle.
The "good" heart shaped balloons were gone. The ones that remained were already losing helium and buoyancy. Instead of plump mylar hearts with arms jauntily charging in the air, straining on their tethers proclaiming, "I ♥ you THIS much!" there were a few limp, dull mounds of wrinkled plastic, tether strings sagging, mumbling through folds of wrinkled mylar, "♥ yo ch" But these men, these last minute Valentine's Day shoppers, were desperate enough to grab them, snatching them before someone else could. One inventive guy went for a fully inflated SpongeBob balloon. I later saw him in the "seasonal" aisle buying a bag of candy conversation hearts and a garland of red hearts. I could see his plan. Adorn the room with SpongeBob holding the heart garland and litter the pillow with the most romantic candy hearts. I like that guy. I'd date that guy.
The roses, oh swut, the roses. I mean, if you're buying Valentine's Day flowers at a grocery store it's a given that you're not looking to impress and bedazzle someone with gorgeous flowers. On the other hand, props to some groceries for carrying a half-way decent selection of flowers. Mine grocery store generally stocks some nice looking flowers. The roses are usually "meh" but some of the other flowers are quite lovely. They obviously anticipated the Valentine's Day rush and had loads of rose bouquets displayed in various areas around the floral, bakery, booze and check-out areas. They're not stupid, these grocery floral people. But even with the extra floral supply, the choices were getting thin. The red were almost gone, the pink and white were going fast. That leaves orange, yellow and that odd shade of purple-pink no one ever buys because it looks like Pepto-bismol. And the wilty, half-dead red ones. Desperation does funny things to a man. Desperation will convince him to buy the wilty, half-dead red roses from the grocery store, arguing that some flowers are better than no flowers. That SpongeBob balloon and heart garland are sounding better to you now, aren't they?
The bakery department was a hive of activity. The cupcakes were long gone, even the ones with the frosting smooshed on the plastic container lid. The small heart-shaped cakes were going fast and the full-sized heart decorated sheet cakes were moving quickly. These last minute Valentine's Day guys, though, they're creative. You gotta give 'em that. The ones who couldn't get near the remaining heart shaped cakes were swarming around the brownie and cookie displays. Hey, nothing says I love you like oatmeal raisin cookies.
I was on a mission from my mother. I had $20 wine money. I was going to get a bottle of wine. Dammit. The problem, of course, was that all those last-minute-Valentine's Day shopping men were stacked three-deep in the booze aisles. And yes, yes, there were some special displays of booze for Valentine's Day, but there was no getting near them, either. So I waited my "turn" and grabbed the last bottle of Cabernet I could find that fit my under $20 wine budget. I noticed a lot of guys were opting for vodka or beer.
The card section was, of course, a pathetic vignette of desperation and procrastination. Valentine's Day cards hit the shelves around December 28th. If you wait until February 14th to buy a Valentine's Day card...well...how deep is your love? And, when you can't find that "perfect card" at 4:30 PM on February 14th at your local grocery, are you really surprised? Is it not glaringly obvious to you that you might want to consider putting just a tad more effort and planning into your show of affection to the love of your life?
I know I'm cynical about Valentine's Day, but with guys like this, can you blame me? They're obviously just going through the motion, grabbing whatever they can find at the last minute in the easiest place possible because they know they have to show up with something.
I know. I know. Plenty of men, and women, spend a lot of time, money and effort on Valentine's Day and that can be just as desperate and pathetic and feeble as the last minute grocery store Valentine's Day dash. Lavish isn't better, but at least it shows some amount of dedication and thought. (The last minute SpongeBob guy gets a free pass for his originality.)
But, and this is just my skewed perspective, if the choices are: a) a last-minute impertinent grocery-store card/limp balloon or cookie or b) nothing, I'd prefer b, nothing. I don't want anyone to feel they have to "go through the motions." I don't want a "present" procured only because of marketing guilt. I want something like my brother sending me camera equipment or my parents' neighbor sending me Jacques Cousteau dvds and books or my mother sending me a Snoopy card and Twizzlers. Heartfelt, genuine, relevant gifts.
Today the grocery store bakery, floral and booze aisles were filled with men fueled desperation and hope. Tomorrow the same store's ice cream and Tater Tot aisles will be filled with women fueled by broken dreams. And that, my friends, is the definition of Valentine's Day.
Singletonians, instead of counting sheep, go to bed tonight and count the people who love you and the people you love. I'm pretty sure you'll be surprised at how much love you have in your life and you'll feel a lot less alone.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
So now my mother's all bent out of shape with me because I want to be cremated.
What did I say about pre-planning a funeral providing peace of mind? I might want to amend that opinion.
My mother is all hopped up high on her post-pre-planning euphoria. She says a weight has been lifted. So unburdened is she that she wants me to share in the joy of sleeping soundly in the knowledge that you have your final arrangements "taken care of."
Yes. She wants to give me a funeral. And a cemetery plot. And a gravestone.
Which led to me saying, "Thanks, but I want to be cremated."
Which she knows, she knows how I feel about this. I made up my mind when I was 8 that I was donating organs and cremating the rest. My feelings haven't changed since - in fact the older I get the more steadfast I feel about what I want done with my body when it dies.
Apparently my mother thought I'd change my mind.
Maybe if I had a husband...children. But I don't. And I won't. So why be buried somewhere, anywhere? I really do not want to be memorialized in a cemetery by myself. Walk around a cemetery sometime. I triple dog dare you to find a grave of an unmarried person over the age of 20. (Apart from military cemeteries and memorial.) Cemeteries are filled with gravestones shared by married couples. Often several generations of married couples are buried side-by-side in one big family plot. Apart from military graves that's where you are most likely to find a single person buried alone with a solitary headstone. The spinster aunt with her single headstone buried among her parents, grandparents, married siblings and married nieces and nephews with their double headstones. Sad, pitiful, conspicuous. In life as in death. I know this because I spent the better part of an afternoon walking around my parents' cemetery purposely looking for single people.
I don't want to be that person. It's difficult enough going through the living part of life as a single zero. Carving it in stone for the whole world to see long after I'm dead is not exactly comforting. It doesn't give me peace of mind. It swutting depresses me to the point of suicide which then scares me because it'll hasten the move to a cemetery in a plot all by myself with a single headstone marking the lonely, solitary existence that led me to suicide in the first place.
There is no space for me to be buried anywhere near my parents. And their cemetery is almost full. My mother inquired about single plots, and what do you know, yes, they have a few and at a reduced rate! Why the rate reduction? Because some family plots have one or two leftover spaces they're willing to sell. So a single person can glom onto some other family's plot, hitch a ride into eternal memorializing carved in stone with an entire family they don't even know, an adopted tagalong vagabond into eternity.
The two plots my mother and I looked at were in a much older section of the cemetery. One of the plots is at the end of a family plot of a very well-to-do family who spent a lot of money on a very splashy, very huge, very ornately carved, very angelic monument with their surname carved in huge, bold lettering on both sides along with a religious verse. They bought two full family plots prominently positioned by the cemetery's central monument and memorials and then they planted the gigantic family monument smack in the middle of the two plots. Then, as people died the plots were filled with headstones with the names and dates of all the generations of the family. It appears they had all sons, and it appears two of the sons had all sons because everyone buried in the family plot(s) all have the same surname. And all are couples buried side-by-side with the exception of a 22-year-old son killed in WWII. Hence the leftover single space at the end of the plot.
I could be buried with this family I don't know, next to a guy killed in WWII, mine would be the only headstone carved after 1958 and with a different last name than the rest of the clan. I mean, um, huh? While I like the stories and gossip this could generate 100 years from now as people stroll through the cemetery and speculate on the mystery woman buried with that family, it's too weird for even me.
And besides, I want to be cremated.
But that's upsetting my mother. She can't stand the thought of cremation. My dad's family goes the cremation route. It's what his family does. It's the Viking way. My mother suffers through every cremation in my dad's family cringing and getting upset over the thought of the whole process. So my dad broke tradition for my mother. He's in the ground, body embalmed, casketed and vaulted with a headstone built for two waiting for my mother to join him. Isn't that romantic.
Putting aside all the obvious conservancy and environmental aspects, there's no reason for me to take up a plot in a cemetery. No one, and I mean no one is ever going to visit my grave. Single zero means there's no one who cares enough or feels obligated enough to "tend" your grave. So why have one?
And bringing the conservancy and environmental issues back into it, save the space on a shrinking planet for something far more useful than a cemetery. (And yes, yes, on the plus side, at least many cemeteries are filled with trees and offer a peaceful place for birds and squirrels and rabbits.)
One of my friends suggested that I appease my mother by letting her buy me a cemetery plot then selling it and donating the money to the cemetery's upkeep fund. "Unless you die before her she'll never know. And if you do die before her there's no way she'll let you be cremated and she'll have the final say, so you're kind of stuck with her wishes anyway so you might as well let her buy your plot for that contingency." No denying the logic to that idea. And if it will make my mother happy, give her bonus peace of mind, then I suppose it's worth it.
Yadda yadda yadda after I go into foreclosure the only property I'll own is a cemetery plot.
I refused the plot with the prominent family. That was just too pathetic and bizarre and the plot was too prominently placed for my liking. Very showy. "We" opted for a space that's formed where the real estate of the cemetery curves, leaving a wedge shape not large enough for a family or even double plot. They can only fit in one vault so ta-dah! Perfect for a single zero.
I'm now so officially and forever single zero that I have a single cemetery plot. Clearly even my mother has given up any shred hope of me finding someone willing to marry me as well as the plan for me adopting a child or two. When even your own mother gives up on your ability to attract a mate or even adopt a child it's time to buy a cemetery plot.
The cemetery manager told us that because it's odd shaped and slightly larger than a single plot I can go nuts with a memorial monument. Lovely. Perhaps a Calder or Henry Moore?
I'm thinking of landscaping it. Planting trees, perhaps ornamental shrubbery of some sort, some annual flowers, maybe a water feature. Funny, HGTV doesn't have a show about landscaping graves and there are no diy magazines about it at the home and garden stores.
And I'm wondering if I can pitch a tent on my plot and live there. I mean, my mother bought it for me, my name is on it, it's mine, why should I only get to reap the benefits of landownership when I'm dead? And are you truly homeless if you own a cemetery plot?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I'm used to being single. So used to it I don't really think about it that much. I mean, I think about being lonely. I am lonely, and that's a by-product of being single. So I guess technically I do think about being single...but, you know, for the most part I've accepted that I am going to be alone, single, partner-less, man-less, single. That doesn't mean I like it, or that I don't get lonely, but, I accept it. Try to deal with it.
But.
Crimony.
What is it about December that makes it seem like everyone, and I mean everyone on the planet is in a relationship except me? It's bad enough that the marketing machine goes into high gear and pulls out all the merry, merry, happy, happy romance and merriness stops. It's impossible to watch television without being accosted by happy! happy! couples exchanging gifts and kisses under the mistletoe and hooking up over a cocktail at a party and buying cars/diamonds/cashmere sweaters/something-from-the-Gap for each other. (This year's Gap holiday ad: Help me understand. I need a translation.) Okay, fine, I won't watch television in December. No problem. Really. Not a problem.
Last year I was still in a weird state of griefshock when the holidays rolled around. I missed my dad too much and was too concerned for my mother to care about all the happy! happy! couples everywhere. And I had a legit reason for declining most of the party invites. I just couldn't do it. I just could not celebrate anything last year. I navigated through the holiday season focused on work and "being there" for my mother. I lapsed into a robotic numbness. And the occasional booze-induced brain-deadness.
This year the holiday reality is crashing down hard on me. They say the first year is the worst but so far this second holiday season isn't easier than last year. I miss my dad. My mother misses my dad. She's sad. I'm sad. I'm sad that she's sad. She's sad that I'm sad. I'm lonely. She's lonely. I wouldn't wish loneliness on anyone and it's unfathomably upsetting to know my mother is now experiencing loneliness. It all sucks.
Doesn't seem to be getting easier to me.
The cemetery where my dad is buried is an old fashioned one with giant obelisks, ornately carved monuments and lots of angels in repose. It's a small town cemetery, and like the small town, everyone knows everyone else, and everyone elses' business, at the cemetery. Last year we put a wreath at the grave. My mother couldn't bear the ordeal so I ended up doing it on my own. I wouldn't have gone through with it, but my mother felt pressured by social decorum to do something, so my dad had a wreath. And yes, given my dad's passion for celebrating Jesus' birth with a house and yard lighting display, that wreath seemed inadequate and kinda lame. Especially when compared to all the other holiday decorations at the cemetery. The neighbors in the plot across from my parents' brought in two fancy potted topiary bedecked with red velvet ribbons. The people in the graves next door had those eternal flame candle things with their wreaths. Our lame little wreath looked pathetic in comparison. Oh yes. Social pressure, even at the cemetery. So. This year I found a solar light-up snowman (nice, not tacky) and put it at the cemetery for him. It seems more appropriate for a guy known for his prowess with holiday lights and a staple gun. We got this evergreen and pine cone thing, too. Our appearances are officially being kept up at the cemetery. Someone at my mum's church took note and complimented my mother on the nice job we did at my dad's grave this year. I kid you not. I'm tellin' you, it's a really, really small town.
When we went to the cemetery I took a walk around. Cemeteries don't creep me out, especially that one. It's actually quite a pleasant place, lots of trees, a pond, some interesting sculpture. One of my mother's friends had knee surgery and wasn't up to putting the wreaths on her family graves this year so I volunteered to do it for her. Their family goes waaaaay back. Many generations represented at their plot. All neat and orderly lined up, generations of couples buried side-by-side.
Crimony. Even at the cemetery everyone's coupled up. Even among dead people I'm the only single person.
Realistically I know there are other single people out there, there must be. But. Where are they? (and where are they buried?) Where do "we" go during December? I cower inside as much as possible, but, I do have to go out for groceries and the occasional errand. And there are a few social obligations where you have to at least make an appearance. Surely I'm not the only single person who dares to step out in public in December.
One good thing about being unemployed: No horrendous office holiday party. Big woo hoo to that. I'm celebrating that I don't have to "celebrate" the holidays with my former coworkers this year. No potluck luncheons, no grab-bag or secret Santa gift exchange, barrage of lame light-up holiday sweaters and ties, no coworkers drinking too much at the holiday party...really, there are good things about being unemployed. I know, I know, that sounds so Grinchy. But c'mon, really, do you honestly enjoy your company/office holiday party?
My former company often had a holiday party where "guests" were invited. "Guests" meant spouse, same sex partner or serious boy/girlfriend. You didn't bring a friend or a rent-a-date. You just didn't. It was an unspoken rule that only "serious" dates were allowed. My first year there I nearly committed a fatal holiday party sin by taking the "guest" invite literally. I was going to bring a guest, a friend, to the party. Fortunately my friend came down with a horrible stomach virus so I went solo. That's when I learned about the unspoken "serious" guests only rule. Whew. Thank goodness for that stomach flu. So the few of us singles were forced to either sit at a singles table or force our way into a table of couples, thus creating an empty seat at the table. On more than one occasion I was given the stink eye and even comments over daring to sit, unaccompanied, at a non-singles table. "You're going to sit here? With us? That'll leave an empty chair." (How rude! implied.) As if that explained everything. That'll leave an empty chair. Oh, right. Okay. We can't have that. Silly me. What was I thinking? Ultimately I found it easier, less humiliating, less obvious, to just head straight to a singles table and deal with Lester the Star Wars geek from finance who for fun like Yoda talks, yes, and the weird woman who worked the night shift in the call center who takes her crochet projects everywhere she goes, even the holiday party. I'm tellin' ya, being unemployed does have its upside. And not having to endure an evening at a singles table at the company party is near the top of the list.
But even though I'm not going to work-related events, or even attending that many holiday parties with friends, I'm being affronted with happy! happy! couples everywhere.
I assume all the smart single people are hiding indoors until January 3. But I dunno. It seems like they'd have to go out for groceries or the post office or something. But maybe not. Maybe other single people have perfected their holiday strategy. (Home delivery for groceries. Stock up on stamps in October. Do online shopping and shipping. Turn down all party invites. Take the entire month of December off work.) Because they're certainly not anywhere I've been.
I'm happy for other people who are in a happy! couple situation. Really. I'm happy! for them. Sure, envious, too, but more in a curious way than a green-eyed monster way. (Envicurious, I call it. Curiosity borne of envy. You see someone doing or in possession of something you want, which makes you ponder, "How'd they do/get that?" Envicurious. Why is that not already a word?) I just wish they'd take it down a notch in December instead of turning it up. Some of them are just arrogantly, callously flaunting it. "Look at me! Look at us! We're a happy! happy! couple during the holidays, just like a jewelry commercial on TV!!" Yes, we're all so impressed. And look at me! I'm a spinster buying store brand cereal and something reputed to be an antacid cheaper than the leading national brand. Hey, at least I'm no longer buying cat food. I miss the furry creature but at times like those grocery store moments in line with nothing but happy! happy! couples, I'm glad I'm not buying cat food and Lean Cuisines. Been there, done that, saw the pointing fingers and heard the snickered whispers.
And then this year Bono is wailing all over the place. "Tonight thank God it's them instead of you..." and "Baby please come home, baby please come home." How can we put an end to Bonomas? I was out for all of 45 minutes today and I heard him twice. Once in the grocery and once at Walgreen's. I'm going to start keeping track. I swear there's something going on, it's Bono, Bono, Bono wailing everywhere I go. Is 2009 the year of the Very Bono Christmas? Is this some attempt to make the holiday less frivolous because of all the bad news? Like I said, I'm glad I haven't been tortured with McCartney's Christmas thing chirping annoyingly all over town, but Bonomas is taking it a bit too far. Things are bad, the economy sucks, unemployment rages on, foreclosures rates are still soaring, Afghanistan...yes, things are bad. And the last thing any of us want to hear is that weirdoannoying "wonderful Christmastime" ditty. But. Bono making us feel guilty or sad and lonely isn't the anecdote. Haven't we suffered enough? Aren't we suffering enough? It's putting me in an even worse mood about the holidays. I know. I'm in a really bad mood about Bono lately. I'm tellin' you, it's the whole Bonomas thing. It's gettin' to me. I don't want to be in a bad mood about Bono but the wailing must end. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.
What we need is an island. A place for single people to go during December. No couples (or Bono) allowed. Or better still, another planet, in another galaxy, a place where singles can roam freely and watch television without being affronted by happy! happy! couples flaunting their happy! happy! coupledom at innocent lonely single people.
