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, December 12, 2011
And so, this is Christmas. This will be my third consecutive unemployed holiday season.
I’m not Scroogey or Grinchy because of the holidays. I’m Scroogey and Grinchy because I’m depressed and frustrated and scared. And embarrassed. I’m depressed and frustrated and scared because I’ve been unemployed for over two years and my home is in foreclosure. I’m embarrassed because I don’t have money to help those less fortunate.
It’s not like what’s portrayed on made for television movies. The people who write and produce those movies/holiday specials are the same people who write and produce trite, intelligence-insulting platitude-filled greeting cards and “…for the Soul” books.
There is no up-side to this. There are no (or very few) tender moments of “what really matters” and “true meaning of Christmas.”
I know there is no “shame” in poverty, but for me it runs a lot deeper than “just” losing my home and everything I own because no one will hire me.
I grew up in suburban Detroit. So I know a thing or two about hard times and poverty. My parents, my family, weren’t hit by unemployment, but there were a lot of people in our town and neighboring communities who were.
Every year culminated in charity-drives. My parents worked tirelessly collecting donations, buying food and household items for less fortunate families. I cannot remember a Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve that wasn’t dedicated to packing up the family car and delivering boxes of food, clothing and necessary household goods to those families.
I know about the true meaning of Christmas, I experienced it firsthand every year. My dad, an immigrant child of the depression and WWII, spent many of his childhood Christmases without much in the way of presents. Consequently, he was a big softee when it came to toys. He was also a former Marine. He viewed Toys for Tots his assigned life-long duty. He attacked his bell-ringing duty and toy donation drops with General Patton-esque focus and dedication.
There were lists of needy families given to charities – churches, scouts, schools – no names, just members of the family with the ages and gender of the children noted for each family. But because my parents were part of the delivery team they were privy to the addresses and last minute changes/additions to the list as well as some of the pertinent extenuating circumstances of the family. A sample handout list looked like this:
Father: 37
Mother: 36
Daughter 1: 9
Son: 7
Daughter 2: 4
However that same list was updated, less abbreviated and more poignant when it arrived to the delivery crew.
8329 Hollyvine Road
Father: 37, injured vet,
Mother: 36
Daughter # 1: age 9, leukemia
Son: age 7
Daughter # 2: age 4
Dire need for mittens, hats, scarves and socks, 9 year old daughter needs a very warm coat size 10 and girls' size medium underwear, son needs snow boots size 5.
My dad always made sure there were a couple age/gender appropriate toys for each child in every family. The day before the deliveries, he went over the list of kids and which donated items were allocated to those kids. Without fail there were always a few kids he felt didn’t get the “right” donations. Especially if it was a lean donation year. After reviewing the list of children and the toys allocated to them, a trip to the local toy store ensued to supplement the toy donations. He personally made sure every child in every family had at least one “good” present, something coveted by kids and advertised on television. He took my brother and me along on that shopping trip to act as a toy focus group. Our job was to advise on the appropriateness and popularity of toys for the kids on the lists.
“What about this Barbie, Trill?”
“Meh, she’s okay, but this Malibu PJ with tan lines is better. She comes with sunglasses.”
“Tan lines and sunglasses, eh? What’ll they think of next? Malibu PJ it is.” In went a Malibu PJ with tanlines and sunglasses for an unnamed 6-year-old girl on the needy list.
“Heh heh, woooeee, look at those new Hot Wheels!” my dad would exclaim, clearly coveting a few for himself.
He and my brother would have a long conversation about the pros and cons of Hot Wheels v. Match Box and which ones an 8 year old boy would like.
Typically we left the store with at least one toy for every kid on the delivery list, even the ones who already had a decent toy allocated by the charity toy drive. And candy. My mother and other mothers made dozens and dozens of cookies and procured countless candy canes to include in the charity boxes. But my dad had a sweet tooth and always loaded up on LifeSavers and bubble gum to add to the charity boxes. Which always struck me as more than a little odd because my dad hated gum and us kids weren’t allowed to chew it inside the house. Or in the car. Or on the boat. Or at school. Or in church. Or at a movie. Or at camp. Or… Some kids sneak out back behind the garage to smoke cigarettes. My brother and I sneaked out back to chew gum and blow bubbles. But those needy kids, they always received bubble gum for Christmas thanks to my dad.
When I was young I didn’t think about the money involved in the holiday charities. I knew money had to be raised, but I didn’t fully grasp how “it all worked.” But when I was 11 I realized those extra, supplemental gifts for needy kids my dad shopped for were purchased with my parents’ money – and it’s not as if my parents were wealthy.
My parents never told me they were purchasing the extra toys with their money. But that year, prior to leaving for the last minute toy shopping trip, I caught a glimpse of my mother giving my dad cash from her “expense” envelope she kept secured in a secret spot. (known simply but intriguingly as The Envelope) If she had any money leftover from her weekly grocery shopping trip it was put in The Envelope. That envelope was only brought out only for dire needs like school field trips, Girl Scout cookies, orthodontist appointments, emergency home repairs and emergency room visits.
That’s when I figured out that they were paying for the extra toys themselves. I called them on it. I’m ashamed to admit this, but, here goes: I was resentful they were spending “all that” money on other kids and instead of on me. I knew it was wrong to feel that way, and truly, I didn’t mind that they spent some money on needy kids, but, I really wanted new skates and a Walkman that year. I was getting older and my holiday wish list was getting more expensive. I saw those needy kids’ extra toys as eating into my Walkman budget. It was an ugly conversation that boiled into our first bratty pre-teenaged daughter argument that landed me grounded for the entire holiday vacation. I annually received more holiday booty than any kid should be given, a toy bacchanal – verging on gluttonous absurdity – so it’s particularly painful for me to admit that year’s lapse into Veruca Salt-type behavior. I chalk it up to pre-teen hormones. Apart from that one blemish on my holiday charity record I embraced my parents’ holiday charity work. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Until I was well into my high-school years I thought every family did all the same charity stuff we did, at least the families that weren’t on the needy list. When we trekked to the store for the last minute donation shopping I thought the crowds at the store were doing the same thing we were: Buying gifts for kids who came up short in the toy donation drive. I also thought other families spent their Thanksgiving and Christmas Eves driving around the county delivering boxes of food, clothing and toys to needy families.
Every year I was sat down and given the same talk delivered in my parents’ strictest, “I mean it” tone of voice. “You are not to tell anyone about this, about where we go, who you see or what we give them. We are doing this to help people. They might be embarrassed about needing charity. We do not want to embarrass them. And we are not doing this to feel good about ourselves. We are doing this solely to help others. We do not brag about charitable deeds. We do not embarrass others. You. Do. Not. Breathe. One. Word. Of. This. To. Anyone. Understood, young lady?” Yes. They pulled out the big gun, the “young lady.” When either of my parents called me “young lady” it was either because I was already in serious trouble, or, to forewarn me that if I didn’t do as they instructed I would be in serious trouble.
So I never mentioned any of our Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve activities to anyone. Sometime in my later years of high school I added up a few facts, overheard tales of how other kids spent their Thanksgiving and Christmas Eves and realized that not too many of my schoolmates’ families were helping less fortunate families.
That was when I realized my parents were, you know, decent human beings.
And apart from the lapse into selfishness when I was 11, I followed their lead. I always contributed to all the donation drives at every job I held. I helped sort, organize and deliver the donations. I tried to find ways to quietly help anyone I figured could use a little extra help during the holidays. I continued to help my parents with their holiday charity activities, including the last minute supplemental toy buying trip with my dad. Once I started earning money, the supplemental toy buying trip became an even more exciting event because I had my own money to help buy the “good toys.” No girl on our watch was going to get a knock-off imposter Barbie or lame no-name baby doll.
And my dad started sharing the details of the needy family lists with me. The details were even more awful and heartbreaking than I ever imagined. And I had a much deeper understanding of why my dad made it his personal mission to make sure the children in those families had “good” toys.
I shouldn’t tell anyone any of this, but my parents are anonymous, here, so I’ll break the rules laid out in their stern “what charity means” speeches. I learned that in many cases my parents assessed the living situation at the home of a delivery and “helped out” with an unpaid utility or medical bill. I am certain no one but my parents and the recipients of their assistance know about this. (And now you.)
Then my dad died. And I was laid off. And the holidays are a bitter reminder of both those losses.
I’m not divulging this now to prove how charitable my parents were, or how charitable I am (was), or to garner poignant sympathy.
I’m sharing this because I know I’m not the only unemployed person who finds the inability to support charities one of the most difficult aspects of unemployment. It’s painful and heartbreaking to suddenly not have the means to help others, especially when charities have counted on your support for many years. I do not have the means to help those less fortunate…because I now am "the less fortunate." I volunteer my time and efforts, but what people really need is food, clothes, toys, and yes, money. And I don’t have money. So I can’t really help, not significantly. And that hurts. Every holiday season of my entire life has been spent helping “those less fortunate.” It’s at my family’s (and my) fundamental core. It’s what my family believes, it’s what we do. It’s who we are. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.
Or, who I was.
I never thought of myself as being one of those people whose identity is tied in a knot with their career or profession. “I like my profession, I’m appropriately passionate about it, but my career doesn’t define me,” I’d say. “There’s so much more to me than my career.”
But in my years (cripes, years, plural) of unemployment I now realize that my career plays a much bigger role in my identity than I once thought. I used to stand on solid ground about what I did for a living, how I spent my days, and where I focused my cognitive resources and energy. I earned a modest living doing something I was good at doing - and that I also happened to enjoy. And when I wasn’t at work I lived life “on my terms.” Terms that included a lot of charity work and donations.
And without a paying job I don’t have the money to help with charities. And it hits home that my career defined more of me than I realized.
Without extra money all I can donate is my time and skills. And even those are in low demand.
When I was laid off one of the first thoughts I had was, “Okay, well, until I find a new job I can devote more time to volunteering.” Lemons = Lemonade.
I told all my charities that since I had more time to devote to the causes I’d report for duty early in the morning and stay late. Without exception I was told some version of this speech, “Gee, Trill, sorry to hear about your lay-off, and thanks for your generous offer, but, really, we have lots of people helping, lots of other people are laid-off, too, and they’ve been helping, and right now we’re kind of tripping over each other. We have a long list of laid-off people who want to volunteer if we need more help. What we really need is money. We’ll call you if we need you. Thanks for offering, though. We know we can always count on you.”
I was even abruptly elbowed out of volunteering for a charity event that I’ve worked on for 10 years. I was squeezed out by several dozen other unemployed people wanting to help…and network.
“Hi [charity I’ve volunteered marketing help with for the past 10 years], just checking on when the first planning meeting is, I have lots of ideas for this year’s event, and, more time to dedicate to it! I can’t wait!”
“Ahem, um, gosh, Trill, um, this is awkward. I thought Liz talked to you. We’ve always appreciated your marketing expertise, Trill, but John and Michelle already took care of it for us this year.”
“But we haven’t even had the first planning meeting, yet!”
“Yeah, I know, but they took it upon themselves to handle the marketing, and they have the whole plan and schedule worked out and, you know, [their former employer] is such a big contributor and they wanted to continue to help us even though they no longer work there…”
“Right. That’s nice of them. They’re good, they have great experience and good ideas, that’s great. It’s great that you’re so far ahead of schedule this year.”
“Yeah, it is. But you know, we always need donations. I know it’ll be difficult for you this year, but we can always count on you to spread the word…”
“Yeah, I’ll talk it up.”
I did what I could, where I could, but as the years (gadzooks, years, plural) pass, and more people are unemployed, and more people are in need of charity, it’s obvious that what charities need most is money.
And I don’t have money. And I feel really lost during the holidays. My holidays have always been filled with charity work. I always saw myself as continuing my parents’ efforts to help those in need. It’s who we are, it’s what we do. But because I don’t have a job, and consequently money to donate, and my time and skills are not needed with volunteer groups, I’m utterly lost during the holidays.
Yes, part of it is that I’m still grieving for my dad. I’ve never met anyone who truly loved the holidays as much as my dad. And he loved them for all the right reasons. So all the holiday monikers are sad reminders that my dad isn’t here to enjoy them. So of course it’s a difficult time for me. But without a job, and money, I can’t carry on his spirit of charity and giving and helping other people.
Of course no one wants to say that out loud. No one wants to admit that the holidays, even the charitable “good” aspects, or the spirit of joy and peace, are tied into money. But. They are.
No, money can’t buy genuine good will. But it does buy joy, peace and happiness…or at least food, shelter and clothing. Go to any Christmas Eve church service and I guarantee you that a collection plate will be passed up and down every pew. I triple dog dare you to try to volunteer at a local charity – I’m betting you’ll be met with, “Gee, thanks, but, we have a lot of volunteers…but here’s our donation envelope whichc lists our 501(c) status for your tax records.”
I’m not Grinchy or Scroogey over this. I get it. I understand. Thanks to high unemployment rates there is a surplus of ready, willing and able volunteers. And even longer lists of people in need. What charities need is money.
But that has left me feeling increasingly empty and forlorn during the holidays. I’m not aimless, but, unemployment has been really, really hard on me. It’s taken an emotional toll that I never could have imagined even existed. And because I can’t contribute to holiday charities - on organized or personal ad hoc levels - I’m feeling even more empty and depressed about the holidays.
Oh sure, the joy and wonder in children’s eyes, the festive lights, the spirit of good will and blah blah blah. That’s all great. And I do enjoy it. But. Along with the omnipresent stress and fear of not having a job, the omnipotent spirit of the holidays - and my inability to boost that spirit - is overwhelming.
It's been one long string of disappointments - rejection and disappointments - for me. And consequently, I've disappointed a lot of people. People who trust and rely on me to be reliable, dependable, independent. My family and friends don't think of me as "needy." They used to not have worry about me. I was not a source of concern or stress in their lives.
My friends and women in my family who are stay-at-home mothers use me as an anecdotal example to their daughters, the antidote to the pervasive over-princessing of young girls. "You can grow up and have a career and not be dependent on anyone other than yourself! Get good grades! Go to college! Have a career! Buy your own home! All on your own! Just like Aunt Trillian! Or, well, just like Aunt Trillian used to be..." Disappointment: Check.
My mother, of course, worries about me because she's my mother and that's what mothers do, but first the failed engagement, then no kids and then a lost job...and two years of unemployment...and now foreclosure...I'm not exactly every parents' dream personified. Disapointment: Check.
My neighbors relied on me to be a mortgage and tax-paying member of the community, taking care of my home and doing my part to uphold the value of homes in my neighborhood. Unemployment...no money...foreclosure. I'm adding to the plummeting home value in my neighborhood. Disappointment: Check.
And then there are all the people and animals who heretofore benefited from my charity. Now I don't have money to donate to their plights/cause. Disappointment: Check.
Of course my family and friends care about me, and most of them don't see me as a disappointment. A failure, maybe, not probably not a disappointment. And most of them would be upset to learn that I think I've disappointed them. But. I have let down a lot of people, known and unknown, who relied on me. And that is yet another other deflating facet of unemployment. At least, it's a deflating facet for me - someone who has been, if nothing else, responsible.
*Sigh* *Again*
I’m spending Christmas with my mother who is recovering from surgery and cannot travel to spend the holidays with my siblings. It’ll be nice. Just the two of us some movies and tea and cookies. Quiet. Reflective. That’s what it’s “really” all about and we both know that.
We’re enduring. She’s enduring life without my dad, I’m enduring unemployment. We’re enduring the holidays. Not ideal, certainly not how we want it, but we have each other and we’re thankful for that lone gift. And that’s what really matters during the holiday and every other day. It’s the whole, “Christmas day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp. Christmas day will always be just so long as we have we” thing.
Neither one of us needed to learn that lesson, neither one of us needed to go through struggle and anguish to build character. We’ve both been through a lot. We both have a lot of character. As my dad used to say, we’ve “earned our stripes.” So I can’t tie it all up in a neat little “heartwarming moral of the story” lesson like on made for television holiday movies. Unless the moral of the story is, “‘It’ can happen to anyone, even these nice people. Even responsible people.”
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.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Hi everyone! Guess what! Christmas is just around the corner! Woohoo!
I've got plenty of angst, woe, depression and bad cheer so stop in if you find yourself in need of a holiday recharge.
It's looking bleak this year. It may very well be the year I become a holiday suicide statistic. It's not even December 10 and I'm already contemplating death by perky plaid Christmas ribbon strangulation, death by eggnog overdose, death by Christmas tree (yes! It's okay to say Christmas tree now! Dennis Hastert says so!) light electrocution and other festive ways to kill myself.
Gosh, don't you just love the holidays? I sure do.
You know, at this busy time of the year it's nice to take a moment for yourself spent in quiet reflective contemplation of what the season is really all about.
Pressure.
Intense, self inflicted, family inflicted, work obligation inflicted, charity inflicted, church inflicted pressure. Pressure to perform. Pressure to provide. Pressure to help. Pressure to be good. Pressure to believe.
Every year I run around like crazy trying to find if not perfect, at least thoughtful presents for the people I care about and love. Don't get me wrong. I want to buy them presents. I love them. I genuinely wish I could buy them lots of really great presents all year. But the calendar and social protocol dictate that we have to procure a gift, some gift, any gift during the holiday season.
The advice columns dole out wisdom and advice about hot gifts, cool gifts, thoughtful gifts, extravagant gifts, inexpensive gifts. Heck, I myself offer up a yearly suggestion list of gift and shopping ideas.
Hey, wait a minute, it's that time of year again, isn't it? I'm supposed to give you some shopping ideas and tips. Cripes. I knew I forgot something.
Sorry.
Well.
No.
I'm not.
I'm not sorry at all.
Figure out your own damn gift giving dilemmas.
Ha ha ha. Ho ho ho.
Had you going there for a minute, didn't I?
Psych!
Not!
The advice columns also say we should treat ourselves to a little something at Christmas, too. Something we know no one will think to give us. Because the people we care about and love don't love and care about us enough to figure out that special little something we'd like as a present. Hey. It's not their fault. We're complicated and selfless. We don't really need anything. Still. You'd think they could come up with something slightly more original than bath products. Seriously, do I smell bad?
Right.
So.
My shopping advice list is a little different this year.
As I was spending my spare moment in quiet reflective contemplation, I realized I am complicated, selfless, and in need of nothing easily procured, wrapped and put under the tree. No wonder I get all those bath products. I don't even know what to give myself.
iGuy? Well. That's a long way away from now. Many moons and many holidays shall pass before those wise men appear under the tree.
What do I need? What do I really, really need? A new job. Money. Health insurance. Yeah. That's pretty much it.
No expectations. No emotion. As helpful as that stance is for me, it does complicate things in the gift giving arena. Basically anything and nothing would be the perfect gifts for someone like me who has no high or low expectations and no emotions.
Emotions.
Hmmmm.
Well.
Now.
Maybe there's a gift I could give myself.
One or two emotions to spend however I want.
I have been very good at voiding myself of emotions. I'm getting really good at it. I haven't had any expectations in months. I'm almost the emotionless blank void of a person I want to be. If I felt emotions I would be proud of myself. But I don't so I'm not. And that feels right because I feel nothing.
I do kind of miss emotions now and then. Usually in those quiet moments of contemplative reflection. I miss the good ones. Antipathy. Enmity. Envy. Lust. Yeah. I really miss lust. Though honestly, without love lust gets boring and very empty. Shallow. Not a lot of fun. Maybe that's just too many unloved years talking.
Still.
Maybe I should give myself the gift of lust this Christmas.
Hmmmm.
Johnny Depp. Bryan Ferry. Hugh Jackman. Pierce Brosnan. Me. Candlelight. And a bottle of wine. Mmmmmmm. Yes. That could be really nice.
Okay. Enough of that. No good can come of lust. Forget lust. Too much lust and not enough love in my life has been the source of a lot of problems for me. Lust = very bad idea.
How about antipathy? That's a good one. Antipathy is very underused and underrated. Justifiable hatred. Enmity, too. Hate. Yeah. I know. It's no good in any form. Usually. I know.
But.
Then again.
Are we really expected to go around loving everyone, even the people who do really, really bad things? Are we really supposed to love and forgive the people who abuse and hurt children? What about people who fail to spay or neuter their pets then throw the unwanted kittens and puppies in the trash or along a busy highway? Is hatred not justifed in those cases? Should we not feel hatred on behalf of their innocent victims? These are not good people. I don't care what's fundamentally wrong with them. I don't care that they were abused or neglected as children. It doesn't matter. They better than anyone, then, should know how wrong and harmful abusive and hurtful behavior is to children. Fuck compassion. What they're doing is sick and wrong and unnecessary. Yes. A little antipathy or enmity goes a long way. I know. You're thinking, gee, Trill, that's kind of harsh coming from you.
Yeah? Well. I've got two words for you: George Bush. Not so against antipathy and enmity now, are you?
But. I'm not a hateful person.
Not really. I have felt hatred, yes, but, deep down, really, there's not a lot of hatred in me. Which is actually a bit of a problem. I've been too compassionate. Too forgiving. Too understanding. Too sympathetic. Too empathethic. Oh man do I have a problem with empathy. There's an emotion I still have to battle on a daily basis. It's difficult for me to not care. Even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know it's a problem. Even though I know if I'm going to make anything of this life I've got to be less empathetic and a lot more apathetic.
But.
Hatred's not the answer for me. Even if it's antipathy or enmity. Not even as a Christmas present to myself. It's not what I really want or need for Christmas. You go ahead and try it if you want. Let me know how it goes.
Envy? Well. I mean. It's the most envious time of the year. (That's going to be a song. Just you wait. It's the most envious time of the year. With much income gloating and loans out there floating, it's the jea- jea- jealousy time of the year... Anyone know Johnny Mathis? If I write it, will he come?)
Envy seems like the obvious choice as an emotional Christmas present to myself. Allow myself to be envious. I mean, heck, I am envious of everyone who's so successful without really earning it or even working for it. Maybe admitting it would be good and healthy for me. Yes. I envy people who have loving spouses, children, homes, dogs, cats, health insurance, good paying jobs they like, cars... yes. I envy those people. I thought I'd be one of them. Turns out I'm not. Because I suck at life and I'm a failure at it. So much so that my best solution was to void myself of emotion and allow no expectations, good or bad. That's a pretty bad state. I admit that. But it's working for me. I tried everything else with no success. This is working. So back off and mind your own happy little business and life. I'm not judging you so don't judge me.
Hey.
Wait a minute.
I'm sounding rather hostile, aren't I? Yes, yes I am. Maybe even a bit rancorous.
That's new. In spite of the above bout of trial enmity and antipathy, I'm not a naturally angry person. It takes a lot to make me mad for myself. I get mad and upset when I see injustices inflicted on other people, but not when it's inflicted on me. When I see an injustice I'm more about taking positive corrective action than festering hostility and lashing out in anger. I'm more the type to get hurt than angry when the injustice is inflicted upon me. I'm also the type to blame myself rather than get mad at someone else. Good girl and all that. Responsible. Anger and hate are unattractive. No one likes a pouty Polly. Smile and everyone will feel better. Getting mad will only make it much worse. Come on now, give us a smile, it's rude and unthoughtful to be mad.
Oh. My. Swutting. Godless.
Where did that come from?
My parents. That's where.
I wasn't allowed to be mad when I was young. Well. I mean. That's being harsh. My parents are reasonable. They didn't expect me to never be angry. But. They did expect me to understand it doesn't solve anything.
And they're right. It doesn't. But. Somewhere along the line I took it to an extreme and thought I shouldn't feel anger. And no, I'm not blaming my parents. That's my own mixed up psychotically dysfunctional self abusive brain at work.
So.
Huh.
So really, the whole void of emotions thing is really nothing new for me. I've been voiding anger since I was a kid. During my quiet reflective contemplation I realized I cannot remember being really, truly, honestly, horrifically mad. I've been hurt. Annoyed. Conflicted and confused. (All the other girls got bewitched, bothered and bemused, I got annoyed, conflicted and confused. Cripes. Open these floodgates and look what pours out all over the place. Don't mind me, I'm just having a major life dawn of realization here.) But never, that I can remember, have I been what I would consider really mad. Raging anger. Furious. Enraged. Nope. Never. I've been really, really hurt. Badly. You have no idea the pain and hurt I have felt in my life. I don't go around thinking about the amount and type, but I have endured more than one human's fair share of hurt and subsequent pain. This isn't, "oh, poor me." Pity is one emotion I do not want or need. But I'm thinking about some of those big hurts, the ones which have scarred me and I'm wondering if maybe a little anger would be not only justified, but allowable and even expected. Maybe I've been repressing anger without even realizing it. Maybe I need to release some hostility over a few things which hurt me instead of making me mad.
By Jove I think she's got it!
Eureka! That's it!
I'm giving myself anger for Christmas! I am going to allow myself to be mad.
Oh boy! I can't wait! This is going to be the best Christmas ever!
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Well. Here goes. Thanksgiving.
I don’t have much to say about it this year. What I do have to say about it can be summed up thusly: Thanks.
You could read this - someone reminded me of this. I’ve been doing this too long. I don’t even remember what I’ve posted here.
I do have a lot to say about holiday travel, though.
It can be summed up thusly: Don’t.
It’s not that I don’t want to be with my family. I do. Very much. I love my family. I even like them. I like spending holidays with them. If it weren’t for them I’d be spending my holidays alone or as that pathetic interloper who conjures such pity they get invited to mooch on a holiday with a friend’s family solely because the friend can’t stand the guilt of knowing the pathetic single friend with no family would otherwise be spending the holiday alone. So yes. Even if I didn’t happen to love and like my family, I am thankful and happy they’re around because I don’t want the alternatives. For them or me.
But. As a single person it is my lot in life to be the one who travels to celebrate holidays with the family. The family never (or rarely) goes to visit the single person of the family on holidays. (yes, I’ve seen Pieces of April) I understand why. I know it makes the most economic and logistic sense. One person, me, traveling, vs. the rest of the family traveling. It’s just easier. For everyone except me.
I used to allow myself the little fantasy of hosting holiday festivities with my husband and children in our home. I used to think that, you know, like normal people, that would happen. I thought one day I would have a spouse and children and a home and I wouldn’t have to travel on my own to my parents’ house. My parents wouldn’t have to once again host the holidays. Sure, it would be a lot of work, but I wouldn’t mind. Honest. I wouldn’t mind at all. I like doing all that prep stuff.
When HWNMNBS and I were househunting there was one house in particular I really liked. I could see us living there. It seemed, you know, right. Normal. This is the stupidity of real estate. This is where emotion kicks in and drives the sale. I could envision future holidays unfolding in that house. It seemed right for us. I realize that’s stupid, really, it’s just walls and a roof. But it just felt normal. It felt good. It felt good to feel normal. And the holidays play a big part in that normalcy. Holidays are normal rituals. The normal rite of passage is that you grow up, get married, have a home and celebrate and enjoy your holidays there.
I don’t allow myself that fantasy anymore. It hurts. Still. A lot. Which is why I hate holidays so much now. They stir up all that stuff I try so hard to forget or at least repress the rest of the year. And it hurts. Move on, move on...get over it, move on, no expectations, no emotion, do the opposite, just get through it, feel nothing and move on. Right. I know. I’m trying, okay? I’m trying. But it’s the stupid swutting holidays and I miss him and that hurts. Okay?
There. I said it.
Which is why I now hate this time of year so much. It’s not just that I’m very much single — as if that weren’t bad enough — I get the extra bonus joy of lugging around serious baggage from a failed relationship on my holiday travels
When I travel on holidays I see some families traveling. And a lot of couples. A lot of children being toted by their parents. But mostly I see a lot of single people. Sometimes we cast each other knowing looks. The exchange of looks goes like this. “You, too, huh?” “Yep. Alone.” “Yeah. Me, too.” “Gotta find a spouse.” “Yeah.Me, too.”
There are alternatives. a) Stay home, don’t celebrate, celebrate, whatever, just refuse to travel to be with family; b) live close to (or with) the family; c) convince everyone to travel to your place.
None of those alternatives work for me or my family.
So off I go to spend the holiday with my family.
Because that is what I want to do. I just wish there were a way to magically teleport myself from here to there. I’m normally a gung ho traveler. The journey’s half the fun and all that. But not during holidays. Nope. No way. That’s a whole other travel ball game. That’s a whole other game completely.
Especially Thanksgiving. I have always tried to figure out what it is about Thanksgiving that makes people so...I don’t know what it is. Frantic. Desperate. Hostile. Confused. Angry.
Maybe they’re dreading spending the day with their family. Maybe they’re not thankful for anything. Maybe they’ve done this one too many times. Whatever the reason, very few people I encounter while traveling seem to be in a good mood about the holiday.
And I know I’m one of them. I try to keep a healthy perspective about it. “Hey! I’m so thankful I have a family to be with on holidays! I’m so thankful I am able to travel! I’m so thankful for all these wonderful people sharing the holiday with me! We’re all on this pilgrimage together and isn’t that just special and interesting? We all have different stories which brought us to this one place in time together. United in our holiday travel! How cool is that?! It’s very cool!”
I honestly do start my journey with that attitude. It usually fades quickly but I do try to maintain some semblance of, well holiday good will. But when everyone else is in a really bad mood about the whole thing it’s really difficult to maintain a good attitude.
The children are the first to go. They’re perceptive. They know when there is a bad attitude hanging in the air. It’s like fear. They instinctively know the grown-ups are tense and moody. And because they’re children and unable to rationalize the situation they misbehave. It’s a really simple concept: Children misbehave when they are tired or craving attention. They crave attention because they’re not getting it or because they’re having emotional issues. Like fear. And confusion. Give the kid some positive attention and very clear rules and boundaries and guess what? It’s like magic! They behave! Well. Not always quite like that. Sometimes they’re just really tired and cranky.
Hey. I can relate. I’ve been tired and cranky for several years. It sucks. Sometimes I misbehave. But. There they are, reacting. Misbehaving. Annoying and irritating all the fellow holiday travelers. And the grown-ups react to the screaming, crying children. Tempers elevate. Remember, many of the people traveling this holiday are single people. People who do not have children. People who may actually really like and enjoy children. But not now. Not here. Not screaming, crying, annoying, irritating children whose parents allow them to run amuck and scream and cry and carry on, giving nothing more than an unapologetic shrug and smile and a lot of excuses and blame for why their children are running amuck.
I’ve noticed a trend among parents of young children. Blame everyone else for their children's’ behavior. The plane was late so it’s the airline’s fault the child is running around the newsstand pulling magazines off the rack while the parents slurp down a doublefrappecafemuchacrappola and discuss how this is all the airline’s fault.
I was hit in the ankle, yes, that ankle, by one of those SUV strollers a few weeks ago. The driver of the thing, a woman who could barely see over the handles of the stroller, was apparently pushing it with her stomach because she had a coughuppalottabucks in one hand and her mobile phone in the other. She was completely unaware that she hit me with the SUV stroller and kept shoving the thing into me. I turned around to see what the swut she was doing and she gave me a dirty look. I heard her tell whomever was on the other end of the phone, “It’s really crowded here. This woman in front of me won’t move and she’s making Jacob cry.”
Yes. I was making young Jacob cry. It was my fault the flow of foot traffic had come to a halt in the airport and that her inability to move was causing Jacob to be upset. Apparently Jacob gets upset when the stroller stops. Jacob likes to be on the move. Perhaps his mother's intake of caffeine during pregnancy has something to do with his need for speed. But it was my fault, more precisely: my ankle’s fault, that his forward movement ceased.
It was the “won’t move” part that pushed me over the edge.
“I ‘won’t move’ (yes, I used exaggerated air quotes around the won't move. I told you sometimes I misbehave) because the people in front of me have stopped moving forward because apparently somewhere in front of us there is a delay. This sometimes happens in airports. It’s normal. We’re all going to be okay. We just have to stay calm. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Where can I send the physical therapy bill for the work I need on my ankle because you repeatedly shoved your SUV stroller into me? Do you have insurance coverage to drive that thing or do you want to settle this between us?”
“Huh?”
“Oh. Right. It’s my fault your stroller repeatedly shoved into the back of my ankle. And all that emotional distress Jacob’s had is my fault, too.”
Still talking on her mobile, she said, “She’s really weird and a total bitch and she still won’t move and Jacob’s crying really bad now.”
We finally began moving. But never during the whole process did she put down her mobile phone or her coughuppalottabucks and tend to her child.
If you think this is an isolated incident, guess again. This happens a lot. I’m not going to pin labels on people or generalize a type of parent. We all know these people. We know who they are. We know where they live. We know those SUV strollers cost a lot of money. We know status is very important to them. More important that who’s actually sitting in the strollers. One of these days, very soon, maybe even this holiday weekend, I expect a riot over this issue.
And I like children. I really do. I truly like and enjoy children. I cut tremendous amounts of slack for children. It’s their parents who fill me with contempt. But. If my anger level is raised over this I cannot even begin to imagine how people who do not like or understand children are feeling over this.
Which leads me to think: Wouldn't it be easier if we all just stayed where we are and gave thanks with whomever happened to be next door? No one would have to travel. No one would have to schlep through crowded airports, train stations and highways. No one would have to deal with travel delays, tired screaming children, frazzled transportation workers or unmet expectations. Think how much more calm the general atmosphere would be.
Oh sure, we’d miss our families and friends. That would be difficult. Being apart from the people you love on holidays is difficult. But. On the other hand, arriving frazzled, tired, cranky and generally unpleasant after a long and unpleasant journey is also not in keeping with the whole warm fuzzy holiday spirit.
Given the choice I’d take a pleasant, heartfelt, meaningful sincere phone conversation with some laughs over a cranky, tense, surly face to face dinner.
But. I’m a wimp. A wuss. I don’t have the emotional fortitude to not travel to be with my family for the holiday. I couldn’t stand the guilt. And I cannot even imagine saying, “No, I’m not going to be there for the holiday this year. I don’t feel like traveling. I’ll give you a call.” Because there’s no way I could disappoint my parents and the rest of my family who cares that way. I’m not made of strong enough emotional stuff for that. Nor do I have the stamina to actually enjoy the holiday on my own. It sounds good in theory, take a year off from all of it for a change, and I’d have all sorts of ideas swirling around for my holiday solitude prior to the day. But when it arrived I’d be upset. I’d want to be with my family. I’d feel guilty. I’d feel selfish. I’d feel ashamed. I’d feel lonely.
So off I trek, another holiday pilgrimage as a single person. Keep those swutting SUV strollers away from me. You have been warned.
