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.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
But hey, at least I'm not alone. Too bad all of us single jobless, homeless, car-less people can't find a place to share, a commune sort of thing. Based on the stories I've read and heard we have the skills, education, experience and expertise to achieve world domination if we could all just get together in one place . And yes, there's some comfort in that. It's not personal. Loads - millions - of educated, professional people are unemployed and can't find jobs and are losing their homes. It's bad for everyone but I contend it's worse for singles - we live alone, we make it or break it on our own and we spend long, scary, lonely nights worrying and crying and trying to think of a plan...on our own.
When we lose everything we truly lose everything because we don't have the intrinsic things married couples rely on to console themselves. "We haven't lost everything, we still have each other..."
Many of us singles pour the energy we would channel into a relationship with a significant other into our careers. Our careers matter to us, a lot. Some argue too much, and I agree to a certain extent. But when no one wants to date us and the one thing we have going for us is a successful career, naturally we throw ourselves into it. So when we lose our jobs...well...it's devastating. And we have to deal with being unemployed on our own and deal with the emotional upheaval and anxiety on our own. There's no intrinsic consoling, no getting in touch with what really matters: Spending time with the spouse and kids and forming stronger familial bonds.*
Instead we console ourselves with the stories we hear about other jobless, homeless singles. "Hey, it's not just me. There are loads of other jobless, homeless, loveless singles out there struggling, too." Because that's what people tell us. Married people. People with jobs. People with homes. They quickly tell about someone they know, a former coworker or friend, who's "just like" me. Or they forward links to stories about people "just like" me. That's how I came across this. A friend (married, new house, just back from vacation in Italy) forwarded it to me. "See Trill? This sounds just like you except you didn't have a car to repossess. At least you're not alone." Oh. Right. I'm not alone. (Looks around emptied condo for signs of someone else there. Looks at the meager boxes of possessions - socks and underwear, mainly - for signs of someone else's stuff. Looks at dwindling bank account, solitary signature on mortgage and income tax return for signs of someone else there, too.)
*And there's that pesky religion issue. I know, if I just let Jesus into my heart I would never be alone. But remember, I'm the kid who had Jesus as an imaginary friend for a lot of years. When Jesus was my best friend I still felt alone, though. (Which explains why I had an imaginary friend.) And back then I Believed, oh man how I Believed. But I still felt alone. So. Ya know. I'm just sayin'.
Apparently God and Jesus dislike unemployed single people more than unemployed married people because there are more single unemployed people than married unemployed people. That or Satan has more tricks up his sleeve to use against us unemployed singles. Maybe when it comes to Satan there is safety in numbers.
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?
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Friend's husband: "Who made this potato salad?"
Friend: "Trillian."
Friend's husband: "Wow! It's great! I'm always surprised at what a great cook you are, Trillian."
Friend: "Why?"
Friend's husband: "I dunno. Single career gal in the city...undomesticated stereotype and all that."
Me: "Three martini dinners, take-out and ice cream. Nothing but diet pop and face spritzer in the fridge. Jeans folded and stored in the oven."
Friend's husband: "Bingo."
Friend: "Just because that's how I lived before we got married doesn't mean all single women, especially Trillian, live that way."
Me: "Meh. I kinda live that way. But I can cook on demand. Or not. Sometimes I do it just for fun. Every now and then I pretend I'm married with children and make a meal containing all of the food groups. I feel like I'm a kid playing house."
Friend's husband: "You should tell guys you can cook then invite them over for dinner. You'd have men lined up down the block. Offer a guy a free meal, made in your kitchen and he'll come back for more and eventually he'll just assume you're his girlfriend and then you start threatening to stop cooking and then he'll ask you to marry him."
Me to friend: "Ahhhhh, so that's how you bagged this wild tiger. I always thought you weren't letting me in on some ancient sexual secret even Cosmo won't divulge."
Friend: "Nah, I just fed him."
Friend's husband: "Get Trillian's recipe for this potato salad. Yours has too much onion."
Friend: "Really?"
Me: "That's subjective. But I don't use onions. Try shallots or leeks and a little white wine vinegar."
Friend: "Really? Not red onion or green onion?"
Me: "In a pinch green onion but shallots or leeks."
Friend's husband: "See? You know stuff about food. You should put a notice on Craig's List. 'Men! Dinner's at my place, bring a bottle of wine and lively conversation and I'll make you dinner. No sex, no strings, just food and conversation.'"
Friend: "That's actually not a bad idea. Especially the 'no strings, just food and conversation' part. Men won't think you're trying to ensnare them."
Me: "I'm not trying to ensnare anyone. I'm not dating anymore, remember? And if I don't get a full time job in the next couple of weeks I'm not going to have a home much less a kitchen."
Friend's husband: "You could charge a flat fee, like $15 or $20. Not too much because guys won't pay a lot for dinner."
Me: "So, I'm opening a restaurant? Aren't there zoning and health department issues? Permits and licenses and inspections, that sort of thing?"
Friend's husband: "By the time they catch you you'll be married and not advertising anymore."
Me: "Oh yeah, of course. But once more with feeling, I'm not dating, I don't want to date. I'm out, I'm done, I'm up on the shelf collecting dust."
Friend: "You could trade food for sex, then. No strings attached, just dinner and sex."
Me: "Niiiiiice. There's a great idea."
Friend's husband: "Hey, people exchange food for sex all the time. They call it a dinner date."
Me: "Ah, but enough about your courtship."
Friend's husband: "Seriously Trill, if men knew you can cook they might be more interested in you. See you in a different light. At this point, you know, out of college, into your career, a homeowner, men assume you have brains and independence and all the respect that goes with that is implied, but we don't have a clue if you're domesticatable. We want it all, brains, beauty, wife and mother domestication. There's no way to know that if you don't offer some sample of domestication. Like dinner. Maybe you could do laundry, too. Like while you're eating dinner you could throw in a couple loads of laundry for them. And a comfortable couch to sack out on after dinner. A fancy couch will only impress gay guys. You want a super comfortable broken in nap worthy couch. You have ESPN, right?"
Me: "So basically I should offer maid service and a place to take naps in front of the game to entice a man to date me. This sounds like something from the pre-ERA era. This cannot be good for the advancement of women in the workplace."
Friend's husband: "Uhhh, how many of your female friends are still in the workplace? The whole ERA thing is backfiring on women because you work...until you get pregnant and then suddenly you're all June Cleaver."
Friend: "Hey! I could get a job! I quit on purpose, because of the kids. I'm going to go back to work when the kids' schedules aren't so demanding. I have two degrees and executive experience. I'm just taking a few years off for the kids."
Friend's husband: "When we dated you were into your career, super smart and independent and talked about world affairs and art and music and traveling to interesting places. We got married and had kids and that all changed."
Me: "Yeah, I noticed that, too. Kinda weird. Seems like fraud. Us single women don't get why men put up with that. Seems unfair. Oh crap. I said that out loud. Sorry, Friend."
Friend: "He's the one who didn't want the kids in daycare and we didn't earn enough to pay for a nanny and he didn't like that I was traveling so much for work."
Great. So I make potato salad to take to a barbecue and it sets off an argument about my friends' workplace viability.
So here's the thing, though. Is the appearance of a lack of domestication part of what turns men off? For all the talk about men being turned on by confident, professional, successful women, is that just a sort of fantasy that lures them in, but day in, day out they want a woman who can cook, is willing to do their laundry and doesn't mind if they sack out on a comfy couch in front of the television?
My friend is right, her husband didn't want their kids in daycare and after the first child was born he didn't like that she had to travel for work. Not because he didn't want to take care of the baby, but because he felt anxious about her traveling on her own. She is an integral part of of the home team and if anything happened to her the baby would be motherless and that upset him. A lot. Maybe he's more old school than some modern guys, but, generally he's pretty cool, even a little metrosexual. He's not some neanderthalic chauvinistic jerk. Put it this way: I respect his opinion. Maybe the Craig's List idea is a bit much, but he might have a point about not showing any overt signs of domestication.
If I still cared I might try luring a man by touting my cooking and cleaning skills and trade in my stylish couch for a big, cushy sucks-you-in-for-a-nap couch. But would I be interested in a man who values me for my ability to cook him a meal, do his laundry and supply him with a comfy place for a nap in front of the television? I think not. And maybe that's why I am, and always will be, a single zero, the Mayor of Singleton.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Sometimes I lie awake in bed wondering if I'll ever not share walls with people, especially complete strangers. I lie awake contemplating this usually when a neighbor is a) having a party, b) having sex, c) peeing, d) slamming their door(s), e) cooking something odoriferous or e) listening to their television or stereo really loud.
My (not so new) compartment is a bazillion times better than my old place in terms of noise/smell/intimacy pollution. Really. The past year has been so much more calm and peaceful in terms of neighbor noise and smells there's no comparison. No screaming banshee nympho next door. No cacophonic lesbians below me. No 11PM to 3 AM Tuesday Night Bongo Sessions in the park. No couple across the courtyard fighting and yelling all day and night. No frat boy neighbor steaks and brats barbecuing on the back steps wafting the scent of blood and flesh in my windows and under my door. (Ahhh, communal urban living, ain't it the life?!)
Someone asked me if I missed my old hood. I got nostalgic for a second and then remembered the banshee nympho and the Bongo Sessions and I said assuredly, No.
My (not so new) compartment isn't exactly vacuous silence, there's noise. But. Not as much noise. There are rules in my new building. Too much noise gets a person "written up." Too many "write ups" gets a person evicted. We're a large and diverse community. There are a lot of us. We share walls, halls and a roof deck. There have to be rules. I think most of us are pretty cool about it, at least down in my neck of the plaster.
But. I can hear the guy who lives above me peeing. I sometimes hear a dog's bark echo through the air vent. When I first moved in I had an über hip guy living next door. He owned a restaurant. He'd come home around 2:30 AM, turn on super swank electronica music and have sex with his special of the day. All of this was muffled, at first I didn't even realize it was right next door. One night when he brought home a particularly exotic (noisy) special of the day I got mad enough to get out of bed and try to figure out which apartment held this bachelor Bacchanal. I quietly and gingerly stuck my head out the front door (in that way you do in the middle of the night, as if you might be "caught" by, hmm, I don't know exactly, just caught) and heard the music and screams coming from behind the door right next door. I was really surprised the Bachelor Royale lived right next door to me. In my compartment it sounded a lot farther away. Our bedrooms share a common wall. Even though he (more accurately, his daily specials) were loud, they didn't seem like they were RIGHT NEXT DOOR WITH NOTHING BUT A FEW INCHES OF PLASTER BETWEEN US. I thought about putting in a complaint because the music was really loud and it was happening on a nightly basis. But I didn't and in a few months he moved. And a med student moved in and she's either on rotation or studying and I never hear her. She's either really quiet or has a sex life as nonexistent as mine.
One night during some sports playoff the guy above me had a party. I know this because every few minutes the silence would be punctuated with a "YEAH!!!!" and hoots and applause and yells of "woo hoo" by a lot of people. It didn't occur to me to complain.
People let their doors slam a lot and the guy on the other side of me seems to open and close his kitchen door a lot.
When I actually notice some of these noises, that is, when they're loud or frequent enough to be noticeable, I think about the old place and the Banshee Nympho and the Grill of Death and the Friday Night at the Fights couple and I think, "ahhh. okay. perspective. This is but a mere whisper in comparison."
But.
That changed.
Something happened to make my lie awake in bed contemplating if I'd ever not share walls with complete strangers, or anyone, and how sad and pathetic my life is because I don't have walls of my own and that I'll probably spend my life sharing walls with complete strangers.
I am quite certain there's nothing in this world that can make a person long and yearn for a place of their own, with no shared walls, like Zydeco.
I am sure of this because with every fiber of my being I never wanted anything more than I wanted a home with no shared walls the night I "met" my new neighbor below me. Via their obvious love of Zydeco, Loud, loud, LOUD Zydeco. Zydeco is loud by definition. Accordions and twangy guitars are loud all on their own. Amplify them through speakers and they're REALLY LOUD. And annoying. Yes. It would be annoying if it were any type of music THAT LOUD. But. Zydeco is loud and boisterous by nature. It's all about New Orleans and partying and booze and crowds and dancing and hootin' and hollerin'. So yes, the fact that it's Zydeco is relevant. And yes, I am not a huge Zydeco fan. A little accordion goes a long way. So yes, it was even more annoying because it was Zydeco.
And it was even more annoying because it was 11:30 PM and had been going on non stop since 9:15 PM.
And even more annoying because I wasn't feeling well.
And so it was that it came to pass that I would lie awake contemplating the pathetic nature of my life. "Well, Trill, here you are wide awake listening to your neighbor's Zydeco when you need to be resting because you have mumps."
Yes. You heard me over the Zydeco.
I have mumps.
Yes. The Mumps. The virus most people get when they're a kid or not at all because they've been vaccinated.
Please don't ask me to explain how I got The Mumps because I have no idea. I don't remember having them when I was young. My father doesn't remember me having them, either. Though my father's not exactly good at remembering stuff like that. We didn't ask my mother because we didn't want to worry her. She'll worry if she knows I have mumps. I assumed I was vaccinated against it. Apparently even if I was vaccinated it was a long time ago and I'd need a booster to prevent this strain of mumps.
I didn't even know I had The Mumps until I went to my doctor thinking I was having a bad reaction to medication for something else. (Don't ask. Really. Do not ask. Suffice it to say it's more embarrassing than mumps, though not quite as much fun to say.) I told the nurse on the phone my symptoms: aches in my throat/neck, stinging watery eyes, pains under my arms and stomach, light headedness, feeling like my body's on a two second delay, headache, nausea, bloated everything, numb lips, salivating...and she said, "You better get back in to see the doctor. Those aren't the usual side effects."
So back I went to see my doctor who poked, (ouch) squeezed, (seriously, ouch.) swabbed, (ewwww) and squinted (what? what's that? what do you see?) at various parts of my body. Within three minutes my doctor proclaimed: "It's not the medication. You have mumps. They're going around and they're bad this year. Go home and go to bed for a few days. You're contagious. Stay away from children and the produce aisles and refrain from sexual activity at least until the weekend."
Yeah. That last one's really cramping my style. No sex until the weekend?! How will I manage?!
Actually.
I was contemplating taking up Shitz Ewwww's offers to go out this weekend. Shitz Ewwww has been relentless in his pursuit of grossing me out, I mean asking me out. So far I've had legit excuses to protect me. But he's persisting and I'm sick and tired and you know, I mean, I have mumps and I live in a tiny compartment sharing walls with someone who listens to REALLY LOUD Zydeco so do I really have any room at all to be even remotely particular about men? No. I do not. I have no valid reason to be selective. I have found a man who wants to see me again and that is the only thing that matters.
So what if I don't like him that well? So what if he's immature? So what if he doesn't get my sense of humor? So what if he's got a thing about poop? He's a man and he wants to see me again. Maybe you can be selective in those areas but I can't.
I told him I had mumps. He asked me if I was puking. I said no. He said then I could go out with him. I said I'd see how I felt on Friday afternoon.
It's him or the night in bed with The Mumps, the cat and REALLY LOUD Zydeco from downstairs.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
There are lots of milestones in life, big ones, small ones, ones that you anticipate for a long time, eagerly, and others you shove to the cellar of your brain leaving them to lurk there in the dark, denying and repressing them as best as possible, but, you know if you continue to live those not so eagerly anticipated milestones are going to present themselves in your life. Ready or not, here they come.
A milestone was recently hit by a family member. It was an eagerly anticipated and happy milestone. My goodness they grow up so fast...
My parents have been helping this particular family member reach the milestone. Not just my parents - most of my family has liberally doled out support of all types over the past years in pursuit of this milestone. So. You know, A Big Deal.
My family's been in milestone limbo for a few years. Which is my fault. My milestones were next on the anticipated milestone timeline. Marriage. Children. My turn. But. Since we are all (except my mother) now no longer holding out any real or serious hope or plans for either of those milestones, my turn on the timeline has been skipped and passed onto the next stop on the family milestone timeline.
Ouch. That hurts. But. Well. I tried. I failed.
I forfeited my turns on the timeline.
Right. So. We've been in eager anticipated limbo for a few years, mainly due to my failure to get married and have children. My failures at these milestones caused a big gap in the eagerly anticipated milestone timeline. Consequently my family has had to endure the not so eagerly anticipated milestones without the usual buffer of a reprieve from sorrow and struggle offset by a happy or eagerly anticipated milestone.
My mother's illnesses. My aunt's death. My mother's months on life support. My father's, um, "situation." The unpleasant milestones. They've been flung at my family for the past 18 months without warning, hint or buffer or break. Well. I mean. You know. We all know people get older and with age often comes illness and decline.
Milestones.
But. They blindsided my family and I. I suppose they always do. That's their nature.
But.
Still.
It's all seemed so unlikely and sudden. And besides, we were still stalled at my place on the timeline. My mother shouldn't have been able to get sick, and then sicker, my aunt should not have been able to die until I took my turns on the milestone timeline. They looked forward to my wedding and children from the time I was young. It's what mothers and aunts do. No. They weren't feverishly planning my wedding from my point of entry out of the womb, but, you know, they're normal things to expect and anticipate. My cousins all did it. My sister did it. My brother did it. It was my turn.
And I mean, you know, swut knows people all gave me enough time and elbow room to hit those milestones. People waited. And waited. And hoped. And had a false hope dashed.
And well. Yeah. I mean, time goes on, the timeline continues, albeit with a huge gap where I should have had a few highs marked. I let everyone down with my failure to achieve the normal milestones of life. People, friends, neighbors, church people...distant relatives have stopped wondering "what's wrong with her" and have moved onto the assumption there's something really wrong with me. The kind of hushed tone something really wrong with her. The not so subtle but "fun cajoling" "isn't it time you thought about settling down" remarks have given way to hushed whispers, long suspicious looks and every now and then a pointed finger or dismissive sweep of the hand. "Oh, Trillian. Something really wrong with her. Avoid her. Such a shame. Her poor parents. Such good people. You'd think she'd get herself together at least for their sake."
If you're not from a small town and/or a certain type of family you probably don't believe that sort of process actually takes place. Trust me. It does. Those timelines are public knowledge, calculators and calendars of the passing of time and generations. And when something doesn't happen on the anticipated timeline, people wonder. And talk. We haven't actually come a long way, baby. And woe to any of us who actually really do want marriage and children and can't have either. We search ourselves trying to figure out how to achieve those milestones for our sake and for our family timeline. Every day we fail is an empty day and a larger gap on the milestone timeline. We're very aware all on our own, but add the milestone timeline and social jabbing of expectations and it's not only a lot of pressure, it's embarrassing and most of all, adding to the sad and lonely feelings of emptiness and heartache. I'm not saying everyone needs to be coupled up and reproducing - spare me the email - I know lots of people do not want these things and have to deal with a different sort of set of issues with their families and friends. Oh sure, I'm busy with work and friends and family and all that. I have an okay life, you know, for someone who doesn't actually long for a good relationship and children and a home and all the convention that goes with it. The only reason I'm sad and lonely is because relationships, or rather, one really good relationship, and family, and love and all that, is really important to me. Work, volunteering and hobbies cannot fill those voids. They pass the time, maybe add a little cranial fulfillment, and warm the heart a bit, but it's not the same as a loving relationship and family. But. I have a job and I volunteer and I have hobbies and I'm generally pretty busy, or at least occupied. So I play up that angle, try to act like it's all okay, that I'm on my timeline, that everything's okay. We all know it's not but the best I figure I can do for my parents is to try to pretend I accept and sometimes even want the life I have. I keep thinking maybe I'll actually believe it one of these days. Lonely nights and that big empty place in my heart should be getting more insignificant any day now, right?!
Right. So. Huge gap on the family eager anticipated milestone-o-meter because of me. Lots of really low lows and no real highs to speak of for the past few years.
And along comes the next stop on the milestone timeline. Which is, you know, really cool. Good. People are starting to focus on the next up on the timeline. Eventually they'll forget about me altogether. I can't wait to be shoved into oblivion by the rest of the milestone timeline.
So that's all the stuff brewing in the cellar of my mind. Mainly on those long lonely nights. The rest of the time is consumed with work and my mother. Which is cool. Fine. A husband and children would get in the way of me helping with my mother. As it is I am feeling like I am doing far, far, far from enough for her. I want and need to do more. I try. I have limitations. I'd like to think I do the best I can. I do more than my siblings. But it's not a contest. They have significant others, children, jobs and lives. I have a cat and a job. It makes sense for me to do more. But it's not enough.
How do I know this?
Because someone said something, one phrase, one sentence uttered somewhat offhand, which stung me hard. More than a slap on the face. More like a dagger in the heart and spine.
My mother's in a nursing home. I hate that. I can scarcely bear the thought of it. I'm trying to deal with it. I'm trying to make it okay for her. I'm trying to be positive and up! about it. I'm trying to convince everyone, mainly my parents and myself, that this is temporary. This milestone which should have come a long, long time from now, or better still, not at all, isn't a milestone. It's just a small setback, a minor issue, not an event. Certainly not a milestone event. Just a minor issue which will be resolved because my mother will get better. She will get better. She's getting better. She will get better. It's going to be okay. She will get better.
But.
Then.
Someone said, "Oh, how nice, they let her out for the weekend."
"Let her out."
Let. Her. Out.
A weekend pass.
Let. Her. Out.
Like she's being held in captivity against her will. Imprisoned. Letting her out for the weekend.
That sentence struck me so hard I barely made it to the ladies room in time to hide the hyperventilation and tears which followed that verbal assault.
She is being held. She's not happy about being in a nursing home but, in my mother's usual way, she's making the best of it. The problem is that there isn't really a best of it. It's a nursing home. Nursing homes suck. She's surrounded by people in advanced states of decline and decay. People die there almost every day. She's in the "transient" wing, which is to say at this point they do not consider her a permanent resident waiting to die. Her time there is spent in hopes of rehabilitating her enough to go home. Home home. But they're watching her. Keeping an eye on her. If she doesn't reach her personal milestones there's a room in the permanent resident waiting to die wing waiting for her. Well. That's metaphoric. There's a room in the permanent resident waiting to die wing waiting for all of us. But. She's way too close for my comfort or hers.
So the concept of "letting her out for the weekend" hit hard.
Hearing someone say it reinforced all the brain dark cellar thoughts I've been trying to ignore. It's not that none of us aren't facing the facts, but, well, we're trying to be positive! up! look on the bright side! smiling like we mean it!
And then someone innocently says, "Oh, how nice, they're letting her out for the weekend."
Allowing her to leave because of a huge family milestone.
But she must be returned by Sunday night. The "or else" heavily implied.
It was exciting for my mother.
She hasn't breathed outside air since January.
Because she's been held in captivity.
She was excited but nervous. Her first outing without the aid and relative safety of trained health care professionals and equipment. A wheelchair. A walker. Braces on her leg. Portable oxygen tank. And somewhere in there my mother.
My stylish, buoyant, with it, energetic, independent, always on the go mother trapped in captivity even when she's "let out for the weekend." She wanted to look nice for the event. She's lost so much weight her already small clothes literally fall off her. I've had to purchase all new clothes for her. I try to find stylish but comfy, easy to manage outfits. But infirmary clothes are not my mother's usual style. She's the type who's always put together nicely. She'd never dream of owning (much less wearing) sweats. Casual, yes, but always casually smart, even around the house and out in the garden. But. Now. There she is in her micro sized workout suit and orthopedic shoes. You don't know my mother so you can't comprehend how incongruous this is to how she is. If the circumstances weren't so awful it would be comical. Like she was dressing up for Halloween.
She wanted something nice to wear for the weekend event. I took her magazines and catalogs and department store ads. We came up with a few ideas and eventually I found her an outfit and matching orthopedic shoes. Which she liked, I mean, you know, she was enthused by the relative "properness" of the outfit compared to the stuff she's been wearing. But. Still. I know she would have rather been wearing something very, very different. It was a concession. Her big weekend out and she was stuck wearing what a year ago she would have called an "old lady outfit." It's the shoes, mainly, which really seal the deal. Old lady orthopedic shoes.
It sucks.
It sucks for her and it sucks for everyone who knows and loves her.
It's a milestone.
An unpleasant one.
Fortunately balanced by an eagerly anticipated milestone. One which my mother has contributed heavily for many years. She wouldn't have missed it for anything. It's been her goal for the past weeks. What she was wearing was of no real consequence. The fact that she's even alive is all that matters to any of us. The fact that she was able to be "let out" for the weekend was a huge, huge deal. No one cares what she's wearing, nor, really, does she. But. You know. This is a far cry from what she ever anticipated wearing to this event.
But.
Big picture.
She made it. She saw it happen. Live. In person. On her weekend pass from The Home.
Which is, you know, good. It's all positive and encouraging and all that.
Really. It is. She will get better. She will. (See? Positive! Up! Think no negative, see positive! It is going to be okay! Smile like you mean it and eventually you will!)
But. The fact remains: My mother had to be "let out for the weekend."
We had her on loan.
A milestone within a milestone because of a milestone.
And then we had to return her.
I'm the youngest child. My parents' baby. By a lot of years and a very, very long shot. It's no secret my, um, DNA creation was a surprise. My mother always covers the obvious age gap between my brother and I with, "We had to wait until he was settled nicely into a routine and activities at school...he was such a demanding child we couldn't consider having another baby until he was older..." Which has some basis in fact, some of my brother's pre-8 year old antics are the stuff of legends and Simpson's episodes. Still. We all know the stork knocking on the door with me came as a surprise.
But. My parents were cool with the whole thing. After what they'd been enduring with my brother I'm sure there were concerns of the "oh no, what if she's like him" type. Fortunately for all of us I wasn't like him in the bad ways. Right. So. Just setting the scene there.
My parents got a baby girl who was basically a well behaved, if a bit shy, breath of fresh child rearing air, a last gasp, last chance baby.
And. Well. Sometimes, my mother especially, behaved the way mothers do with what they know is their last baby. She didn't coddle me. Too much. But. There was (and is) no mistaking that I am her baby, her youngest, her last gasp, last baby. We joke about it. We're cool with it. It's okay. I was never that aware of it when I was a kid, it's only as an adult, looking back, that I realize what she was going through.
Once, though, one time, when I was starting kindergarten, a milestone, I remember being very aware that my mother was upset. She normally gently pushed me into new experiences, particularly social experiences (that shy thing was already a big problem) but on my first day of kindergarten, a day which I had been looking forward to for a very long time, my first day of school, off like the big kids to learn all sorts of things, embarking on my educational career (yes. I was a dork) I was eager and ready to trot off on my own, to let go of my mother's hand and boldly (well, for me) face experiences on my own. But. My mother, who usually gently but firmly prodded me into leaving the safety of her hand, pulled me back and hugged me really tightly for a really long time. The difference this time was that I wanted to go, I wanted to let go of her hand and run off on my own to walk into a new room full of kids I didn't know. I was so eager the shyness was secondary, I'd deal with that later. But. There was my mother oddly, after all that prodding the coaxing for me to let go of her, now holding me back and not letting me go. What I remember thinking at the time was, "She's sad. She's going to be alone when I'm at school." So I told her to get my best doll to play with while I was at school. Oh be quiet. I was trying to help. She laughed. We talked about what we'd do when I got home. I left.
And thus began a lifetime of milestone good-byes with consolation efforts and looking forward instead of backwards in an effort to make the good-byes okay. A difficult and uncomfortable hospital stay. I didn't want her to leave me. She had to. Every night she'd pull away and leave me with that best doll and a new book and talk about the next day's steps closer to home. My first slumber party, I couldn't wait to go, she had concerns, I stacked up a bunch of books for her to read just as if I was there and much anticipation of a trip to the library when I got home the next day. Summer camp. I didn't want to go. She pushed. I went. And found a teddy bear sewn into my sleeping bag, low enough so the other girls wouldn't know it was there, but within easy reach at night when things got scary in the tent on the first night, and plans for a family vacation shortly after I got home from camp. A Summer job away for three months. I pulled away and left behind hidden notes and drawings for her to find all over the house while I was gone, and plans for back to school shopping trips upon my return home. College, well, we both struggled with that one...it never ends.
This was going through my mind when we took my mother back to The Home. A weird mix of role reversal and history repeating. I couldn't let go of her. I just could not make my arms let go of her. They can't have you. I'm not giving you to them. They let you out, we managed, and they can't have you back because you don't belong here. You belong at home home, not The Home. My now frail, tiny mother hugged me and with her gentle, but firm, but, very, very weak hands, pushed me away and patted me like all those times she used to do when I was little - "Go on and play with those girls, Trillian, it will be fun!" "Go on, now, Trillian, it's okay, they're nice, you like hopscotch, go on and play with them, they want you to play with them." "I'll be right here waiting for you, go on, it's okay." - "It's okay Trillian, we made it through the weekend, I'm tired, they're taking good care of me, it's okay, they're waiting for me. Maybe next time we'll go home for good." Another milestone which should never have a place on our family timeline.
Yeah, go call your mother and tell her you love her.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
I hesitate to even bring this to anyone's attention because it would a) prove that I have read Ask Amy at least once, which is one time too many; and b) indicate that I am either hurt, offended or in some way provoked to emotion over Ask Amy which is troublesome in ways I cannot articulate at the moment.
And I am not in the business of being a better journalist than the published journalists in "credible" news sources. I leave that job in the good and truly credible hands of Steve Rhodes and his Beachwood Reporter.
But.
Friday's Ask Amy hit very close to home for me and any other single people with married friends.
This is a letter which ran in Friday's (March 10) Chicago Tribune. A married woman has concerns about one of her single friends. The married friend, rather than just asking her single "best" friend directly, chose to ask a complete stranger, a stranger with a published advice column, no less, for advice regarding her "best" friend's "weird" and "strange" behavior.
Let's join the column already in session, shall we?
Dear Amy: My best friend, "Betsy," is a lovely, independent, funny thirtysomething who has not had a mate for a few years.
Betsy has nurtured a friendship with "Glen" for the past few years -- sometimes "hanging out" with him, having long phone conversations and that sort of thing.
My husband and I have known Betsy for nearly eight years. She comes over for dinner and parties, and we always include her when our extended families get together. Some weekends she spends the night with us because the drive between our houses is a long one.
Betsy is my best friend -- and by association one of my husband's best friends.
We have recently been pressuring Betsy to include Glen in some of our outings -- offering dinner, tickets to sporting events or to visit us at home.
We still have not met Glen!
Don't you think this is weird?
Betsy says that it doesn't make sense for her to introduce him to us because they aren't "dating."
Believe me, I've tried to figure out what that means. I told her I didn't care if she was dating him or not. The fact that he has been a part of her life for a few years and we have heard a little about him but have never met him (even though we have extended invitations repeatedly in his direction) is strange.
What do you think?
-- Wondering
Dear Wondering:
Here are a few possible scenarios:
"Betsy" might be gay and not want to disclose it to you at this time.
"Glen" might be married.
Betsy might be embarrassed. Glen might be a figment of her imagination.
Why are you worrying so much about this? I'm sure that every time you bring this up, Betsy wonders why you are so invested in her having a "mate." You never mention that she is unhappy with the state of her life, so why are you?
Let it be.
Great. Problem solved! Where would we be without Amy? She makes it all so obvious and easy to understand.
It's simple, really. If you're a single woman in your thirties who has not had a mate "in years" yet has a male friend she doesn't drag on a "long drive" to her "best" friends' house for dinner, sporting events or visits at that far away home you are either a) a lesbian, b) having an affair with a married man, or c) psychotic, making up imaginary friends.
Wow. Where would we be without sound advice from Amy Dickinsin? I feel so much better about my life now. Now all I need to figure out is if I'm a lesbian or psychotic. (or don't realize I'm seeing a married man which would make me a psychotic adulteress.)
I am bothering to bring this to attention because "Wondering" could be one of my friends. Not one of my "best" friends, because luckily for me, my best friends talk to me. They ask questions and know enough about me to not have to seek out advice from a complete stranger about my lack of desire to invite one of my male friends to their houses for an evening of, "so, when are you two going to get married?" or even the matter of dealing with the sleeping arrangements during that visit. My friends may think I'm weird, but they accept my weirdness and don't splatter what they perceive as my "strange" problems all over an advice column in the Chicago Tribune.
I have several single male friends with whom I talk on the phone and regularly "hang out" with. I talk on the phone and hang out with these men because they are my friends and they have time to talk and hang out with me. They have time for me because they are not married or parents. And they live within a close distance. Unlike my female friends who are married and some of whom have children and live a "long distance" away. These guys, my friends, are single city dwellers like me.
We're not "involved" because we don't want to be "involved." We're friends. Period.
Some of them are gay. (and one of them has questionable mental acuity which may manifest an imaginary friend or two) None of them would be remotely interested in schlepping a "long distance" to any of my married friends' homes for dinner or a sporting event, and none of us would be comfortable sharing a bedroom at one of those houses for an overnight visit.
I am increasingly dreading visits to my married friends' homes. Why would I subject an evening of "married life is great in the suburbs" to any of my single friends, male or female?
To Amy's credit she did, eventually, make the point that this is effectively none of "Wondering's" business, but the implication is that it's none of "Wondering's" business because "Betsy" has some deep, dark secret she's hiding.
Maybe, like me, "Betsy's" deep dark secret is that she's struggling with feelings of envy and resentment over her "best" friend's marriage, house and lifestyle that affords tickets to sporting events. Maybe "Betsy's" struggling to maintain a friendship with a person whom she has increasingly less in common. Maybe "Betsy" is a really tactful and swell friend and knows swutting well "Glen" would be miserable visiting "Wondering" and is trying to spare "Glen's" and "Wondering's" feelings.
Or maybe she's a psychotic lesbian having an affair with an imaginary married man.
Amy really blew an opportunity to speak out for single people. I suspect (hope) there's some sarcasm in Amy's three chosen possibilities. I really hope she's trying to point out the extreme weirdness (her term, not mine) of "Wondering's" inappropriate concerns by offering extreme possibilities. But I'm not convinced Amy was being sarcastic or extreme. And she completely ignored the opportunity to point out single person/married friends social and emotional issues.
"Wondering," if you're out there, here is a response from a single woman who has not had a mate "in years," probably far more accurate to your "best" friend "Betsy's" point of view than Amy Dickinsin's.
Dear Wondering.
First of all, let's give Betsy a big round of applause for traveling a "long distance" to your home to visit you and your husband. She sure is a great pal and apparently a gracious guest. That's why she's your "best" friend, right? She's swell. She's always there for you and really takes a lot of effort to visit you.
Since you're married, it's possible you've lost touch with single life. You have a husband and a home, perhaps two incomes, at least a married tax break, and you and your husband sound like you're satisfied with your life. So satisfied, perhaps, that you are a bit smug in your accomplishments. Not intentionally, of course, but, by virtue of being married and successful, you are calling attention to the fact that your "best" friend Betsy is not married. Even if that's not the case, you opt to make it the case by continually inviting one of Betsy's male friends to join you, calling attention to the fact that as is, on her own, Betsy is not enough. You are implying she needs a man because on her own she's incomplete and needs fixing. Your repair is a man, any man, so she can be like you and your husband.
Let's look at your motivations with your issues with Betsy's life. Why do you care about Betsy's friendship with Glen? Do you exhibit the same interest and concern over her single female friends? If Glen were instead Gina would you push Betsy to invite her to dinner, sporting events and stay over visits? Have you invited any of Betsy's other friends? Have you offered an open invite instead of one directed at Glen? Something like, "We've got two spare tickets to the baseball game next weekend, we'd love to have you join us, bring a friend, it'll be fun!" Or, "We're dying to fire up the barbecue, we'd love it if you could come out and join us next week. Bring whomever you'd like, the more the merrier, let's have a party!"
I realize you're happily married and enjoying the fruits of that union and you want the same thing for your "best" friend. But by continually inviting a male friend to join her in visits to your home, a "long distance" away, you're effectively telling your freind she's not enough on her own, you want a couple to visit you. This could also be perceived as pimping out your friend. You're essentially saying, "I keep harping on this Glen fellow because he's a guy and you haven't had a mate 'in years' and I'm going to do whatever I can to see to it that you two get together in the same bedroom."
Maybe that's not your actual motivation, but, the more you harp on the Glen issue to Betsy (and spend time dwelling on it in your own mind) the more it's going to seem that way to her. Trust me, she knows you want to see her happy and in a good relationship. She understands it's sometimes painful for happily married people see the loneliness and struggle their single friends endure.
Don't single her out, literally, by trying to couple her up with one of her friends. She's a "lovely, independent, funny thirtysomething." She can and should define the boundaries of her relationships.
Let's talk about Glen.
It is very probable Glen is not interested in you, or at least not interested in investing time and effort to travel a "long distance" to your home for dinner or a visit. He's either a single guy or is married or he has a girl/boyfriend. His marital/available status is insignificant to everyone in this situation. He's friends with Betsy. They talk and hang out because they have things in common and enjoy each other's company. This in no way obligates him to meet any of her other friends, much less spend a lot of time and effort traveling have dinner or attend sporting events. Maybe he doesn't like sports. Maybe he has strict dietary concerns. Maybe he's busy living his life and couldn't care less about you, your husband and your nagging insistence on judging Betsy's life and his. Maybe he has a girl/boyfriend/wife/partner and the little free time he has he spends with Betsy, therefore spending a lot of time traveling a "long distance" to your place is out of the question for him because he's got other priorities and obligations.
Maybe Glen's political and life leanings are in direct opposition with yours and Betsy is doing the right thing by avoiding awkward social moments when the differing opinions/biases hit the fan.
I guarantee Betsy has discussed you and the invitations with Glen. While Betsy is a swell pal and your "best" friend, the fact is that she has probably relayed some of your less attractive qualities to Glen. She has told Glen about your inference as to the nature of their relationship. This probably, and justifiably, offends Glen. So out of respect to your mutual friend Betsy, he declines the invitations.
Frankly, Glen is sounding like a much better friend to Betsy than you. She doesn't have to travel "long distances" to see him, he has the time and desire to talk to her on the phone and hang out with her. If he's single he is probably very aware of the cost of living on one income and he and Betsy probably hang out doing low or no cost things because they both understand they cannot afford to do much more than hang out. They're buddies in similar circumstances.
Be honest, are your conversations with Betsy short and frequently cut off because you have to tend to a child or leave to do something with/for your husband? Are you able and do you give Betsy one on one gal pal time? That's what single women with married friends miss most when their girl friends get married. Do you listen with sincere concern when she talks about a singleness related issue or do you dismiss her with, "you need a man?" Do you do most of the talking in conversations with Betsy? Are these sporting events and dinners going to cost Betsy and Glen more than $20 each? (remember to factor in travel expense, a bottle of wine or other food item(s), parking fees, cost of beer at the sporting venue) It's impolite to discuss money, so my guess is that Betsy and/or Glen simply cannot afford the $20+ visiting you for dinner/sporting events would cost. And yes, $20 is a big deal to most single people. The choice may come down to traveling to see you and having dinner v. going to a movie/having a drink after work/getting back and forth to work the rest of the week. Betsy, in her swell pal way, makes that sacrifice. But Glen should not be expected to do the same. Do you really remember what it's like to be single? Can you honestly relate to much of anything in Betsy's life?
Leave the poor woman alone on the Glen issue. Being single in a world of married friends is difficult enough. Do not call constant attention to Betsy and her single status by continually inviting Glen to join her. If she felt strongly enough about Glen, in any capacity other than friends, and if you are "best" friends, she would have introduced you to him and he would want to meet you.
Instead focus on spending time with Betsy in a girl friend capacity. Your husband's probably swell and Betsy probably really likes him. But. She's single. She likes doing single girl things like chick flick night or in home spa day or shoe shopping or whatever it is you two have in common that makes you "best" friends. Assuming you are her best friend she undoubtedly really misses the time you two shared together before you were married. Fortunately for Betsy she found Glen to fill a void or two you left in her social life when you got married.
Friday, March 10, 2006 Gone in 120 Seconds
Right, so, my mother’s doing better which is really great. And that's the only thing which matters to me, you know, keeping things in perspective.
But now that I'm not camped out in ICU or racing between work and ICU, I've got some breathing space to catch up with my life.
I’m trying to focus on my life which has lacked even less than usual focus over the past two months.
Work’s work. It hasn’t changed except that it’s more nausea inducing than ever. A couple of people have become engaged to be married so there’s a lot of talk about weddings which never fails to a) annoy me and b) upset me. And someone else quit, got a great job as a VP at another company. You probably already assume this, but I’ll say it anyway, just to make myself feel even worse about myself: This person is several years younger than me, several years less qualified, and no, not bright and clever. In fact this person is kind of stupid and dull. So they should fit in really well in the executive lounge at the new place. I’m not jealous of their title, I’m jealous of the salary I’m quite certain this person is now bringing in over there at the new place. I’m jealous that they got out of my company. I’m jealous that they're moving on with their life in a positive direction. This person got married last year and they have a tiny condo and this new job will help them move into that dream house of theirs. Yeah. Good for them. Excoworker is stupid and dull and is now a VP and making a ton of money, they have two SUVs now, and house with a yard and room for all those little tax deductions they want to have.
Envy is really ugly, isn’t it?
I try to avoid it.
But.
You know.
I mean, kind of difficult to avoid it when everyone around you moves forward, onward and upward, doing all the things people do in life. Fall in love, get married, buy a house, get a promotion/better job, buy a bigger house, have children, get another better job, retire with a place to live which is paid for except taxes, be able to afford health care, you know, all the normal steps through life.
It’s all so normal that it’s not even worth mentioning. Unless you’re not moving through life like a normal person living in a developed nation, in which case if you’re not taking those steps forward through life you are considered a failure.
I finally finished my taxes. That was fun. Lessseeee. Deductions....hmmmm. Mortgage? Nope. Children? Nope. Income high enough to bother with a tax shelter or itemized deductions? Nope. Single. Zero. Single zero. Paying those mandatory federal, state and local taxes of 33.7%! Single and loving it! It’s comforting to think about how much I mean to my government on those long, lonely single zero nights. “Alone. Single. Zero. Nobody loves me, but that’s okay, it makes me more valuable to my government.”
My health insurance company loves me, too. The bills are coming in almost every day for three doctor visits, six prescriptions, two chest x-rays and an EKG. I have no idea why I had an EKG, in fact I’m really not certain I had an EKG. But the administration office at the hospital says I did, and the insurance company says I did, and insurance companies are always right, so I’ll just pay the $165, the portion of the EKG I don’t remember having not covered by my health insurance. So far the total I owe, the portions not paid by my (allegedly “very good,” “very comprehensive”) health insurance company is $485. That does not include what I paid for a co-pay on those prescriptions, $150. Asthma’s on the rise, people are being diagnosed in staggering numbers. Isn’t it interesting that the two most effective and commonly prescribed medications for asthma are not counted in health insurance “formulae” and are not available as an unbranded generic medication? I would never insinuate there’s a correlation between one of the fastest growing health issues and the price of the medication to treat it, and I know my government has nothing to do with my healthcare, so I’ll just happily pay the price of the medicine and thank the Universe for giving me a job which affords me the luxury of healthcare and the income to pay for the expenses my health insurance doesn’t cover.
We had a retirement preparation seminar at work. I don’t plan on ever retiring. I’m going to die before I’m 67 or 70 or whatever the new retirement age is, or, I’m not going to be able to afford retiring and will be working until the day I die of old age or whatever ailment I can’t afford to treat kills me. I know this. I’ve made peace with this. I’m hoping, daily, for an early death. But just in case that doesn’t happen, and just in case I got hold of some silly notion that I might not want to work until the mortician appears at my door, I decided to take the charts and pamphlets on planning for retirement.
Single. Zero. Loser. The adage that $1 million is not enough for most people to retire on is true. I did a couple of cost projections. If I stay in my compartment and the rent increases at a rate of 4 - 5% annually (normal rent increase), $1 million will cover about three and a half years of rent in my compartment by the time I’m 70. All the more reason to buy real estate! they say. True enough. I couldn’t agree more. But. How the swut is a professionally employed lower - middle -middle income single person with no dependents supposed to afford a down payment, much less even qualify for a mortgage on one salary that’s taxed at almost the highest rate when they can barely afford the cost of going to the doctor and subsequent medication? Anyone else figured out a solution to this? And by the way, I don't have a $1 million. I can see no way that I will have $1 million saved by the time I'm 67 or 70. After much going over the budget and doing my taxes, projecting cost of living expenses (rent increases, health care expenses, fed, state and local taxes) and salary increases based on the typical 2% - 4% I get as a "far exceeding, exemplary" worker, taking an extra job to put money in the ol' 401K, I'll be feeling lucky and smug if I have $200,000.00 saved by the time I'm retirement age. I'm going to have to work til the day I die anyway, so better to die sooner, not spend years working and struggling to keep a roof over my head and paying for prescriptions my health insurance doesn't cover. That's not my idea of living. It's: Work, work, try to sleep for a few hours, work, work. With a second job that'll be the routine 7 days a week. Until the day I die. Sorry. I don't think so. Not for me, thanks. The "system" doesn't work for educated professional middle incomed people who are not married. And, we get the bonus of paying a high rate of tax, taxes which are ironically used to fund housing, medical and education programs for low income citizens, taxes which are used to fund schools for children we do not have. We are penalized for getting an education and working and for not getting married and having children.
Gee, it’s great to be back to my life. I did so miss it.
“Trill, old girl,” I thought as I sat looking lovingly at my shiny new asthma inhaler, “you need more money. You need a better paying job. You need to buy real estate. You need to get married.”
“By golly, you’re right. This single zero life is going nowhere but to a homeless shelter.”
So there’s this guy. A friend of a friend. She’s been trying to get us together for a while. His long time girlfriend broke up with him last year. Our mutual friend showed him a photo of me a few months ago. He asked her for my phone number. Yadda yadda yadda, after several phone calls and postponed meetings, we finally met in person.
I thought this guy might be different. When we talked on the phone, several times, there was no awkwardness. We got each others’ sense of humor. Heck, he has a sense of humor and is, you know, a nice guy. He left me a couple of really nice messages when he found out about my mother. He sent me a couple of nice emails. So I thought, “Hey, he does seem sincere and nice and all that. He’s seen photos of me and he’s still nice to me, he’s the one who wanted my phone number after seeing a photo of me, so maybe he really is interested in me. Maybe my luck’s changing.”
Yes. I was uncharacteristically optimistic because it seemed like there was a solid reason to be optimistic.
Big mistake.
I bothered for the date. Fresh haircut and color, had MAF do my make-up. Borrowed a friend’s alluring but not overtly sexy top. Nice heels. I put real effort into it because it was a date and because I wanted to make a good impression on him. I was a little nervous, but more the excited kind of nervous than the afraid kind of nervous. He offered to take me out for an evening of fun because of what I’ve been through in the past two months. “You need a break, a night out, some fun, and I’m just the guy to give it to you,” was his actual line.
Guys, advice, please: Where in that statement is there any clue that I should not have been optimistic or excited about this date? What clue did I miss that things were not what they seemed to be on the surface? I’d really like to know because I really do not want to go through what happened next ever again.
We arranged to meet at a restaurant/bar. We arrived at the same time. We met-up on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant/bar. I recognized him from the photo our mutual friend showed me, and by the clothes he was wearing which he described to me on the phone a few hours prior to the date. We never stepped foot inside the restaurant/bar.
Because he was gone in 120 seconds.
Here’s a slow motion replay.
“(Blind Date)?” I asked as he approached the restaurant bar from the opposite direction a me. (saying his actual name, by the way)
“Yes?” he responded, somewhat surprised.
“It’s me, Trillian!”
Silence.
Pointed, scrutinizing look up and down my body, a head to toe evaluation.
“Huh. You don’t look like the photo (mutual friend) showed me,” not trying to mask his disappointment, in fact showing signs of irritation.
“Oh. Erm. Sorry? (har har)”
“I'm not attracted to you. Let's forget this ever happened and go home to salvage our evenings. We'll just tell (mutual friend who introduced us) there was no chemistry and leave it at that. 'Bye,” turns and leaves me standing there in front of the restaurant/bar as he heads the other direction, gets out his mobile phone and walks into the night.
Um.
Okay.
I’m really good at handling rejection. I’ve had a lot of it. We’re old pals, rejection and I.
His honest and up front nature is nice, I suppose. No hidden agenda, no wondering what he’s thinking.
Shallow? Superficial? A jerk? I don’t know. I didn’t think so before those 120 seconds.
We talked on the phone a lot, he seemed nice, thoughtful, considerate. He talked about the things that mattered to him and never once did he mention anything about looks. He was hurt about his last relationship which ended because his long term girlfriend didn’t want to get married and have children. He said he values intelligence and compassion and sincerity and wants to meet a woman who is those things first and foremost. He said he cared about personality in a woman because he wants to find a lifelong partner. Nothing in there about looks being top on that list. He was understanding and supportive regarding what I was going through with my mother. He respected and liked that I made my mother my priority. He kept calling me. I was not chasing this guy. He was chasing me, albeit by phone. He’s been friends with our mutual friend since college. She speaks highly of him. She’s a nice person. She is a good judge of character.
And yet "I'm not attracted to you. Let's forget this ever happened and go home to salvage our evenings. We'll just tell (mutual friend who introduced us) there was no chemistry. 'Bye."
Disappointed? You bet I am. Hurt? Not really. I was, during my long walk home. In heels. Professionally applied make up running and hair curling in the rain. I was hurt because I tried, I really made a lot of effort for him. Apart from the weariness that showed through the make-up, I looked as good as I can possibly look for a guy who seemed like he liked me. And yet, "I'm not attracted to you. Let's forget this ever happened and go home to salvage our evenings. We'll just tell (mutual friend who introduced us) there was no chemistry. 'Bye."
Humiliated? No. I've been rejected, insulted, mocked, ridiculed, teased, laughed at, and generally criticized about my looks since I was old enough to care about my looks or what anyone thought about my looks. So much so that I have no pride or dignity when it comes having criticism about my looks thrown at me. It's impossible for me to be more humiliated than I already have been. Once you have to tell people the wedding's off because you've been dumped because you're ugly humiliation becomes a way of life. Every day you're "the girl who's fiancé dumped her." So no more humiliation than normal, in fact even less by comparison to some of the other criticisms I've endured.
He was right, the best course of action regarding our mutual friend was to tell her there just wasn’t any chemistry. It’s not her fault any of this happened. I don’t want her to feel bad about it, for his sake or mine.
No big deal, right?
It was 120 seconds out of my life. Better to find out now, before I even took off my coat, rather than after an entire life has been planned and a wedding dress purchased. I should know, I had that experience, too.
But hey! Spin it positive! Turn that frown upside down! It pushed me into getting a much needed hair cut. And it gave me a free evening to finish my taxes.
