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/.
Characters you might be wondering about: Steve Rhodes is a journalist of the highest integrity, wit, intelligence and candor. So far he's a rare breed of journalist who remains above reproach and cannot be bought. Help keep him that way. (Girls, he's kinda cute, too.)
Furry Creature: Trillian's feline companion (please withhold obvious white mice comments). The main object of Trillian's affection and source of constant entertainment. HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fianc?. "Issues? What issues?" Zaphod: Not a character so much as a theme. There are many Zaphods in the Life of Trillian.
Read this, it's good for you, free, and will improve your bowling score.
Hey kids, you too can trade like a Wall Street Fat Cat!
This is my blogchalk: English
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
This song is dedicated to all the happy people
All the happy people who have real nice lives
And who have no idea whats it like to be broke as fuck
My life is full of empty promises
And broken dreams
I'm hoping things will look up
But there ain't no job openings
I feel discouraged hungry and malnourished
Living in this house with no furnace, unfurnished
And I'm sick of working dead end jobs with lame pay
And I'm tired of being hired and fired the same day
But fuck it, if you know the rules to the game play
Cause when we die we know were all going the same way
It's cool to be player, but it sucks to be the fan
That's Rock Bottom
When this life makes you mad enough to kill
That's Rock Bottom
When you want something bad enough to steal
That's Rock Bottom
When you feel you have had it up to here
Cause you mad enough to scream but you sad enough to tear --Marshall Mathers
Thursday, December 10, 2009
From the Universal Mysterious Truths I Want Explained to Me file:
After weeks of being uncooperative, unmanageable, unruly and out of control, why does hair suddenly cooperate and look great (better than it has pretty much ever) the day you have an appointment to get it cut?
Are the hairs clued into what's about to happen? Does the eminent danger of being cut, severed from the head that gave them life, scare them and snap them out of their complacency? "Oh my gosh, she's really going to cut us! Come on, girls, come on, we've got to remind her why she was letting us grow! Give it all you've got! Ladies in the back, you know what you need to do, show that cowlick who's boss! Errant curl in the front, gently coil, gently, gently, now, coil fetchingly to the side of the eye and cheek, that's right, gently! You know how she hates it when you spring all over the place and hang in her eye! This is it girls, time to shine! Shine, ladies, shine like you've never shined!! Convince her that we can work with her! Make her believe in us! This is it! If we don't pull this off we'll be severed from the life-giving follicle, callously strewn about the salon floor and finally swept into a dumpster with all the other unwanted hair!" (audible gasp)
"She wouldn't do that to us!"
"Oh yes she would! It happened to my cousin! And remember Jillian over there in sector 8? Remember how she was the chosen one, the highlight? Yeah...look at her now. After that last haircut she's never been the same. No shine, no glory, just a snip of what she used to be."
Surely there's some deeper significance to this, right? Some pithy lesson like, "Be thankful for what you've got. Look deeper than the surface. Look at a problem from all sides. I dunno. Something. It's on my list of questions I want answered.
11:57 AM
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
On the upside, when you're unemployed if it's snowing it's a snow day.
Now, if only I could find a way to translate my snow angel making prowess into a paying career...
9:53 PM
Thursday, December 03, 2009
It's official. The Universe is testing me.
Or, failing that, perhaps something along the lines of serenity now!?
I'm going to step away from my Snuggie® doling place of positivity for a moment.
Belgiuming swutting mother-Belgiuming Hoosier State Troopers.
I swutting hate Belgiuming Indiana. Always have. Always will.
Crossroads of America? Take a look at a map. More like armpit of America.
Okay. Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now.
Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.
Deep breath in, exhale slowly out.
Giant metaphoric blanket of compassion for everyone in the entire state of Indiana, yes, including the fine patrol officer who pulled me over on the Indiana Toll Road and spent 45 minutes harassing me.
Maybe, maybe I was driving slightly over the speed limit. But I'm not sure because the speed limit wasn't posted in the area where I was driving. He claimed it was a work zone and the speed limit is under the 45 MPH law.
If I'd seen any sign, and I mean any sign of construction - a stripey orange barrel with a flashing light on top, a flashing yellow arrow, a sign stating "CONSTRUCTION ZONE", a sign stating, "45 MPH," a sign stating, "WORK ZONE, FINES DOUBLED," a sign with a funny looking round-headed guy with a shovel, a DOT pick-up truck, an actual road worker, loose gravel, heck, even a lone sandbag split open and flapping in the breeze in the median, any indication that construction was taking place - I would have been driving 45 MPH. I'm a safe and considerate driver that way. I don't mess around in construction zones. I just don't. I'm Ms. Courteous and Safe Driver. I really am. So safe and courteous that even without any indication of construction on the Skyway I was driving 55 MPH while everyone, and I mean everyone was passing me so fast they were blurry and made that whooshing Chuck Yeager noise. I know better than to drive above the posted speed limit on the Skyway. I know the speed limit is 55 MPH. I also know Hoosier troopers don't mess around with Illinois, Michigan and Ohio drivers.
Sidebar: What the swut is a Hoosier? I mean, I know it generally means hick or dolt or lackey, but really, what is a Hoosier? And furthermore, Indianans out there, please, explain to me why you're so swutting proud of being hicks/dolts/lackeys that you go around calling yourselves Hoosiers? Is it because you want to come off all humble and full of humility and aww shucks-y? If so, you're misguided. So. Stop it.
Okay. So. I was driving a rental car with Michigan plates. Through the fine state of Indiana. Near the fine city of Gary. Home to US Steel and Michael Jackson and the stinkiest stretch of highway in the United States. Those three facts are related and not coincidental. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Okay. So. I'm rolling along, cruise control engaged at 55 MPH exactly, cars and trucks are flying past me at speeds that made me feel like Mr. Magoo in a Model A with Jetsons-esque spacecars whizzing by me, complete with the whooshy blippy noises, and Sgt. Imaprickwithabadge comes darting up behind me, nearly rear ending me. Me, the one going 55 MPH while dozens of cars are Jetsoning by me, Sgt. Toobigforhishoosiersuit magnetizes his HoosierTrooperMobile to my bumper. I looked in the rear view mirror and smiled. I nearly waved to him, all pleasant and happy-like. Because I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was all "60 miles from Chicago, a full tank of gas, half pack of Twizzlers...what a lovely day for a drive, the snow is falling and I'm driving a rental car with a mere 1,200 miles on it, an iPod adapter and front and rear speakers to break in." The only thing, the only thing I may have been doing "wrong" was listening to the stereo too loud.
Had I been in a residential area a) I would not have had the stereo at amps at 11 volume and b) I wouldn't have been listening to Planet of Sound. Because it's scientifically impossible for me to listen to Planet of Sound at a volume lower than permanent hearing loss, PHL, levels. But because I was driving on a stretch of highway through the middle of swutting US Steel I felt pretty confident that blaring the Pixies at PHL levels is not an infraction of any local laws. And as far as courtesy goes, a car driving along the Skyway through the middle of US Steel while the occupant blasts Planet of Sound at PHL levels is the least of the local population's problems.
So I'm all "Good day officer, how's it going back there, la la la..." not even bothering to tap the brake or decel the cruise. I mean, I was going 55 MPH, the only one on the road traveling less than 70 MPH. Why would I even worry about the Hoosier Trooper magnetized to my bumper, right?
Well, next thing I know Sgt. Wasteoftaxpayersdollars has his lights and sirens flashing.
My reaction? "Oh dear, there must be an emergency somewhere, I'll pull over and out of his way."
You're probably a lot smarter than I am. You probably know where this is going. You probably know no good is ever going to come of a Hoosier Trooper magnetized to your bumper on the Indiana Toll Road with lights and sirens flashing.
But since I had absolutely no idea that I was doing anything wrong, I was all little miss innocent and confused when I pulled over to let him pass me and noticed that he pulled over, too, and was getting out of his Hoosier Patrol Mobile.
"Afternoon, Ma'am." I hate getting ma'amed. Hate it. So that put me in a bad mood with this guy.
"Hi."
"Do you know how fast you were driving?" I hate that ridiculous question. Does anyone, anyone ever answer that question honestly when they get pulled over? Why do they insist on asking us drivers if we know how fast we were driving? Obviously if we're driving fast enough to get pulled over by a state trooper we either know we were over the legal speed limit or we don't know what the legal speed limit is or we have a broken speedometer or we're drunk or stoned out of our minds and have no clue we're even driving a car let alone how fast we're driving it. In any or all of those cases there's no way anyone is going to answer truthfully. The correct and I'm guessing only answer to that question, in the entire history of driving, is, "No, officer, I'm not sure how fast I was driving." What comes next is divergent upon the driver and the circumstances. Some people start nervously blabbering on and on, some people cry, some people get sarcastic with the officer, some people meekly shrug, some people try to stay calm and say as little as possible.
I take the silence is golden approach. Less is more. That is, on the occasions when I've been pulled over. And there haven't been many of those occasions. Thankfully. But kind of oddly considering I have a bit of a lead foot. Except on the Indiana Skyway where I always set the cruise at 55 MPH. Yes. Okay? Yes. I have a tendency to drive fast. Okay? But only where it's safe to do so. Only on highways where there isn't much traffic or back roads in the middle of nowhere. I would never, ever endanger anyone else. Sure, I like to drive fast, but I like to drive safe, too. And I always obey the speed limit on the Indiana Toll Road where I always set the cruise at 55 MPH. My dad taught me a lot. A lot. A lot of useful, practical stuff. One of the first things I learned from my dad was that you always, always drive the posted speed limit in Indiana and Florida. The local highway authorities in those state don't take kindly to out of state plates, especially Michigan plates.
On our many road trips I observed my dad slow the car down the second we crossed the Indiana border. My dad habitually drove 95 MPH so when we hit the border and he slowed it down to 55 MPH it always felt like we were entering another dimension, falling over the event horizon of a black hole like on Star Trek when time stands still. It seemed like we all started talking sloooooower and deeeeeper until no one said anything and gravity inside the car got all wonky. Adding to that effect was that my mother always, always sighed and said, "Indiana. In-dee-annnna. Sigh. Indian.Ah. (pause) You know they don't observe daylight savings time, here. Stubborn. And I can never remember if they're Central or Eastern time. So I have absolutely no idea what time it is. (looking at her watch and the dashboard clock, all nervous-like, eyes darting from watch to clock to billboards, like a frightened victim in a Hitchcock movie looking for some sign, some escape) It's Summer, so it's either 10:15 or 11:15 or possibly 9:15. Hurry up and get to Chicago, dear. Indiana confuses the children. (another pause) And it smells. Kids, remember to hold your breath through Gary. You don't want to catch lung cancer from the steel mills."
I kid you not. Every time we drove through Indiana my mother recited that exact speech. Every now and then I call my brother and impersonate my mother giving that speech. It makes him laugh and reminds him that he's due for therapy. The phrase, "Indiana confuses the children" lives in infamy and perpetuity in my family. Of course. How could it not?
Never mind that we lived within smelling distance of Detroit and Flint, we spent summers swimming in Lakes St. Clair and Huron and our dad smoked Chesterfields. The eminent danger of the smell of Gary looming ahead of us cast a sinister and serious pall in the car. One minute we were rolling along at 95 MPH playing car bingo, singing along with the radio, friendly little cartoon bluebirds whistling outside the car windows, all snug and secure in the knowledge that we knew exactly what time it was and the next minute we were all helter skelter about what time it was, abruptly slowed down 55 MPH making gravity inside the car all wonky, observing radio silence, and scared witless about "catching" lung cancer.
Welcome to Indiana.
You know, my mother is normally a very sane, intelligent, thoughtful, logical woman. The voice of calm and level-headed reason. But the second, and I mean the second we crossed the Indiana border she got all funny in the head. She does have a thing about knowing what time it is. I think the whole Indiana Summer time defiance thing messes with her mind.
So.
I have pre-existing issues with Indiana.
But.
I know, I learned from my dad, you always, always drive 55 MPH in Indiana. No matter what time of year it is or how bad Gary smells, you risk catching lung cancer and drive 55 MPH.
Hence my confusion as to why Sgt. Prixalot was asking me if I knew how fast I was driving.
"Yes, sir, I had the cruise engaged at 55 MPH." Big smile and outstretched palms of the innocent motioning toward the speedometer.
"Uh-huh. I'll need to see license and proof of vehicle insurance."
"Um. Okay. But can I ask why? What did I do wrong?"
"You were in a construction zone. Construction zones are 45 MPH. You were driving 10 MPH over the limit. I don't know how you all feel about worker safety in Michigan, but here in Indiana we put the safety of our road crews at a paramount and fines are doubled in construction zones."
I already had my wallet out to pay the tolls. I handed him my license. "Construction zone? I didn't see a construction zone. Or a construction worker. Or a posted speed limit sign."
I know. I know. Okay? I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say. Never, ever insinuate that you're right and the officer holding your driver's license is in any way wrong. I know this.
But I was confused. Bewildered. Flummoxed. And a little scared. It was a rental car and I had no clue where the proof of insurance was. I assumed the glove box but I couldn't find it in there.
"The toll road is under construction from LaPorte to Hammond."
"Oh. Ahhhh. (affecting an air of logical explanation) See, I got on it at Lake Station. If it was posted at LaPorte I wouldn't have seen the signs. And, honest, officer, I haven't seen anyone working on the road..." Outstretched palms of the innocent gesturing to the workerless shoulder of the road.
I know. Okay? I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid girl with an Illinois driver's license driving a car with Michigan plates on the Indiana toll road. I know. Okay? I know.
"Chicago, eh? Chicago. How is it you have a Chicago driver's license and Michigan tags?" he said this looking over his Clint Eastwood sunglasses.
"Rental car." I said. I think I may have implied a "duh." I'm pretty sure I didn't actually say "duh" but I can't be positive that I didn't roll my eyes, thus implying "duh."
What happened next can only be explained by the fact that I am the Universe's whipping girl, scape goat and longest running joke. Yes. The Universe is bullying me. I hate to sound (or be) paranoid, but how else can you explain that even though I turned down the car stereo when I pulled off to the shoulder, suddenly, the jangly weirdo opening guitar of Motorway to Roswell came blaring, and I mean blaring out of the car speakers? Okay, it can be explained thus: I had my iPod plugged in and I had turned off the volume equalizer for sound-a-rama on my Michiana road trip. Regrets? I have a few. But still. What are the odds that at the very moment that Sgt. Womenhavehurtmeinthepastandmyunderwearisridingupmyass started badgering me for the proof of insurance Motorway to Roswell would come blaring out of the car stereo? I mean, on that very same iPod there's some Bob Seger, sure to be a Hoosier Trooper favorite, there's some Tom Petty, he sings about Indiana. But does the Universe blast Seger or Petty the exact moment Sgt. Igetoffonharassingmotorists bent his head down and toward the open window to look me in the eye and reprimand me for not finding the rental car proof of insurance? No. No, the Universe instead decided to have a laugh at my expense and blasted out Motorway to Roswell at the precise moment Sgt. Wedonttakekindlytostrangers stuck his face in the open car window in preparation for a reprimand.
The very second he opened his mouth to start a speech about the responsibilities of driving a rental car and what to check for before you leave the rental car lot, out blasted that jangly guitar intro, which is silly-sounding and seemed like I was mocking Sgt. Ihavenosenseofhumorandhaventbeenlaidin10years.
And to make the situation even worse, while I was fumbling in the glove box for the proof of insurance, my iPod, tethered to the dash, fell between the passenger seat and the console between the seats. So I couldn't just hit stop.
Instead I grabbed at the cord and attempted to pull it out of the dash. But it was a brand spanking new car and my cord fit really snugly into the dash hole. (I like that term, by the way. Dash hole. Hee hee hee.) In all the nervousness and weirdness of the moment I couldn't get the thing unplugged and ol' Frank was screaming, "Last night, he could not make it, last night he could not make it...HOW COULD THIS SO GREAT TURN SO SHITTY..." and that guitar was jangling away, and crimony, the whole situation just kept getting worse. It seemed like the "turn so shitty" part was a lot more loud and well pronounced than I remember Frank singing it in all the times I've listened to it in the past. But maybe that was just my nerves effecting my hearing. Indiana. It messes with your mind. Ask my mother.
And still no proof of insurance.
At this point Sgt. Imgoingtomakeanexampleofyou had had enough.
"I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car, ma'am."
Again with the ma'am? Really? Really?
I knew better than to protest.
I didn't like getting out of the car and I didn't see any reason for him to ask me to get out of the car and every urban legend and horror story I've ever heard or read about policemen turned bad and fake policemen and evil doings in hayseed counties flooded my brain. "I'm going to die. In Indiana. On the toll road. Near Gary. At the hands of a pissed off psycho Hoosier Trooper. At the very least I'm going to catch lung cancer standing out here in the open air. I hope he does rape and kill me because that would be quick, and hey, at least I'd get to have sex, and since I'm probably catching lung cancer standing out here on the side of the toll road in Gary, rape and murder would be better than a long, drawn out lung cancer death."
"I'm sorry officer, it's a rental, like I said, and just give me a minute and I'll call the rental car company and we can get this all straightened out in no time."
"I'm going to need you to get out of the car and take a breathalyzer test."
Whoa.
Whoa.
Hang on just a cotton-pickin' Hoosier second.
A breathalyzer?
I do not drink and drive. Ever. Never. Ever. Not one sip, not even a rum ball if I'm going to be anywhere near a driver's seat within 24 hours. I. Just. Don't. Do. It. Never have, never will. It's like, I dunno, a commandment to me. Thou shall not drink and drive. Period.
So I was not only surprised and confused by his request and insinuation, I was also insulted.
"I'm sorry about my stereo, officer, really, but I have not been drinking."
I know. I know. Okay? I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl with an iPod malfunction and no proof of vehicle insurance.
Then, suddenly, I remembered my rental car agreement. Ah-ha!!! That shows that I signed for insurance!!! So I reached into my bag to find the rental car agreement. The ratty old starred bag, which suddenly looked like a stoner girl's bag, a bag of weed would look totally natural falling out of it onto the car seat. The ratty old bag would look totally at home on the seat of a '78 Camaro. I'm tellin' ya, Indiana, man, it messes with your mind.
Sgt. IhaveweaponsandIknowhowtousethem had no patience or tolerance for my fumbling around in my bag and apparently he thought I was going to pull out a gun or knife or mace. He backed away from the car and yelled, "Keep your hands where I can see them! Step out of the car! And keep your hands where I can see them."
Seriously.
Having never been in a "keep your hands where I can see them" situation I was more than a little, um, what's the word? Oh yes. Petrified.
I managed to grasp the rental agreement as I pulled my hand out of my bag. I put up one hand and said, "It's just the rental agreement," and slowly handed it to him with my other hand.
"I said step out of the car."
I was still really, really, really, really uncomfortable with that.
Every instinct, every feeling in my gut, everything about this seemed, well, wrong.
Maybe, maybe I was going 55 MPH in a 45 MPH construction zone. I'll give him that. Maybe I didn't see a construction zone sign and maybe I deserved a 10 MPH over the limit, doubled in work zones, ticket. I don't think deserved it, but let's just say I did. Okay, fine, give me the ticket, and another one for not having proof of insurance on a rental car, and that's that. A big day for this guy, I would think. Why the breathalyzer? Why the "step out of the car?" Why the "keep your hands where I can see them?" All because of the Pixies blaring out of the car stereo? I dunno. I'm not usually so suspicious, but my antennae were tingling, big time.
But there he was, yelling at me to get out of the car.
So I did.
He took the rental car agreement and told me to move to the rear of the car and to put my hands on the trunk. I hoped that Hoosier squad cars have video tape rolling at all times so that if Sgt. Pulloverinnocentwomenandthenrapeandkillthem tried anything it would at least be caught on tape. So the guys back at the station could enjoy it, too. I made sure to stand right smack in the middle of what I hoped was the squad car camera lens. (I've seen COPS a few times. I tried to recall the camera angles from the squad car tapes they show on COPS.) Sure enough, Sgt. ThisishowIgetoff came back and administered a pat down.
And yes, he spent a little more time than I think was necessary on my chest and butt. But how do I prove that? How much time does a thorough boob and ass pat down officially require? And, how firm do the pats need to be? I will say this, Sgt. Gropeandfeel had a light touch. A little too light if you ask me. A little too, this makes me feel creepy and dirty, um, well, a little too sensual. I'm used to the female TSA agent frisk. Pat. Pat. Pat. Swat. Pat. Done. Have a nice flight. This guy was more tap, tap, tap, tap, wiggle, tap, wiggle, tap, ooooowhathavewehere?anipple? tap, tap. I mean, I dunno. There's gray area. I didn't do anything wrong in the first place, certainly nothing to warrant a pat down, and for that reason alone the whole thing is suspect. But, on the other slim chance, the guy was (albeit overzealously) doing his job. And he didn't manhandle me. Maybe, maybe he was trying to be polite? Is there such a thing as a polite roadside frisk? Yeah, I didn't think so, either.
Sidebar: I've been pretty humiliated in my life. I think it's fair to say I've already endured more, and more types, of humiliation than the average person experiences in an entire lifetime. But standing bent over and pressed against the trunk of a rental car on the side of the Indiana Toll Road with US Steel exhaust billowing in the background while being frisked down by a Hoosier Trooper is a form of humiliation I never thought I'd get to experience. Once again, one more time, all I could think about was my parents. Hanging their heads, my mother shedding tears, my dad trying to console her and flashing me disappointed and angry looks, "A good neighborhood. The best schools. Church on Sunday. Girl Scouts. Summer camp. Music lessons. Art lessons. Math tutors. Encyclopedias. Travel. Orthodontia. Good shoes. Love. Affection. Encouragement. Support. Where did we go wrong? Where? Where Trillian? How did we fail you? What did we do to you? How did this happen? What's wrong with you? Why are you doing this to us?" Yeah. Shame. It's a bitch.
Realizing I'd already sunk to a new and different low of humiliation I took the breathalyzer. And passed. Of course. I haven't had booze in a week, and that was two (small) glasses of wine.
Sgt. OooopsIdiditagain seemed disappointed that I was alcohol-free.
And then something truly bizarre happened.
He handed me my license, rental car agreement and told me he would let me off with a warning but that I should remember that the Indiana Toll Road is under construction and the speed limit is 45 MPH and fines are doubled in work zones.
And that was that.
I got back in the car and pulled back onto the highway, set the cruise to 45 MPH, cars and trucks whooshed by me even faster than before, and I crept, slowly, back to Chicago with the stereo volume all nice and civil. Appropriate for a residential area on a pastoral Sunday morning.
After all that. After all the "Because I Wear the Badge and I Said So" nonsense, the frisking, the breathalyzer...after all that, he just gave me a warning and sent me on my way.
Not that I'm complaining about not getting a ticket. I didn't do anything to deserve a ticket in the first place. (I triple dog dare you to find any, any sign of construction or road work along that stretch of road. And what about the people speeding along a lot faster than 55 MPH??? Huh? Huh? What about them??) It's just...I mean, huh? What the...???
If it was "just" so Sgt. Hoosierdaddy could, um, heh heh, cop a feel, wouldn't he make a bigger deal of it? I mean, borderline sensual pat-down notwithstanding, he didn't really "get" much. I've had more intimate encounters with people crowded next to me on the El. I know, I know. Never underestimate the mind of a pervert. I know. It's shocking how little it takes to get some guys off. I know. (And yet...do I ever manage to date a guy who has such low standards or desires??? Noooooo, I get the guys who have complex needs and desires specific to only 2% of the female population and 10 page (8 point type, single spaced) lists of requirements that eliminate me from anything more than a first date or casual fling.) He didn't "do" enough to warrant me filing a complaint, and really, did he "do" anything to me? I mean, apart from the humiliation? Ahhhhh, the humiliation. B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was his name, oh. Getting off on power. Forcing someone, a woman, to do what you tell her to do. Niiiiice. Nice work Sgt. Ihaveissueswithwomenandareallysmallpenis.
The joke's on him, though, in some respects. He had no idea who he was messin' with. Humiliation? Yeah. Being frisked on the side of the road was a new kind of humiliation for me. But humiliation comes natural for me. By the time I rounded curve at the Field Museum I was over it. Even now, reflecting on it, I'm not feeling especially violated. I've endured worse. Even if he did get off on his little magic fingers pat-down I'm not particularly "upset" about it. On the list of Humiliating Experiences I've Endured it'll end up pretty far down in the tally.
But I am mad to think a creep like that could get a badge and it disturbs me to think that sort of behavior exists and is perpetuated. I shudder to think about what other, less fortunate women, have endured by more forceful, more intrusive men behind a badge. But for me? Meh. He lives in Indiana. That's punishment enough. By tomorrow I'll have wrapped him in a Snuggie® of compassion and sent him on his way to the back of my memory. But not before giving the world a warning about a creep patrolling the Indiana Toll Road.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Tell me somethin' good...about Michigan!
Betcha didn't know that Michigan is home to the Magic Capital of the world, did you?
Yep.
It's not just an illusion...
Colon, Michigan is the official Magic Capital of the World. Harry Blackstone called Colon home and training camp for his traveling show. He's buried in the local cemetery. Actually, now that I'm on the subject, the Harries Blackstone, senior and junior, make for some interesting reading. Blackstone senior filled the void left by Houdini, but, with a twist - Blackstone had a sense of humor about the whole thing. Child protective services probably wouldn't go for this today, but, Blackstone senior indoctrinated his son into the world of magic showmanship as an infant. Harry junior was used as a prop in Harry senior's shows. Just observing and reporting. Not here to judge. Times were different back then...and it didn't seem to adversely affect Blackstone junior.
He went on to have a thriving career in magic, too. My parents took me to see his show when I was a really little kid. He freaked the crap out of me. Not just his magic tricks, but he, himself, the man, freaked the crap out of me. And yet...I found him oddly compelling...oh yes, he was a magic man. (Cue Heart guitar intro.)
My brother developed some pretty impressive sleight of hand skills thanks to Blackstone junior's magic kits. (And my brother's young assistant and pet cat helped a lot in honing his skills, too. Ahem.)
Harry, senior, was born in Chicago but is buried in Michigan. Blackstone, junior, was born and buried in Michigan. Magic Michiganders. Cool.
And, they make more than cars in Michigan. Michigan is home to Abbotts, the largest manufacturer and distributor of magician supplies in the world. Seriously. Check out their site. I promise you'll find something you want. And I promise you'll find a lot of things for the Harry Potter fan in your life.
I read the Harry Potter series and like it, but, I'm not really into magic and magic tricks and all that. (See above, crap freaked out by Harry Blackstone, Jr., at an early and impressionable age.) So I can't really comment with any degree of knowledge. But. From a purely innocent, objective observer and somewhat wary perspective, I have to admit that Colon and Abbotts are pretty darned cool.
Every summer there's a festival with magic tricks and shows galore. Even for those of us who are not really into the sleight of hand it's a lot of fun. And hey, how often do you get to send a postcard from Colon? A magic postcard from Colon, no less. Sweet.
Michigan rocks.
We tip our bunny filled magic top hat to the Harries Blackstone, Magic Men of Michigan, and Abbotts, we salute you for proudly keeping your wand in Michigan.
8:41 AM
Monday, November 30, 2009
The more I learn the less I know. This is a fact. But.
I do know there are at least two constant, absolute certainties in the Universe: Change and death.
I’ve always chosen to believe that all change is good. Even change for the worse is good.
The alternative, stagnation, is worse than the worst change for the worse.
Evolution = good. Not so good for certain types of dinosaurs and plants, but, you know, “good” that the planet continues to evolve on its progression. Strong arguments could be made against that point of view – evolution = humans = raping and pillaging of the planet ergo change = bad. But there’s strong evidence that the dinosaurs were raping and pillaging the planet in their own way.
I like dinosaurs. For the obvious reasons. They’re cool. And also because they ended up as fossil fuel.
Hang on, hang on a minute. Don’t get all up in arms shocked at my sudden vulgar inhumane flippant attitude about animal life. I don’t like that they ended up as fossil fuel in the sense that I like to burn fossil fuel because I like to rape and pillage the planet and whoooo boy, aren’t we lucky to live in modern times where we use fossil fuel to power our conspicuous consumption of natural resources so that we may have things like NASCAR, space rockets, iPods and, ahem, blogs. I like that they ended up as fossil fuel because it serves as a daily reminder that even the mightiest, coolest beings had their day, failed to evolve, change, died and…yet…even in death, even (and especially) after lying stagnant, decayed and fossilized, they serve another purpose. Sinclair petrol is one of my favorite brand trademarks for that reason: Straight to the point, their dinosaur silhouette logo says it all: Yesterday’s dinosaur is tomorrow’s road trip. That dinosaur is a harbingering warning: Change or else. Or else you’ll end up in someone’s Honda bound for the Mystery Spot.
Change and death. Change or die. Change and die. There’s no choice, really. If you don’t change, evolve, you will die. If you do change, evolve, guess what? You still die. Change and death. Welcome to Absolute Certainty. Population: You.
I grew up in a really, really, really, really small town. I mean really small town. I didn’t hate it the way many people raised in small towns hate small towns. I don’t resent my parents for leaving the city when they had kids. They had solid, valid reasons for raising us outside of the city limits. Okaaaaay, perhaps they took it to an extreme, perhaaaaps the exact center of the middle of nowhere, the bull’s eye on the nowhere target as I affectionately call it, wasn’t necessary, but they had good reasons and honestly, none of us are any worse for it. Fortunately my parents traveled. A lot. So we got out of the inner circle of Hell quite often and for prolonged periods of time. I was lucky that way. Best of both worlds, I guess. I got to see and experience outer circles of Hell on a regular basis.
And when we returned to our really, really, really, really small town I felt, you know, okay with it. Except for one thing. One thing I really, really, really, really hated about our small town. One thing fueled my desire, my compulsion, my need to get as far away from that really, really, really, really small town as possible. One thing. One singular, unwavering lament.
Nothing ever changes.
I know. I know. Many people view that as a good thing. Many people don’t like change. Or at least not in their town. People who don’t like change usually like small towns. They like the stability, reliability and security of knowing their churches, schools, local authorities, restaurants and neighbors are always going to be the same. It makes them feel like their ship is anchored securely in a safe harbor. No matter how stormy their sea of life is they know they are anchored in a safe place.
I get that. I understand. Kind of. The thing I think they fail to recognize is that the harbor itself isn’t what provides the stability and safety. It’s the community, or sense of community, that makes them feel all cozy and snug (and smug) and secure in the knowledge that tomorrow will be just like today which was just like yesterday. They fail to recognize that change happens. Everything changes. Even them.
Except in my hometown. Nothing ever changes in my really, really, really, really small hometown.
Until about 10 – 15 years ago, that is. And then a bunch of stuff changed. A growth spurt. A mini housing boom. A couple new restaurants, an addition on the high school and a new traffic light with a left turn arrow and everything. I know, I know! Big time, we’re on our way, we’re making it!
And then crash bang wallop, a couple years ago things started digress. A little too much change too soon, too fast, and there were repercussions. The new addition on the high school isn’t paid for, yet, but it’s already unnecessary. The new people with their progeny left almost as quickly as they arrived and the extra space in the school isn’t needed. Uh-oh. Back where we started. Some things changed, and then those things changed again, so if you happened to have missed the little growth spurt, the change blip, and returned now, you would never know anything ever changed in your hiatus.
It’s weird. I’m part of that town because I’m from there. And because my parents have lived there since I was born. I am from there. And I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of that.
But.
It was always more part of me than I was of it. I never really fit in there. People were nice enough to me, are nice to me, but I’m sure that has less to do with genuine concern and feeling for me and more to do with respect for my parents (who are well liked and fit in very nicely) and small town politeness. It's part of me because it's where I'm from. Small town values, way of life, all that. There's no denying that no matter how bad I want to be, no matter where I go or what I do, there's a part of me, a core part of me, that is a good girl from a small town. Even though I never fit in there. Even though I'm not exactly the Local Girl Makes Good success story. There's part of me that is a good girl from a small town. Not exactly Doris Day, but not exactly Briget Bardot, either.
What I’m starting to realize is that I don’t really fit in anywhere. I think I might be a drifter. Or just another disaffected GenXer. Or just run of the mill depressed.
But I don’t blame my small town roots. It’s not my hometown, it’s me. I knew it when I was a kid. I knew I was lucky to live in my hometown. It’s a nice place with nice people and good schools and everything a kid could want. I knew that. I just didn’t see myself staying there one day longer than required. But not because I hated it or the people.
I left when I went to college and apart from landing there a few times between moves I’ve never been back for any reason other than to visit my parents.
Consequently I have a unique perspective on the whole mini-boom and the current “bust.” I’m from there and my parents live there so I “care,” but, I’m so distanced from it that I can see it for what it is. It’s like I have one subjective eye and one objective eye.
Things, now, have swung back to how they were when I was growing up. The new people and their new restaurants have left. No one’s “happy” about this but most people kind of expected it, I think. And everyone thought one of the new restaurants was overpriced and had a weird menu – and you had to pay extra for a salad and that salad had dandelions in it! Dandelions!!! The only “new” businesses that have managed to last now that the “new” people have left are a Tim Horton’s franchise and a pet store. The township has a Walgreen’s and there’s a new McDonald’s out by the highway, now, but that’s on the other side of town. Not really part of my hometown. Not really.
But here’s the thing. The thing that makes me feel old and sad and lonely. All the things that I thought never changed are, well, changing. And not in a good way. In a tomorrow’s fossil fuel kind of way.
My parents live way out on the township borderline, way past the city limits and a half mile from the county line road which is the last line between “civilization” and “no life guard on duty, travel at your own risk.”
When I talk about my really, really, really, really small town I’m talking about the place we traveled to for school, church and groceries. If you’ve ever seen an episode of Little House on the Prairie it’s kind of like that. We “went into town.” We still “go into town.” Except now the road is paved and there’s not only a stop sign but also a traffic light on the journey there. And when we “get into town” there are a couple gas stations, small grocery, a 7-11, a few mom and pop restaurants (a pizza joint, natch, where the Rotary meets on the second Tuesday of the month, natch), a couple clothing/gift/liquor stores, a pharmacy, a funeral home, the once/week newspaper, a flower shop, a cemetery (with a ghost, natch), schools, churches, the library, a few doctors and dentist offices, an insurance agent, a lawyer, a vet, Elks, Moose and VFW, a fire/police/post office/municipal building and a dry cleaner.
That’s it. That’s the sum total of my home town. 10 – 15 years ago things changed, new businesses came in, fancy high falootin’ places, but now most of them are gone. Things changed and now they’ve pretty much changed back. Which is still change.
So.
Okay.
The dry cleaner has been owned and operated by the same family ever since I can remember. Mr. and Mrs. Yee. I’m not going to cat dance around this. It is what it is. The dry cleaner is run by a Chinese family. Okay? Yes. Yes. My hometown is so stereotypical that our dry cleaner is run by a Chinese family. When I was growing up they were the only Chinese family in our town. They had a son a grade behind me in school and guess what? He was so good at math he was bumped up a grade for his math classes so I knew him. And guess what else? The lawyer and dentist are Jewish. Okay? Look, I’m not saying I like the stereotypicalities of my hometown. But for all the cringe-worthy stereotypicalities in businesses, the residents have always been diverse and at least from my perspective there weren’t any racial issues.
Okay.
So. Mrs. Yee died a few years ago. Everyone thought for sure Mr. Yee would sell or close the dry cleaner. Mrs. Yee was the face of the dry cleaner. She kept that place spotless and was always there to greet customers. Mr. Yee was more behind-the-scenes. He’d work the counter when it was busy, he was friendly, but Mrs. Yee was the social one, and the one everyone knew.
People just assumed Mr. Yee couldn’t or wouldn’t stay open without Mrs. Yee. Everyone figured he’d sell or close and move out west with his son the fancy schmancy software developer. So far that hasn’t happened. Mr. Yee is still at the dry cleaner removing spots and pressing suits.
But I dunno. I’m starting to worry about Mr. Yee. When my dad died and I needed to have his burial suit cleaned and pressed ASAP Mr. Yee took care of me. He had my dad's suit and my clothes funeral home visitation ready in a few hours and he didn’t charge me. That's an example of really, really, really, really small town life.
Everything seemed, you know, normal on the dry cleaning front. That was (gasp) 16 months ago. Since then I’ve taken in or picked up a few things for my mother. The once spotless and perfectly maintained building needs some work. And I’ve noticed Mr. Yee isn’t quite as sharp as he used to be. He doesn’t rush to the counter as quickly as he used to and the smile isn’t as ready and easy. Instead of talking about his son’s MIT degree and job in software he kind of mumbles perfunctory greetings.
Okay. So. I needed a jacket cleaned and pressed. I took it into town to Mr. Yee.
Nothing, and I mean nothing in my weird life full of strange people and strange experiences prepared me for what happened next.
Whooo boy. I don’t know how to say this. Just thinking about it has me all weirded out.
I walked into the dry cleaner, which is starting to show signs of lack of upkeep, and the second I opened the door I was greeted with a rush of stale air. And when I say stale air I don’t mean “hmmmm, Mr. Yee brought his Pekingese into work today and then had stromboli and coffee for lunch and that whiff of perfume can only mean Mrs. Anders was in here this morning and left her lingering scent.” I wish it was that kind of stale air.
Unfortunately the kind of stale air I’m talking about is the kind of stale air no one wants to associate with older people, especially older people they’ve known all their life, especially older people they’ve known all their life and happen to be the parent of a classmate.
All right, I’ll just come right out and say it.
Mr. Yee was obviously smoking pot in the back room of the dry cleaner.
The last time I was in there I thought I smelled a faint whiff of it, but there was a heap of newly dropped off clothes on the counter and I just assumed it was wafting from those clothes.
But this time there was no heap of clothes. Just the skunky, musty, fieldy smell of pot.
When I rang the little bell on the counter it took Mr. Yee a really long time to appear from the back room. And when he did he was, well, how to say this in a way that doesn't weird me out even more...he was...well...clearly baked. Red eyed and wispy and grinning.
Okay.
You know.
Whatever. S’cool. It’s all cool. Man.
But.
Mr. Yee???? Really???? I mean, huh???? You think you know someone, for your entire life and then all of a sudden he goes and gets stoned in the back room of his business.
And worse, yes, there’s a worse part to this, the dry cleaner building happens to back up to the fire/police/post office/municipal building.
I’m cool, but the local cop is definitely not cool. I was in orchestra with his sister and I kinda got to know him a little thanks to him picking us up and giving me a ride home after rehearsals.
He was two grades ahead of us.
He was Jr. ROTC.
He was a douche.
Considering he never left town and became the local cop, and based on the ridiculously self righteous police blotter reports in the local newspaper, it’s safe to assume he’s still a douche.
One whiff of Mr. Yee’s pot and he’d go Barney Fife on Mr. Yee in seconds flat.
I feared for Mr. Yee. I like the guy. I’ve always liked the guy. And his son. And his wife.
His wife. Oh God, his wife. Oh God, Mrs. Yee. Mrs. Yee would never go for that kind of behavior. Or. At least. I mean, I don't think she would.
Then again...she always was exceptionally pleasant...
She was always nice to me when I was little. She let me pet their many pet Pekingese dogs and gave me fortune cookies around Chinese New Year. As I grew taller, and taller, she teased my mother that my mother needed to stop feeding me bamboo because I was growing so fast and tall. She started calling me Little Bamboo and eventually, just “Boo.”
For a couple days in 10th grade I had a crush on the Yee’s math wiz son. A trip with my mother to the dry cleaner cured me of that particular crush. The thought of going out with a guy whose mother called me Boo pretty much killed all romantic notions my 10th grade imagination could fathom. Still, I hold the Yees in an affectionate place.
The thought of Mr. Yee getting busted for possession of pot and public intoxication by douche local cop bothered me. A lot. I felt protective of him.
But.
This is also the father of a classmate. A friend of my parents’. I mean, awkward much? What was I going to say? Or do?
“Uh, Mr. Yee, I’m cool with the, uh, ‘cleaning fluid’ but you know Captain Zuhlkes is on duty today, I just saw him pull the cruiser into the back lot, and you know what a stickler for the law he is…”
“Duuuuuude! Awesome!!! That smells like some good shit, man! But duuude, that ROTC douche Zuhlkes is right outside, man.”
Instead I just pretended nothing was weird. “Hi Mr. Yee. Got a jacket for you. No hurry. Sometime next week is fine.”
He kind of giggled and told me he’d have it ready Monday. Or Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. And grabbed a couple chips out of a giant bag of Lay’s tucked under the counter. Can’t stop eatin’ ‘em.
I presume one of three things is going on with Mr. Yee. He’s got glaucoma or cancer and it’s medicinal pot; he’s sad and lonely and going a little senile without Mrs. Yee and he’s turning to drugs; he’s been a stoner all along but I just never noticed it.
The more we learn the less we know.
Everything changes.
Even in my really, really, really, really small town. Where nothing ever changes.
Everything changes.
Here’s the thing that scares me: I fled that really, really, really, really small town because nothing ever changes there. I craved change. I wanted to evolve. I thought predictability and routine were boring, stagnant and sure to bring a small mind and an early grave. So I left as soon as I could.
And I ran and ran and ran and ran and never looked back, never got homesick, never longed to be back in that really, really, really, really small town.
Yet standing in that dry cleaner with stoned Mr. Yee I realized: I haven’t changed. My life has changed, I’ve lived in lots of places, traveled around the world, seen a lot of things, met a lot of people, had a lot of experiences, taken a lot of classes, worked a lot of jobs, dated more men than I care to admit, and yet, really, I’m pretty much the same little girl my mother used to tow into that dry cleaner to pick up my dad’s suits.
All the time I’ve been other places looking for change, right there back in that really, really, really, really small town the local dry cleaner was changing into a stoner.
To add final punctuation on this epiphany, that afternoon I had an ill-fated run-in with a former classmate.
After my, uh, trip to the dry cleaner I fetched my mother and took her into town to the grocery. I was standing there examining the calories and fiber in a serving of Lucky Charms (I dunno…maybe I got a little contact high off Mr. Yee…hey, at least it's not cookie dough) when I suddenly became aware that my mother, several feet away from me, was talking to someone.
I dread grocery store run-ins in my hometown. No matter how hard I try to steer the conversation to the other person inevitably the conversation
Yes. Yes. I’m still single and I still have a career and I’m a gal, okay? Crucify me on the spinster cross, whydontcha? I know. I know.
Sensitive. Defensive.
It’s my issue, not theirs. I shouldn’t get defensive and angry with them when it’s myself I hate. But honestly, why do people probe and spear unmarried women like this? Nail us to a cross because we're not married? Maybe if people wouldn’t be so eager to nail me to that spinster cross I would hate myself a little less.
Or at least feel less self conscious about it.
And now that I don’t even have a career I feel like a total loser. A spinster career-gal without a career.
I’m just a gal. A spinster gal.
Which in my hometown is the female equivalent of a gay son dying of AIDS. We had a local family whose son was gay and died of AIDS. (Not my high school dating debacle. Another, different gay guy a few grades behind me.) The local townsfolk held a charity fun-run in an effort to raise money for his medical expenses.
No one’s organizing a fun-run to help offset my medical expenses. Not that my foot issues are in any way comparable to AIDS, but, I’m just sayin’…I need a surgery and medical care and I can’t afford it and my parents are pillars of this community but there’s not a public fundraiser for me, the unmarried careerless gal. Being gay and having AIDS is less humiliating and more charity worthy than being single and careerless.
Being a spinster in my hometown is suspect and shameful, but having a career gives the long-suffering parents a consolation topic. “No, no, our girl’s not married...no kids...career gal, you know…”
“Oh yes, we know.” Sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
Now that I’m unemployed my poor mother gets a lot of sad looks and sympathetic pats on the shoulder. More sad looks and sympathetic pats on the shoulder than the mother of the gay guy who died of AIDS. At least the mother of that guy got support in the form of a community fun-run. My poor mother just gets worried looks and tut-tut shakes of heads cast her way.
I was pulled from my Lucky Charms reverie when heard my mother say, “Oh yes, Trillian’s home for the holiday, Trill, darling…you remember Martha.”
Oh yes.
I remember Martha.
And even if I didn’t, her sunny blonde hair, bright blue eyes, perfectly honey bronzed skin, perky petite frame and dazzling smile would jog my memory.
Martha’s that girl everyone would be so envious of they’d hate if it weren’t for the fact that she’s also nice, funny and smart. You can't hate her. It's impossible.
Martha and I kept in touch via another classmate for a while. And her mother and my mother kind of sort of know each other via a charity thing they worked on a long time ago. Martha went into advertising, too, only she went into the finance/account side of things while I stayed in my creative safety zone. I lost touch with the classmate friend we had in common, but my mother runs into her mother now and then so I’ve had occasional Martha updates. I knew she got married and I knew her husband was a surgeon of some sort. I knew she had at least one child.
And there she was looking almost exactly like she did in school. I mean, you know, yes, she looks a little older, but not that much older. If anything she looks better.
Everything changes. And in Martha’s case, everything changes for the better apparently.
She had two perfect blonde, blue eyed, honey bronzed adorable children with her. She was home visiting her parents for the holiday. With her cardiologist husband. She took a few years off from her career in advertising to be home with their kids.
And she recently rejoined the working world at an agency. The woman was gone from the the working world for 5 years and walked right back into an executive job a few months ago. About the time I was laid off, in fact. With her new job they were able to move into their dream home, they got a steal on it.
Everything changes.
"What agency are you with, now Trilian?" she asked.
Of course I felt like a pile of crap, for myself, but even worse, I felt like a total embarrassment to my mother. Martha was in no way condescending or bitchy or mean. To the contrary, she was exceptionally nice and upbeat. ("Oh, you were always so creative and talented, I'm sure you'll find a great job soon.")
But the most interesting upbeat things I can say about myself is that I went to a Pixies concert and I’m back to wearing underwear every day. Kind of pales in comparison to a happy marriage, two great kids, a new home and a successful re-entry into a career after a five year hiatus.
Worse, she recognized my mother, not me, and when my mother said, "Oh, Trillian's home, too," and pointed at me a few feet away Martha was clearly shocked at what she saw. She tried her best to politely stumble out of the fact that she clearly didn't recognize me but the damage to my self esteem was already done.
Making that matter worse was that I actually thought I was looking "okay" that day. I was having a decent hair day and didn't have the sleepless night dark circles and wrinkles as badly as some recent days. I was dressed, complete with clean clothes and underwear. I’d had several days of regular meals containing actual nutritional value. I mean, for me, lately, I was in top form.
And I had on a Pixies shirt, feeling all cool.
But obviously even on a rare "good" day I look old and tired and unrecognizable from the person I used to be.
And like a pathetic old spinster desperately trying to look cool and, worse, still going to concerts instead of working at her new executive job and spending time with her husband and children.
Someone needs a Snuggie®.
And it ain't Martha.
One of her perfect progeny pointed to the be-haloed monkey on my Pixies concert shirt. “What’s that on your shirt? Is it a monkey angel?”
“Yep. That’s exactly what it is.”
Death of embarrassment in the cereal aisle in 3-2-1.
Martha chimed in, “Oh, the Pixies, my gawd, remember when they were the bomb? That’s so cool, did you ever think it would be vintage?!! Geeze, Trill, we’re not old, are we?! (ha ha ha) I didn’t save any of my stuff from back then. You were smart, it’s all cool now.”
I tried to pass the Doolittle shirt off as really old. Even though it’s less than a week old. There’s no date on it, just a monkey gone to Heaven. And Martha gave me cred points for it.
Everything changes.
Except me and my taste in music and apparel. To Martha’s eyes I have not evolved. I’m the female equivalent of a computer porn perv who lives in his mother’s basement.
Or the personification of our hometown. I had a little growth spurt, a boom, there for a few years, but if you missed that, didn't happen to catch me during that phase, and just saw me now, again after many years, you'd never know I ever changed.
I haven't felt so embarrassed and pathetic in years. My sad little world came crashing down around me. Not that I bother to care about what I look like anymore (I’m ugly and that’s that, I accept it now, and interestingly, I feel a lot better about myself now that I accept that I am an ugly shrew), but when combined with a lack of job, lack of man, lack of children, soon to be lack of home, well...
The whole change, evolving thing really, really, really slapped me in the face.
I was the one who fled looking for change and I’m the one who’s landed right back where she started without changing anything.
Niiiiiice.
Just what I needed long about now.
A reminder that I, too, will be a form of fossil fuel.
Sure, of course I'm envious of Martha. Sheesh, I mean, duh, of course. I'm sure things are not as perfect and happy in Martha's world as they seem to me, but, they've gotta be better than things in my world. Martha has a job. Martha has a new home. Martha has a husband who apparently loves her enough to make two adorable well-mannered children with her. From where I'm sitting, jobless, single and on the verge of foreclosure, Martha's world looks like a pretty nice place.
I know envy and jealousy are as futile and stupid as hatred and anger. I know this. Wastes of time and energy and brain matter. But. Um. A little help here? How does one not feel envious of the Martha's of the world? Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.?
Accept, yeah, I can accept her, as is.
But. Um, forgive her for what??? Forgive her for doing everything right? Forgive her for having a happy, successful life? Hmmmm. Gotta think on that one for a while.
Sure, ultimately Martha and I will end up dead and then we'll be equal. Equally dead.
There’s some comfort in that. Not that I have a deathwish for Martha. I don't. I don't begrudge her her success and happiness. (In spite of how this may read.) Yay Martha. Yay happiness and success for Martha. She's nice. And funny. And smart. And pretty. She "deserves" happiness and success. It's the way it's supposed to be. Nice, smart, funny, pretty people achieve success and happiness. That's just the way the Universe works. There's a lot of comfort in the fact that that rarely, if ever, changes.
But.
Martha’s going to be fossil fuel, too. Her successful, all-falls-into-place, happy life isn’t going to change that fact.
Except. She’s done her part for evolution. She changed. She evolved. She bred. The species, her successfully careered, happily married, perfect blonde honey bronzed species, will continue.
Survival of the fittest.
Change and death.
Snuggies® of compassion for everyone, even me.
5:02 PM
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
A kinder, gentler, humaner, healthier holiday.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Soooooo, my metaphoric blanket of forgiveness plan is being given the ultimate test.
Holiday travel.
I’ve spent a good majority of my life in transit. Literally and metaphorically. Crack of dawn departures. Late check-ins. Delays. Last minute changes. Lost luggage. Forgotten toothbrushes. Detours. Closed roads. Confusing signs. Dead ends. Bad food. Unsavory public bathrooms. Overpriced necessities of life. Surly employees. Jetlag. Smelly taxis. Challenges in communicating with people who speak differently. Long nights in strange places in lonely beds. Strange local customs. Foreign currency. Places that don’t live up to the hype. Getting lost. Finding yourself suddenly in a bad part of town. Waking up unsure of where you are. One generic room after another. One generic rental car after another. One generic broken passenger seat after another. Longing for home. Desperately trying to remember why you’re on this trip. Annoying fellow passengers.
And the literal transits are worse.
The literal transits include all that as well as screaming children. And other travelers who only travel once a year and are either frustrated, overly-anxious or hopped up high on holiday anticipation.
Just a rhetorical question to the Universe: Why does the guy who takes off his shoes and incessantly rubs his sweatsocked feet together for the entire duration of the trip always sit next to me? Am I really expected to give these guys sympathy and forgiveness, much less wrap them in Snuggies® of compassion? Really? Really?
Urrrrrrrgh
You know I’m not actually Jesus or Ghandi, right?
Okay. Fine. Fine. I’ll do my best.
Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.
But I mean really, why, why the incessant rubbing of the feet? Why? Why must That Guy always sit next to me?
Okay. Fine. Fine. Sympathy. Forgiveness. Glowy orange metaphoric blanket, a full body Snuggie® of for the man with the sweatsocks. But only because I’m not only trying really hard to use positive gray matter and spread it into the Universe. Good thing I’m still sprinkled with Pixies guitar dust.
I’m still ridin’ so high on that stuff that you might want to be careful – you might get a contact high off me just by reading my blog. We know I’m biased but really, they were swutting incredible. I don’t think Kim Deal has ever sounded better. My girl crush on her is kicking in again. I’ve been fantasizing about us being friends, hanging out, ordering pizza and drinking a couple bottles of wine, listening to music, watching movies, talking about boys, having some really good laughs at our inside jokes, trading books and clothes, going to galleries and laughing at the pretentiously affected people pretending they get it, her trying to teach me to play bass and laughing good naturedly at my ineptitude and patiently coaxing me to try again… yeah. I know. I gotta get a life other my fantasy life. And Frank and Joey did things with guitars that is simply not of this world. They took me places. Good places. Disturbing yet satisfying places. Scary places, places over the brink but leaving me with a feeling of contentment the likes of which I haven’t experienced in, well…a very long time. This monkey went to Heaven and thinks perhaps still has a one foot there. Music. Ahhhh. It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. I’m tellin’ you, that Pixies dust is good stuff. My drug of choice.
Okay. Back to reality. Sadly.
I have a lot of travel planned for the next six weeks of the holiday season. It’s going to be a loooooong six weeks. Trains, planes and automobiles.*
Kicking it off with the Mother of All Holiday Travel Hell: Thanksgiving week.
There’s a reason why Trains, Planes and Automobiles takes place over Thanksgiving week. More people travel through O’Hare during Thanksgiving than any other time of the year. More people ride Amtrak during Thanksgiving than any other time of year. More people hit the highway on Thanksgiving weekend than any other time of year. In America, we all just pack up, pick up and switch places for four or five days at the end of November. To think this all started when the Pilgrims (read: Religious weirdoes) invited their new neighbors over for a party. The native Americans were probably like, “Oh crap, they invited us. We can’t not go. We really wanted to just take a day off and relax and now we have to pack up and travel across the fields. And you just know they’re going to serve that canned weird cranberry jelly loaf stuff. Sigh. Okay. Fine. Fine. But we’re taking booze and we’re drinking it.” We have many debts of gratitude owed to Native Americans, but none deeper than for booze at Thanksgiving dinners. Sure, booze can make Thanksgiving gatherings, um, “difficult,” you know, like in the case of Aunt Miriam who’s going through a nasty divorce and nasty Uncle Bob, the mean drunk. But. I wonder how many domestic homicides have been avoided thanks to people passing out drunk instead of lacing the sweet potatoes with arsenic? I don’t think it’s all the family togetherness that causes all the stress, anxiety and intolerance. I think it’s because by the time you get to the Thanksgiving dinner table almost everyone in attendance has had to endure Holiday Travel Hell. Even the most patient, tolerant, level-headed people are pushed to the brink of losing it during the Thanksgiving holiday travel period.
And yes, yes. I know. That’s all the more reason why I should be ready with extra Snugges® of compassion during my travels this week.
But I’m not sure I have enough to go around. (See above, not actually Jesus or Ghandi.)
And so it was that I headed off to Union Station. Sprinkled in Pixies guitar dust, determined to Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. and dole out sympathy and forgiveness. I packed extra metaphoric Snuggies® of compassion, took a deep breath, smiled and hailed a cab.
I tipped the driver more than I usually do. This is my long-standing custom during holidays. My parents taught me this. “It’s the holidays, Trillian. These people work hard dealing with holiday traffic so we don’t have to…they’re making our lives easier during this hectic time. The least we can do is give them a little extra tip.” They’re right about that. Do you want to navigate Michigan Avenue or Lower Wacker the day before Thanksgiving? Yeah. Me either. A couple extra bucks is the least I can do for the guy who got me to Union Station in record time. I gave him a Snuggie®, too, even though he seemed pretty good natured, I figured the next few days would be rough on him and that compassion Snuggie® would come in handy at some point.
Okay! So far so good! On leg of holiday travel down, one Snuggie® given, we’re off to a good start!
Unfortunately one of the worst legs of my holiday transit was upon me. Navigating Union Station for a departure during the early morning arrival commute is difficult under normal circumstances. I always feel like a giant multi-tentacled squid swimming upstream in a river packed with lemmings moving with a hard current. They’re trying to get to work on time and I’m trying to get to the train platform on time and we’re in each other’s way. They’re angry and stressed because they hate their jobs and resent the fact that I am obviously not going to work, obviously (thanks to my suitcase) heading away from the drudgery of work and bosses and deadlines. What they don’t know is, now that I’m unemployed, it’s me who has the resentment. I’d give anything to be one of them, a lemming going to work with all the other lemmings. Even to a job I hate with a crappy boss and difficult deadlines. Anything. I’d give anything to be one of them.
But instead I serve no useful purpose in society. So I’m lamely doing the only thing I can think of to do…stay positive, give them some positive gray matter and be an oasis of acceptance and forgiveness and healing and peace and love (duh) in their Universe. Deep breath. Smile. iPod in place with La, la love you softly playing in my ears. Braced for the coming current of lemmings I headed into the station. Boy oh boy was it bad. Lots of lemmings, I must have hit it right as several suburban trains arrived. The holiday stress level was palpable. People juggling relatives, travel, and grocery shopping lists around work and coworkers and bosses and deadlines. And me.
I felt in the way. I felt apologetic. And compassionate. I must have handed out 30 Snuggies® in a 10 minute period. “La la love you, don’t mean maybe…” echoing in my ears. I know, right?!
There was already a line-up at the platform. Uh-oh. This is going to be a loooong train ride. Lots of bleary-eyed parents with eagerly excited young children imagining they’re on their way to Hogwarts.
Ya know, I love the Harry Potter books. Good ripping yarns. But. One bone of contention I have with Ms. Rowling is the ruddy train platform scenes. For those of us who travel by rail, especially in traditional stations like those featured in the movies, those scenes are a constant source of irritation thanks to children pretending to be on their way to Hogwarts and running around the platforms and occasionally even crashing a luggage trolley into a support beam. I mean, you know, I’m all for a little creative play but this is an actual train station with actual passengers and actual giant locomotives on tracks. I have witnessed a couple of near catastrophes at Union Station thanks Harry Potter. I watched helplessly from the window of my train, I couldn’t look, I closed my eyes while the evening news story flashed before my eyes, “A family visit to the city turned deadly when an 8-year-old boy fell onto a track at Union Station into the path of an oncoming train. He was reenacting a scene from Harry Potter when he lost his footing and tumbled in front of the 12:45 from Waukegan.” Fortunately an Amtrak agent swooped him up and away from the edge of the platform before a horrendous fate befell the kid. Oblivious parents had no clue their son was nearly flattened by a Metra train. (These irresponsible people get to have children and I don’t? How is that in any way fair?)
So yeah. I kind of shudder when I see a lot of children lined up on the platform at Union Station.
I also shudder because usually the girl children are armed with several red bags. American Girl Place red bags. The equivalent of a Tiffany blue bag for the under-12 set. I’m going to expend some precious negative brain cells on American Girl Place. I hate that swutting temple of conspicuous consumerism masquerading as “educational” and “empowering” for girls. Bull shit. It’s about selling ridiculously overpriced merchandise marketed more to parents trying to assuage some deep sense of longing within themselves rather than to little girls who want to read books and play with dolls. Very, very rarely do I see a girl actually in possession of, much less reading, one of the books. It’s all about the dolls and copious amount of high-priced accessories. An elitist microcosm of society. Urrrrrrgh. I mean. You know. If they just called it what it is and didn’t try to pretend it’s in any way educational or empowering I’d be okay with it. Well. More okay than I am. If the dolls and accessories were less expensive I’d be a lot more okay with it.
The platform was lined with children and most of the girl children were armed with loads of red bags. Crap. This is gonna be a looooong train trip. Snuggies®. Snuggies®. Accept. Forgive. Accept. Forgive. Accept. Forgive.
I was lucky. I got a seat to myself. I set up my little cocoon of solitude. All the “Do not disturb” signals in place. iPod. Laptop. Glasses. Hair pulled back and held up with a pen. Sheafs of paper and forms that look like work.
Sure enough, the sweatsock guy took his place across the aisle from me. Natch. Accept. Forgive. Accept. Forgive. Accept. Forgive. Accept. Forgive. I mean, you know, at least there’s something reliable, unwavering, right? I know to expect this. The Universe never, ever let’s me down. I suppose there’s some comfort to be found in it. There’s so little stability in my life, the sweatsocky guy is at least something I can expect, something reliable. Snuggie® of forgiveness and sympathy.
Before the train even departed I was sorting out some forms for my mother, lost deep in health insurance paperwork and Surfer Rosa. Even through Part B explanations and Vamos I was distracted by not one but two American Girl dolls staring at me from above the seatback in front of me.
Okay. It was kind of funny. I mean, I used to do that with my Barbies when I was a kid on long flights with my parents. Who among us hasn’t? And it’s not the little girl’s fault that her parents are elitist victims of marketing with issues tied to their longing for acceptance and love and toys when they were children. Accept. Forgive. Accept. Forgive. Snuggie®. Snuggie®. Sure enough, as the dolls bobbed up and down I started laughing at the pantomime playing out in front of me. Next thing I knew two little be-bowed pigtails on a real girl’s head started poking up above the seat back. Little by little the be-bowed pigtails gave way to a forehead of newly trimmed bangs. And then finally two big blue eyes curiously peeking over at me. I smiled at her. She ducked back down out of sight. An American Girl doll reappeared. Then another. I laughed. Out loud. The big blue eyes popped up in front of me. And then a hopeful and slightly timid smile of baby teeth.
I smiled back at her. She batted her lashes coyly. “I have new dolls.”
“So I see. What are their names?”
“I don’t know, yet. This one’s Jessica, I think. But I don’t know about this one,” she said apologetically.
“It’ll come to you eventually,” I said.
“You have green eyes,” she announced in that little kid of just blurting out the first obvious thing they notice about a person when they just meet them.
“Yes I do. And you have blue eyes. And pink bows in your pigtails.”
“Uh-huh. We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house tomorrow.”
“That sounds like fun. You can show your Grandma your new dolls.”
“Uh-huh. We have to take squash and pumpkin bread. I don’t like pumpkin bread.”
“Yeah, me either. It’s kinda gross.” “Uh-huh. I can spell elephant. E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T.”
“Very good. Can you spell giraffe?”
“Ummmm. No.”
“I can. G-I-R-A-F-F-E.”
“Wow,” disappears from view. “Mommy! She can spell giraffe!”
Impressive, apparently.
And just like that I had a new BFF. Not exactly Kim Deal, but hey, any port in a Thanksgiving holiday train trip storm. She let me hold one of her precious new dolls. (The as yet unnamed one) We played school and shopping and career. Her doll was a a) a good speller, b) liked to buy sparkly clothes and C) lawyer (like the little girl’s aunt) and mine was a a) struggling in math class, b) liked to buy sneakers and vintage records, and c) an artist and musician.
After an hour of playing dolls over the seat back it was time for a break. The café car was open and I was allowing myself Diet Pepsi on this trip.
Okay. So. I took off my glasses, tried to compensate for my lack of make-up with a liberal coat of crimson lipstick topped with a lacquer of gloss, swept on coat of jet black mascara, released my hair from it’s pen-held knot, grabbed my purse bag and stood up.
My new BFF’s mouth dropped to the floor in wide-eyed awe and shock.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy look, she’s a Super Hero!!!! Like on TV!!! She took off her glasses and grew her hair and got tall and look, Mommy, look, she’s a super hero!!!!”
Okay.
Okay.
I mean.
You know. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Most of them not very flattering or not suitable for children. But. Super-hero? Yeah. That’s a new one.
Maybe I should mention that I have these boots, riding style boots, that seem to evoke “Super Hero” feelings in people. I’m not sure why. They’re just a really old pair of brown riding boots, kind of beat up and worn into that perfect relaxed condition that a pair of riding boots should have. They happen to have braid trim down the side and a buckle at the top. I think it’s the braid trim and buckle that take them from riding boots to Super Hero for some people. I don’t see it, but over the years this comment has been made. “Those are like League of Justice boots or something,” “If those were red or blue they’d be Wonder Woman boots.” I was wearing those boots. And black tights. And a flippy little circle skirt. And a short sleeaved sweater jacket hoodie thing. Over a shirt my niece gave me, dark grey with a large abstract fuchsia heart craftily stitched all over the boob area.
Oh. And. My bag is old. It used to be kind of silvery but most of the silver has flaked off and it’s kind of black with a hint of silver patina. Oh. And. A large star embossed on one side. I dunno. Don’t ask. I got it on sale in Paris years ago. I thought it was kind of ironically grunge chic. Or something. I dunno. But it turned out to be a really handy size and shape and has great compartments, perfect for traveling. And now that I’m an unemployed slacker traveling just for me, not for work, I’m using it again. It seems somehow dingily apt. It used to be somewhat credible, or at least viable, but now it’s old and beat up and long-since out of style but still functional and practical. Kinda like me.
At the last minute before I left for this trip I remembered my mother was hinting that I should start wearing some of the jewelry I’ve inherited. I don’t like to wear jewelry when I travel. But. Nor do I like to pack it in my suitcase. And nor do I like to leave it at home while I’m gone for extended periods of time. Not that I have so much expensive jewelry that it warrants that kind of worry. But. You know. It’s all I’ve got and it’s the sentimental value that gets to me. So I thought, “I’ll show up at the train station with the biggest honkin’ ring in my great-grandmother’s jewelry box.” An emerald-cut deep-violet amethyst the size of a small island. Seriously. An island. An Orkney island to be exact. It was allegedly harvested in the Orkneys many generations ago and then carved and polished for my great-gran. I’m the only girl in my generation with fingers long enough to support the rectangular amethyst island set in gold. And even I struggle to support the darned thing. It should have gone to my aunt’s son’s wife, but in a vengeful fit of spite my aunt gave it to me literally on her deathbed. (Ahhhh, family. What was I saying about booze and homicides during the holidays?) My cousin’s wife doesn’t like it and didn’t want the ring, anyway, so no bad feelings there. And I do like the ring. It does make me feel, well, I dunno, kinda, I dunno, empowered? No, that’s not it. I dunno. I just like it. I suppose it makes me feel connected to my family, to Scotland, to the long-dead women who wore it. But. It’s more than a bit showy. It’s literally a rock, I mean, literally. It’s not just large in surface area, it’s deep, thick. It rises above my finger almost ¾ of an inch. The thing tips the scale at 9 ounces. I kid you not.
I didn’t think about my ensemble. I just put on comfortable clothes for the trip, a couple things to appease my mother and show appreciation (the ring) and gratitude for my niece (the shirt), loaded up my practical but dingy bag and off I went. Since I was laid off all regard for style and appearance have gone straight out the window. Let’s be honest, just wearing underwear is a big deal clothes-wise for me. Anything else is just bonus material.
Given my 5’11” height and verging on DD boobs and giant purple ring I suppose I can see how a four-year-old girl hopped up high on American Girl Place enthusiasm might take me in and think, “She’s not like Mommy. She’s not like other women I’ve seen in real life. And she was nice to me. She plays with dolls. She was wearing nerdy glasses and now she’s not. She had her hair pulled back and now it’s all wild and messy and curly. She has bright red glossy lips and green eyes. She has a star on a silver bag. She’s almost 6’ tall. She has a bright pink heart stitched across her chest. And a giant purple ring. She’s wearing a short flippy skirt. And boots. Therefore she must be a cartoon super hero.”
I guess I can see how the transformation of my above the neck appearance and first sight of the rest of me, at full height, could be a bit, um, “impressive” to a four-year-old.
Awe-inspiring? Not so much. But I remember how the mysteries of make-up and hair were so intriguing to me when I was a kid. I used to watch my sister go from “just my sister” to a ready for the runway model. I’d see photos of her modeling gigs and I didn’t recognize her. I’d study the photos for some trace of my sister, some trace of a connection to me. My mother said under the makeup she was still my sister. I never believed my mother. I thought it went a lot deeper than makeup. I thought my sister knew some magic trick that turned her into someone else. So yeah. I kinda get that a four-year-old is easily awed by what lipstick, mascara and different hair can do to a woman. But super hero? Like on TV? Yeah. That’s a stretch.
Still, I caught myself affecting more of a puffed up strut than usual down the train car aisles. I know. I know. She’s four. It’s easy to impress a four-year-old. Let’s not get carried away, here.
The café car attendant was not the Yummy guy from a few weeks ago. I was kind of disappointed. And kind of relieved.
When I got back to my seat my new BFF watched me as I walked by her seat. I could feel her studying me. Her mother asked me if I could retrieve a bag from the overhead shelf for her. I get that a lot on the train. The overhead shelves are kind of high and deep and often bags slide far out of reach for more diminutive passengers. My new BFF never took her eyes off me while I fished around the shelf above their seats. When I got their bag and handed it to her mother the little girl shyly tugged at my skirt. She motioned for me to come in closer. I bent over farther toward her.
She put her hand up to my ear and whispered, “What’s your super hero name? I promise I won’t tell anyone. I keep secrets real good.”
I know. I know. I know. Okay? I know.
Laugh? Cry? Affect a Super Man valiant stance?
I mean, I don’t go around thinking about my super hero name. Do you?
“Well,” I stalled, “I can’t tell you my super hero name. We have pretty strict rules about that. But my undercover name is Missy Amore.” I pointed to my heart shirt and gave her what I hoped was an intriguingly knowing look. (I can’t wink. Drats. I rarely regret that I can’t wink without looking like I have something big and painful in my eye, but this is one time it would have come in handy.)
The girl’s mother cracked up. The girl didn’t understand why. She looked upset that her mother was inserting herself in her friendship with a super hero.
“Shhhhh, Mom, you’ll get Missy in trouble,” then, whispering to me, “Missy, you better put your glasses back on, someone might see you.”
I fell into my seat and dutifully donned my glasses. And sure enough, the dolls soon reappeared. I was kind of weary of the games, but, then again, there are worse ways to spend a train trip across Michiana.
The little girl kept calling me Missy. She occasionally cast me a furtive sideways glance that turned into a piercing stare. She was trying to assess the super heroine riding on the train with her. Every now and then she’d ask a timid question.
“Does your ring give you magic power? What can you do? Can you fly or run really fast?” and so on.
It got kind of old after a while. I can see why super heroes sometimes have breakdowns and turn mean.
Finally I said, “Sadly, no, I can’t fly or run very fast. All I can do is be nice.”
“oh,” she said obviously disappointed.
She had to think about that a long time. She was either bored with me or needed to contemplate "nice" as a superpower.
I was thinking about that, too. It is a kind of superpower. It shouldn't be, it should just be how we are. But. We all know that's not always the case. I'm certainly not claiming that I'm nice to superpower level. Far from it.
But.
Since I've accepted and made peace with my "too nice"ness I gotta admit, I feel better, more me, more myself. And that's a good thing. It's not getting me a job or a man or even helping ease the anxiety I have about being unemployed and on the verge of foreclosure. But. I feel more me, more "hey, maybe I am too nice. So what? So swutting what? It's how I am. I have green eyes and I'm tall, too. It's just how I am." And trying to squelch it, to go against my nature, wasn't helping me in any way whatsoever.
Embracing it doesn't seem to be doing me any harm. And, as a bonus, a lot of people are walking around with a dose of forgiveness and sympathy heaped on them by a total stranger.
Who was that masked woman?
Why, it was Compassion Girl! Spreading acceptance, forgiveness, healing, peace and love (duh) throughout the Universe, one Snuggie® of compassion at a time!
So I ask again, is being "too nice" really a problem? Really a bad thing? No one's taking advantage of me. I feel more content with myself. In spite of ridiculously insurmountable problems I'm generally maintaining a positive attitude.
And I have a new undercover identity. "She walks among us, disguised as quiet, studious and quirky unemployed Missy Amore. But underneath that persona lurks the soul of Compassion Girl(!). Given the super power of 'nice,' Compassion Girl silently travels the planet bestowing metaphoric blankets of forgiveness, "Snuggies® of Compassion," to angry, negative and annoying people." Her battle cry: "Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh." Her mission: To cloak the world in a metaphoric Snuggie® of compassion. Her theme music: La la love you.
My only question with this is: How do super heroes make money? Most of them have day jobs or are born into very wealthy families. Yeah. Um. Problematic.
My only concern with this is: How many sweatsocked travelers sitting next to me do I have to deal with before I'm allowed to slag them off for being rude?
*Speaking of trains, planes and automobiles…I carry a spare copy of that DVD with me everywhere I travel between Thanksgiving and December, it’s my travel companion and source of solace during “difficult” holiday travel. If you haven’t employed this holiday travel coping technique I highly suggest it. It salves even the most painful travel experiences.
5:56 PM
Friday, November 20, 2009 All I'm sayin', pretty baby, is, for a few glorious hours this monkey went to Heaven. Big, big love.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Irony, thy name is Trillian.
Here I am having zero success finding a new job and teetering on the precipice of foreclosure, discarding, donating or boxing up my stuff for storage so that if/when I do foreclose I’ll be ready to leave. Yes. I’m prepping for homelessness.
So why, then, did I arrive from my parents’ with a bunch of stuff?
I don’t have an answer for that. Mainly to assuage my mother, I suppose.
And yes, I do have a storage unit that costs very little. Even if/when I’m homeless I think I can afford the monthly storage fee. I’m trying to figure out a way to hide from the security cameras and live there if necessary. Yes. My Plan B for foreclosure is spending nights in a storage facility. I suspect it’s happening a lot, these days.
So as my mother and I sorted and purged our family’s stuff from her house, the overused default for everything “we” “couldn’t part with yet” was, “It’s okay Mum, I can put it in my storage unit.”
And so it was that it came to pass that I returned to Chicago with tubs and boxes of stuff.
In fairness to my mother and the rest of my family, much of the stuff is my stuff. Stuff that’s been hanging around far too long at my parents’. Because it was easier, more convenient for me to leave it there than deal with it. Now it’s time to deal with it.
I turned a corner…I’m actually kind of glad some of my stuff got wrecked. It eliminated decisions or hesitation to get rid of it. Yes, by fate eliminating the stuff of my life, I eliminated more stuff in my life. There’s wisdom there, Zen or something, ridding oneself of possessions and all that. Except we’re not talking about valuable stuff, monetary value weighing me down. We’re talking about the cartoons and poems I created and got published in my school newspapers. We’re talking about a curl of snipped baby hair tied in a pink ribbon.
We’re talking about mix tapes.
Oh yes.
Mix tapes.
The one thing us GenXers have as ours and ours’ alone. Those two words, mix tape, evoke such strong emotions for such a distinct segment of the population. Oh sure, some Boomers “get it” and some Ys and Millennials are aware, but GenXers, well…mix tapes. They’re deeply rooted and entrenched in our psyches. Their significance goes beyond all reasonable articulation. Everyone, everyone of a certain age remembers making their first mix tape. And most of us of a certain age remember receiving their first mix tape.
For a generation of kids coming of age exactly as drugs and sex turned deadly, the mix tape became a way of expressing ourselves. Okay, sure, we were using other peoples’ words and music to express ourselves and yes, that’s kind of lame, but that’s us, isn’t it? That’s how we’re cast, isn’t it? Lame. What say you cut us a little slack? The very second we entered our rebellious experimental coming of age years was the very second the “fun” things about coming of age turned sinister. Pills and cocaine and AIDS were killing people right and left. Just as we were poised to experiment with drugs and lose our virginity drugs and sex got deadly. Story of our lives. GenXers truly cannot catch a break.
We just said no and we were scared celibate. Without drugs and sex we had few of the normal sources of releasing the tension of young adulthood. We reverted to what our grandparents did: We found solace and hope in booze and music. And right there to usher us through it was Sony with their Walkmen.
And thus the birth of the mix tape.
Here’s the equation: 1 disaffected, confused, frustrated teenager with raging hormones + 1 turntable or CD player + 1 “record” button + every penny earned spent on records or CDs + 1-three pack of blank recording tapes = weekends of deeply satisfying creative solace.
Who among us didn’t create a mix tape for the object of our affection? Whether or not we ever gave said tape to the object of our affection is another disaffected, confused, frustrated thing altogether. The point is, we made the mix tapes for the objects of our affections. Sometimes we even made mix tapes for the objects of our disaffection.
I once made a mix tape full of the most venomous hate filled songs I could find for a certain mean girl who made my life living Hell for far too many years. I fantasized about wrapping it in pretty paper with a romantic card with a forged signature of the boy she liked and sneaking it into her locker. She’d think it was a romantic mix tape from a cute popular boy, run home, play it, and boy oh boy would she be surprised!
Yes. Yes. I was a deeply troubled and disturbed young girl. I know this. We know this. But glass houses, people, glass houses.
And. In fairness to me, Beth and her sycophantic lackey cousin Renée were horrible, just horrible to me for no reason. You can hardly blame me for wanting to exact some revenge. Also in fairness to me, I made the tape but never followed through with the rest of my vengeful plan. Instead I just listened to the tape when Beth and her sycophantic lackey cousin Renée said or did something horrible to me.
Which was just about every day.
And thus the birth of escapism via music. Had I known I was cultivating a coping technique that would be employed throughout my adult life I’m not sure how I would have reacted back then. I’d like to think I would have been either proud of myself or scared to think I would need a coping technique. But I think I would have probably reacted with the disaffected apathy born of disillusionment and discontentment that plagued my adolescence. I keep thinking one of these days things will change and I can listen to music solely for the enjoyment of it rather than escaping and losing myself in it. (Casts a furtive glance around the room, looks expectantly at the front door, realizes change probably isn’t going to come knocking today, turns up the stereo.)
Among my teenaged stuff I found a box of tapes. I mean, whole mess o’ tapes. All of them lovingly, thoughtfully crafted. Agonizingly assiduous in the song choices and order, these tapes were labors of love but so much more, too. They were magnetic oxide envoys of GenX teenage angst and hope and fear. They matter. They meant something.
For me, they meant that I was an unpopular weird dork with few friends and nothing better to do than spend her allowance and odd job money on records and CDs and then spend all my free time compiling copious volumes of collected works. Listening to even one of those tapes would tell an obvious story of a girl trapped in a John Hughes movie-life. Minus the boyfriend and happy ending. And the kooky-but-fun friends. Read: 16 Candles without Michael Schoeffling or Michael Anthony Hall. Not very cute or funny or sweet or charming. Just deeply disturbing. More David Lynch than John Hughes.
(Which is exactly how I described my life back then, as witnessed in the poem that didn’t get published in the school paper, one I found in a notebook in the box with the mix-tapes, natch:
16 candles and a license to drive parents sleepless with worry and fear. Finally alone at the wheel, out after dark, 16 candles but not so pretty in pink, More David Lynch than John Hughes, she pushes on and on, over the brink. Forget about me because I already don’t remember you, was I ever even here?
Or this lovely little elegy, also in the mix-tape notebook (good emo band name, by the way, appearing live with Dashboard Confessional, Mix-Tape Notebook)
Nexistentialism. You can’t love or hate or remember or forget what you don’t know exists. Existential requiem of life stuck between post-punk and pre-whatever’s next. Tomorrow, next week, a year from now will be different or better or worse.
Or exactly the same.
Okay. Sooooooo. Now we know why I had such difficulty making friends as a teenager. Not exactly little miss pep squad, was I?
The sad thing about this is that looking back on it, even now, I wouldn’t change much if I was given a do-over. I stand proud in my disaffection and self-indulgent angst. Especially since the alternative was in fact pep-squad. I was a socially awkward weird dorky misfit stuck in an existential requiem between post-punk and pre-whatever’s next. I knew it then, I know it now.
Okay. So. There I was with a box full of mix tapes, a couple notebooks of disturbingly bad poetry and a five hour road trip ahead of me.
What to do, what to do.
Horrible, horrible, Satanic daughter moment in 3-2-1: “What’s in that box, Trill?” Mum asked. “A bunch of cassette tapes from high school and college.” “Oh! Now that is exciting! Are they okay? No water or mouse damage?” (Thanks Mum, just twist that knife a little why dontcha?) “They appear to be okay. But…” wistfully trailing the sentence out longer than necessary. “Oh no. What is it, darling?” (“Please God, show mercy on my youngest born, spare her precious tapes from damage. She has so little of her childhood left…” strongly implied.) “It’s just, well, I don’t have a cassette player anymore. It’s been years since I had one, I don’t even know if they still make them.” (Knowing full well Target sells portable cassette players.) “Oh! I’m sure we can find one! What about the hi-fi in Dad’s office? Doesn’t it have a cassette player? You can take it, I never use it and I’m sure no one else wants it.” (Fighting the urge to lash out at my mother for calling the stereo a hi-fi. My mother insists on calling anything that plays music and is not a portable music player a hi-fi. It drives me swutting batshit. It’s driven me swutting batshit since I was a kid. We did have an actual hi-fi, but one thing my dad was always willing to part with cash on was decent audio equipment. We had a stereo system, an actual system long before anyone else I knew. And it bugged the crap out of me when my mother referred to it as a hi-fi. It was a stereo system, a complex modern audio system, not some swilly outmoded hi-fi,) “Ya know, I think you’re right, I think he does still have a cassette deck in there but I don’t know if it works. Maybe I’ll try it.” (Knowing full well there is a cassette deck that hasn’t worked for years.)
30 minutes later… “Yeah, no, the cassette doesn’t work. The turntable’s good, though.” “Oh! You should take it!” “Maybe…maybe I’ll see if anyone else wants it and if not maybe I’ll take it.” (Knowing full well my brother and I have been avoiding the topic of my dad’s turntable because we both know we both want it and resentment is bound to occur no matter who ends up with it. It’s a beaut, a classic Yamaha.) “But what about all your cassette tapes? You can’t play them on your hi-fi, can you?” (Cringing, again, at the term hi-fi, and suspecting my mother is saying it to intentionally work my nerves.) “Oh, I dunno. Maybe I can find an old Walkman on eBay or something,” wistfully trailing the ‘on eBay or something…’ “Didn’t you want to go to Target?” “Yes! Yes I did, I need a few things there.” “Why don’t we take a break and go now?”
Two hours later I was listening to old mix tapes on a new cassette player.
I know. I know. I’m a horrible, Satanic manipulative daughter. I know. But you weren’t there. You didn’t see how much of my stuff was ruined via water or mouse damage. No, it wasn’t my mother’s fault. And if I had a job and an income I would just buy a cassette player. But right now a cassette player is a luxurious frivolity.
And let’s be real for a minute, here. The thing cost $29.99. I bought her a new Brita pitcher that set me back $24.95 and I took her to Panera so, you know, really, I think she’s coming out ahead in this whole deal.
And who bought a cassette player isn’t really the point, anyway.
The point is I have scads of mix-tapes to listen to and holy memory lane. Some are actually, you know, kinda good. I’m sorta proud of a few of them.
I was rocking through them, randomly pulling them out of the box, fast forwarding through some of the lamer songs when I got a serious jolt of nostalgia and pang of longing.
I finished a tape and fished in the box for another. I took one look at the tape and I knew. I knew what it was. And I was not prepared to be confronted with it.
There, in my hand, was The First Mix-tape a Boy Made Me.
Oh yes.
There was a boy.
A boy who made me a mix-tape.
Bet you didn’t see that coming. Especially given the Nexistentialism poem.
For every disaffected, disillusioned, confused, socially awkward, bad self-indulgent angst-ridden poetry writing, dorky weird girl in school there is a confused, socially awkward repressed homosexual boy. It’s an inverse axiom rule of physics and how the Universe works. It just is.
It was the summer of my 15th year. We’ll call him Chad. He was 17. He had a car and a better stereo than mine but really crappy records, most of them dancey disco records or original cast recordings from Broadway shows. And no, this didn’t signal any alarms or concerns for me because I was 15 and didn’t really “get it.” I don’t think he did, either.
I introduced him to college radio and my record collection.
In his car we made trips to Ann Arbor, the home of said college radio station so that we could spend hours pawing through bins of import records at my favorite place in the world, an indie record shop where nothing but college kids and musicians hung out. Once we went to Canada on a mission to procure a coveted import EP.
We planned our purchases so that we didn’t duplicate the records or CDs. Then we’d trade and record them. Sure, it’s “illegal” but it was more music bang for our limited high school bucks. And we reasoned that since we did purchase the records/CDs it wasn’t totally like stealing…and we weren’t recording them and selling them on the high school black market…
It was a fun summer. Chad, his car, music, Ann Arbor…the anticipation of getting my braces off in a few months…life wasn’t “good” but it wasn’t “bad,” either.
That fall we went back to school and I kind of sort of thought I had a boyfriend, what with all the trips to Ann Arbor (and Canada!) and sharing of LPs and everything. And we had first hour calculus together. I mean, in high school social terms that's huge. A first hour class together pretty much seals the deal because that’s where you get your locker assignment, so you see your first hour classmates all day long, and everyone who’s dating wants to have first hour with their boy/girlfriend. Duh.
Chad was very, very into the performing arts. He was president of Drama Club and a full fledged Thespian Society member. He was also a lead tenor in the school choir and held a coveted spot in the touring a cappella group. He was also a regular lead in the school plays. (Natch.) And no, no, I didn’t think anything was “funny” about all that music and acting, Chad was very outgoing and dramatic and he had a lot of charisma. And a good singing voice. Oh be quiet. I was 15. And for such a socially aware 15 year old I was incredibly sexually naïve.
Once school started much of Chad's extracurricular time was spent with choir and the school play. So I didn’t think anything was “odd” about the freshman girl who started hanging out at his locker before calculus. She was a thespian wannabe and I figured she was making nice with Chad to score points for a role in the Spring play.
That is until much to my young confusion and heartache Chad went to Homecoming with this freshman chick. Not that I really wanted to go to Homecoming. Sheesh. This is me we’re talking about. It’s just that for all Chad’s performing enthusiasm, he thought most high school stuff was trite and stupid, too. We shared that disaffection and disillusionment. On all those trips to Ann Arbor we weren’t all hopped up high in anticipation school activities. Instead we moaned about how lame it all was and plotted and planned our lives post-high school. But there he was, going to Homecoming with of all things, a freshman drama club girl. Aaaack. Apologies if you were a freshman Drama Club girl. But you know what I mean. You know the type. Eager. Showy. Loud. Even dorkier than me.
That first hour calculus room became very chilly very fast. Chad and I barely spoke from October - December. I mean, really, there's only so much indignity a girl can take, I had every right to ignore him. Completely.
So Christmas break rolled around, I was of course jubilant for that, happy to be rid of calculus and Chad for a few weeks.
And then, on Christmas Eve my dad came in with the mail, tons of Christmas cards for the family and one for me. And it was bulky. What could it be?
No return address... hmmmm. Odd.
I tore it open and out fell a cassette tape.
On one side in magic marker on the label was scrawled, "Whatever I did I'm sorry" and on the other, "I heard some new songs."
Chad.
Bastard. Did the little freshman jezebel turn him on to new music?
Sorry? Oh yeah? I'll just bet.
I stubbornly refused to play the tape for several days. (“How dare he” strongly implied.)
I got a new Walkman for Christmas. Yeah. That rocked. Totally. Theretofore I’d been listening to my tapes on a cheap knock-off Walkman that had a broken forward button and was taped together with packing tape and Super glue. The new, real Walkman was a surreptitious gift from my dad. Good old Dad. He was always good about surreptition. He’d slip a twenty in my hand as he hugged me, or slide a drink my way when no one was looking or buy me a present my mother would never approve of. My mother didn’t know he bought the Walkman for me. When she found out about it she was surprised and kind of mad at my dad. For some reason…oh…right. Disaffected, disillusioned, monster of a teenage girl brooding around the house writing bad poetry with headphones blaring and blocking out all hope of communication.
Finally, on our Boxing Day trip to visit Canadian relatives, I took the tape and listened to it on my new Walkman.
And now, all these years later, there I was with a new Walkman, on a road trip with that very tape in my hand again.
Wow.
Wow.
Ya know, I had a lot of stress at my former job. Days were long and often difficult. I had to be creative on demand. I had to make a lot of decisions requiring fast-thinking and good judgment. I had to deal with clients with high expectations and uncooperative coworkers.
But the past few weeks dealing with all this stuff from my parents’ house makes me long for my former job, uncooperative coworkers included. The emotional minefields I’ve been navigating rival the stress level I had at my former job. A different kind of stress, obviously, but stress. And lots of it. Facing my past and all that. It’s rough turf.
I have the mix-tapes and bad poetry to prove it.
The emotional connection to mix-tapes is so strong because you have to invest a lot of time and effort into them. Nowadays you just drop and drag songs to a playlist and voila. Done. It takes a minute, two maybe if you have a lot of songs in your iTunes library. There’s no real time or effort involved. It's instantly gratifying but not as deeply satisfying as making a mix-tape.
With cassette tapes you had a finite amount of recording time on each tape. You couldn’t just choose a bunch of songs and record them. There was more to it than that. You had to use songs that were just the right length to fit each side of the tape. You might have the perfect first side last song, you know, musically or message-wise, but if you didn’t time the songs before it correctly you wouldn’t have enough tape to include the entire song on the tape. Oh the agony and heartbreak of the noise of the recording button flipping off because it ran out of tape before the last song finished. Nothing, and I mean nothing is more lame than a song cut-off because you ran out of tape. You have to start over.
And even when you had the timing all worked out there was still lot of work, a lot of yourself to put into the project. And that’s exactly what it was, a project. You had to hit pause, take off the record or CD after each song, put on the next record or CD, hit record, listen and watch dutifully for the end of the song, hit pause, and so on through two sides of the tape.
And that’s saying nothing of the music you actually choose to put on a mix-tape. Nick Hornby did a much better job of writing about song selections for mix-tapes, devoted a whole book to it, so I won’t go into it. Besides. You know what I mean. You have to have a broad range of musical knowledge and the record/CD collection to back it up. (Recording a mix-tape from the radio was even more lame than running out of tape mid-last song.) The mix-tape is where you show your emotional depth, your sensitivity, your knowledge of complete recordings, not just the hits.
First songs on first sides of mix-tapes are crucial. Absolutely crucial. They set the tone for the whole tape. There’s no way to redeem a bad choice there. If you get the first side first song wrong the whole tape is a failure.
The first song on Chad’s "Whatever I did I'm sorry" side of the tape? Well, after listening to it again I'm cracking up over it.
It all comes full circle: Messages, OMD. Dear, sweet, sensitive, closeted gay Chad used a song about communication to communicate with me. I remember the end part, the calllll meeeeeeee part, and how, even though I'd heard the song hundreds of times on our trips to Ann Arbor, suddenly it was all new and held much deeper meaning. He wanted me to call him!!! The ball was now in my court!!! Oh happy happy joy joy!!! He regreted the freshman thespian chick!!! I can somehow find it in my heart to forgive him!!! The new year’s gonna be great! I can’t want to get back from Canada and call Chad!!!
I didn't yet fully understand homosexuality or that Chad was struggling with his sexual identity. I thought this tape meant we were going to go steady and maybe even go to the prom. Ahem. Not that I wanted to go to prom. Lame. Super lame. But if I had to go to prom I’d want to go with Chad because he’d think it’s lame, too, and we could make fun of it together. We’d go to prom ironically.
I did call him. We patched things up, reached a détente.
But it was never the same. There was a distance between us, now. He was less interested in new guitar bands and more interested in synth dance bands. He put up a poster of Duran Duran in his locker.
And I became more aware of homosexuality. Chad was different. I didn't realize it in high school, I just thought he was weird like me. But when he came out three years later (in college, when I was a lot more savvy and sexually aware) I wasn't surprised.
What was my first clue? That he liked Frankie Goes to Hollywood, always had perfectly moussed hair, wore three polo shirts layered with collars standing up or that he was a thespian and in the chorus? It was a small town. We didn't do gay. We repressed it. I just thought he was different from other guys. Oh yes, he was.
We didn’t go to prom. Or rather, I didn’t go to prom. Ironically or otherwise.
Chad went with the freshman thespian jezebel. He called me three times that night from a payphone at the dance. The freshman thespian jezebel wanted to go out to the lake to a kegger and an all nighter at Jeff Larson’s parents’ cabin. Chad didn’t want to do that. The last phone call he made to me from prom went something like this,
“Hi. It’s me again. This is really super lame. You’re so lucky you’re not here. And there’s this kegger out at the lake, at Jeff Larson’s parents’ cabin. I don’t want to go but if you do I could come by and pick you up.”
“Uh, riiiiiight. You, me and (freshman thespian jezebel) at a prom night kegger at the lake. Um, don’t think so. And I don’t think that’s what (freshman thespian jezebel) has in mind, either.”
“She said she’s ready to have sex.”
“With you or in general?”
“I think with whomever will give it to her.”
“Go for it, dude.”
Laughs unconvincingly, “Riiiight, like I’m going to fuck a freshman!!!”
Like he was going to fuck a girl.
Chad took me to see Elvis Costello the night after prom. I know. Weird. I guess it was a consolation prize for not going to prom. I had a newly minted driver’s license and my parents let me drive to the concert. I guess it was a consolation prize for not going to prom.
That night when I dropped him off at his parents’ house we had our lone, awkward, not so pleasant kiss. By this time I was down to a permanent retainer on my lower teeth. (I left the removable upper retainer at home for the Elvis occasion.) So, you know, all systems go teeth-wise. But even so Chad’s purse-lipped kiss caused his teeth to mash against mine and scrape my lips. I should mention that I was about three inches taller than Chad, so that made things a little, um, well, complicated, you know, inexperience kiss-wise. Chad was not exactly a man of the world used to many varieties and sizes of women and I was certainly not accustomed to kissing boys. Chad even made a perfunctory attempt at copping a feel. I was pretty sure it was more for my benefit than his. I knew this because I didn’t push him away, I was willing to let him have a touch, but he didn’t pursue it further. Maybe it was because I was wiping his slobber off my chin or because my acting skills were no match to his and I was clearly not enjoying his slobbering, weakly groping moves.
Which is why a tiny part of me worries that I might have played a role in his homosexuality. If I'd been more experienced I could have turned that not so pleasant kiss around and made that boy a man (yeah, riiiight) but instead I just wiped his slobber off my chin and tried to mask my surprise at how unpleasant the kiss was by pretending to be all flustered and nervous. I couldn't make him a man, but, I could have been more "sensitive" to his bad kissing and feel copping ineptitude. I didn't laugh at him, but I didn't exactly nurture and encourage him, either. Frankly I was just too stunned at how bad it was to do anything other than try to be polite.
But that freshman jezebel probably played a bigger role...Chad was sweet. Sensitive. Quirky. Polite. She was bossy and loud, wore too much make up and affected a Joan Crawford accent. I’m guessing she spends weekends in costume at Renaissance Festivals, now.
I was just disaffected, confused, socially awkward, dorky and weird. I’m unemployed and spend weekends drinking and going to concerts when I can get free tickets, now.
But I got the mix-tape and the Elvis Costello concert, not her. Score one for disaffected, confused, socially awkward dorky weird girls.
