Thursday, December 30, 2010

Stuck It




Imagine Ralphy from the movie, "A Christmas Story," with his tongue stuck to a flag pole, mumbling, "Stuuuuck."

That's exactly how I sounded this morning, only I wasn't stuck to a flag pole; my mouth had frozen shut after 10 minutes of shoveling off my car in the balmy 2 degree weather.

I sat in the drivers seat after trying to reverse, brake, forward, brake and shifting my weight to try and rock the car out of it's parking spot. That's funny. My "parking spot" was on sheer ice surrounded by 5 inches of snow. It was as if I had parked in the middle of Milacs Lake and was about to go ice fishing—from the driver's seat.

Putting the car in park, I looked out the windshield and noticed it was snowing harder than before.

"Stuuuuck." I said, or was it something else.

I got out of the car and went back inside, not caring how cattywampus it looked next to the curb. I had enough snow in my boots to frost bite an army and still couldn't move my mouth.

"Stuuck it." I mumbled and called work.

Pretty embarrassing for a Minnesotan to get her car stuck in the snow, isn't it?

I thought so, too. So, I googled how to get rear-wheel drive car unstuck, and got a multitude of remedies.

None of which I felt like attempting in a blizzard. Not to mention that I don't own snow-chains, have a rope or tree to tie it to (yeah, I read that physics solution, too), have a bag of salt/kitty litter or the patience to get the car unstuck, only to get it stuck again on the unplowed roads.

How a city of 100,000 people functions with only one snow-plow—presumably shared with the neighboring small towns—is beyond me. But if they would like to drive me to work, that'd be swell.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Sure, Blame Me

In my month of retail experiance, I've encountered many a surly customer. Some blame you for not having the ability to slow time, while others think that it's your fault that the jeans seem (haha seam) too short for the designated size of 29 Short. Let me get on the phone here, whoops, dial 9 first, and get in contact Brazlie in Guatemala, who sews—mostly chinsy—denim for 11 cents an hour, and I will see how much he cares.

Even more customers blame sales associates for their malfunctioning printed-from-my-home-shitty-pc e-mail, "10% off shopping pass coupons." Frankly, it's not my freaking fault.

Please talk to Customer Service. What's that? You're on a hurry? You don't have time? And, oh my, you already said that 5 times? I know you already said that 5 times!

I'm giving you a solution to your damned problem. You need not remind me, again, that you're in a hurry.

It doesn't help.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Pumpkin Ball




I've started to refer to basketball as Pumpkin Ball. And, not to bury the lead, let's face it, I hate Pumpkin Ball. Who wants a pumpkin thrown at them anyways? It's scary.

That being said, I've created a list of reasons why I hate basketball. Did you know that my boyfriend's family is in love with basketball? I only bring this up because one, blogging is my only outlet for what should remain unspoken irritations, and two, I will be meeting them again next week. We will probably even go to a pumpkin ball game, too. Not that I have a problem cheering, it's just that high school games don't serve beer, then again it is Montana, so here's hoping.

Reason # 1. The squeaking shoes. Nuff' said.

Reason # 2. The technicalities. So many rules! I always scream at the tv when watching football (Screw you, Favre, but go Vikings). because the reffs won't let them play the game. Basketball is like ballerinas tossing a pumpkin around while doing quantum physics. White board? Seriously?

Reason # 3. It simply isn't violent enough. Basketball was the first sport I played, and I was always sitting out because I fouled out for decking people. I still find myself asking, why can't you knock someone over for the pumpkin?

Reason # 4. Pumpkin Ball lacks any real-life skills or application. At least in football or hockey you learn how to fight? How the hell is putting a pumpkin in a net going to perpetuate humanity? At least throwing and swinging a bat are forms of self-defense.

Reason # 5. Although I respect the athletes and their ability to perform pumpkin ballet or whatever, I do not respect the basketball groupies. They're just annoying. Especially girls who figured they should like a sport, so they chose basketball. Trying to impress boys with specific team allegiance morphed into romanticizing 6'7 basketball players and thus eventually naming pets after their favorite player, i.e., "this is my toy poodle, Colby." Hmm, Colby, isn't that a cheese?

Monday, October 4, 2010

Hating The Process

"Let's see, white, check, female, check, no, I'm not a felon, but if this simple automated application lasts any longer I might just become a felon... diabled? not yet..."


Yes, I just wasted another two hours of my life filling out an, "easy automated job application." And by wasted, I mean that the company will probably never even e-mail much less call me or, hell, even read my damn application. Automated, my ass.

Maybe it's because I use a big-fancy iMac, but every time I try to upload my awesome CV or resume' I receive a, "failed to load" page. No, your server is not too busy, I will not check back later—I'm just too awesome for your server. That's right. I checked that self-confidence box on your "assessment" (which took another 43 minutes and 19 second of my life.

That's ok, though, I'm sure it was precious time I would've spent working for people who do not wish to work. Well, I do wish to work, world.

I want to have the pre-work dread. Then I can yell at myself to be grateful for employment. But, alas, I'm a slave to the automated process...

I'd like to think that most people find me charming and likable, but, it is difficult to see that on a stupid application.
if they won't interview me, how will they become susceptible to my thrall and irresistibility?

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Embrace Your Inner Zucchini



Bear is reading a chapter about Logical Atomism in my Twentieth Century Philosophy book and I just made a xylophone out of the zucchini on the counter. Shortly after that, my mom phoned her friend to invite herself and my father over. Without me. Shrug. I'm not at all ashamed that i like to embrace my inner zucchini.

Patrick told me that Bear's English is improving and that he is becoming easier to understand and I said it was because of cultural immersion.. same sort of thing happened with the zucchini—they've become a part of me, literally and figuratively. T'was a fruity transubstanciacion, if you will. Zucchini appears everywhere now, like I'm seeing ghosts or something. Not to mention the kitchen counter space has decreased by 60%.

Four months of this, and I finally figured, if you can't beat em' (or eat em') join em'!

P.S. Two words: Zucchini Beer.

Prose. Political prose.




It's been a while since I've had a good ol' political rant...

GIVE ME BACK MY COUNTRY!

There, I said it.

Take your cussing hammer and sickle and get the cuss out of my country! I hate you, Mr. Obama, I hate you and the cluster-cuss havoc you bring, I hate you with every fiber of my being. Stop spending, stop cussing talking, I hate your pompous voice—actually, wait, keep talking! because every-time you open your mouth, you lose supporters. It's all cussing Milton's devil-esque rhetoric.

We the people, are not stupid. We the people, yes that's right, INDIVIDUALS—who this country is made of— will repeal your stupid socialist healthcare bill. We will win in November. Then we will sleep. Then we will party.

Friday, August 20, 2010

We Should Probably Eat That

"What are we going to do with the rice tonight?" Asked my mom, and before anyone could say "zucchini?" or eye the green monster on the kitchen counter I blurted out, "creamy rice, like we do with the pheasant, hey do we have any birds left?"

"Yeah, we have one left... we should probably eat that..." She replied.
"We should probably eat that, what if that were the title to a cooking show?" I asked.

I was watching Project Runway last night, and they did this episode with material from a party store, like Dollar Tree or something. Which is better than the earlier episodes when they used trash, but still, I'm thinking that if people can wear leftovers, why not be artistic in a culinary vein, too?

Just Sayin;.

Tune in next time for, "We Should Probably Eat That!"

Monday, August 2, 2010

Job Safari? Bring Your Gun (And Lawyer)




To put it simply, being a recent college grad is terrifying. As if the, "real world's" noxiousness wasn't enough, nor the vision of that student loan amount dancing in my head at night—mocking me—scaring the sheep and my sleep away wasn't enough, nor my parents constant concern of finding employment for themselves hanging in the air like a balmy Minnesota July afternoon wasn't enough, no, no, no, I've grown accustomed to that prison, what IS enough, what recent aggravating circumstance finally crossed the zucchini-peel-thin line? Job scammers.

That's right, it's difficult enough to find an entry-level anything that doesn't involve Avon, or fast food, but these worms, no, these snakes slither the job websites looking for naive, yet hopeful, prey, like myself. "Entry level sales/marketing," is really a door-to-door coupon book scam. See for yourselves: Scam.

Well, you rat bastards, I stay silent no more. I will expose you asses for the lying, disgusting, life sucking, souless dragons that you are. You make my ex-wife look like an angry puppy. Stop making my job safari more difficult than it already is. The only thing stopping me from reciprocating your harassment is my mood stabilizers. * shakes bottle of pills *

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

"We Need More Hairspray & Spuds... and Beer"




Mmm Cheez-its... symbolism is tasty. You know what else would be tasty? Platypus egg omelets... with zebra sausage. Yum. What?? Animal print is in! A few months back I—theoretically—paired wines with domesticated animals... shiraz would go nicely with kitten.

Speaking of redneck cooking methods, during the northern Wisconsin 4th festivities, after mastering skeet shooting frisbees with potatoes, my Marine cousin upped the ante and killed a red-squirrel with a potato gun. Boy, that shaved a hell of a lot of time off dinner prep not having to cook them taters, though, the meat was a bit bruised...

After a while we ran out of hairspray—White Rain works the best—and spuds... and beer... So, God Bless Wisconsin, we went to the local grocery store, and not only did they have food and cosmetics, they had a full selection of liquor.

Our final shopping list?

Potatoes
Hairspray
Beer
Gin
Vodka
Mike's

To tope off the red-neckery, my cousin and I poured vodka and capri-suns into travel mugs and watched the fireworks. Still looking for the poetry in that. I'll just say, cuss yeah.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Newness



I have moved home—through rain, and snow and emotional tumult. I have a new boyfriend and he is wonderful. Just thought you all should know. :)

Thursday, May 6, 2010

I Figured Out (how to) Time Travel!



"It hasn't been as warm as last month." I said to my mother about a week ago. "Well, as long as it doesn't snow." She replied. Thanks, Mom.


Well, maybe not, but it sure feels like December... So, I'm playing cello in a praise band for RMC's Baccalaureate, we were going to play, "How Great Thou Art," but given the recent jump back to December, I think we should change the song to, "Sleigh Ride."

Merry Christmas!

Friday, April 23, 2010

The Rocky Mountain Ward




I have often speculated that the deceptively benign and charming Rocky Mountain College is truly in disguise a social psychological experiment gone wrong, very wrong. The subjects of said experiment have been relocated and released onto the campus—much like British criminals were shipped to Australia. Upon arrival, they infect the campus with mental disease. Just as maggots seek out a bloody gazelle carcass on the Serengeti, the Rocky students seek out new situations to devour.

The Rocky Mountain College campus is a cesspool of maladaptive, self-destructive, self-abusive, sadistic and masochistic behavior, where Borderline Personality Disorder and Bi-Polar Disorder reign.

The cesspool always morphs into a whirlpool swirling with bad—yet conscious—decision-making patterns forcing the once sane students to succumb to currents of drama and unwillingly partake in idle gossip, plots and the like. By the time graduation rolls around, the rapids have insured that the students’ minds and souls are sufficiently scratched and broken. RMC doesn’t need Sororities or Fraternities because it is overflowing with stupid initiation tests and unholy standards of popularity.

But, I digress for that is what was once speculated, but the events of the last few months have taken out and shot speculation.

I’ve come to the obstinate conclusion that almost everyone on this campus is out-patient—or would it be in-patient? I don’t know, but they aren’t going to get me! Well, they probably ARE going to get me since there ain’t enough whisky or boot shaped shot glasses in Montana to drown the insanity and persistence of this drama.

I’ve been listening to Les Miserables lately just to feel better about myself—just to be able to think, hey at least I’m not a French revolutionary wench that dies cross-dressed in the arms of a man who will never return my affection. Life could be worse. Ah, I feel better already. Or maybe it’s the Ativan I take for my anxiety…

I can no longer pity some of my friends because they are consciously and intentionally acting stupid. I’ve become desensitized to this and just react with cold rationality and criticism. No wonder my face has been replaced with dotting, naïve sympathetic faces—even though I was once esteemed for my empathy and integrity.

Is it Graduation yet?

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The Nature Snob





In my years as a college student, I have encountered countless academic snobs; specifically, as an English Major, the Literary Snobs, “this has 6 different meanings, and you sure as hell better reference all of them in your paper or I will give you a C… and Whitman is NOT a sex poet, well not completely… “ as well as the Grammar Snobs, who are elitist even when it comes to poetry. They lob comments from, “your comma usage is appalling,” to, “your comma use is non-existent,” to, “I disagree with your Jihad on commas.”

The Math and Science snobs are a little more sufferable, for they only fix me with sardonic glares and ooze, “I’m smarter than you,” with their bloodshot eyes. The Athletic Snobs are unequivocally different than the aforementioned factions, for their snobbery is a strange reversal on the traditional term, “snob.”

These brassy specimens simply shun anyone who is well dressed, and or does not play some collegiate sport—and if they are male, they shun the other males on campus for not being man whores. Oddly, Athletic Snobs are more prone to appear at smaller schools with mediocre athletic programs.

There is a breed of snob, however, more horrible and—fathoms—leagues—more snobby than Academics or Athletes. I discovered this new strain in my studies out West, where, though hundreds of miles away, the Rockies seem to tower and swell on the horizon, and even the wind seems to respect their wildness and wiliness.

And just who, or should I say, what is this snob? Why, it is The Nature Snob, who is usually an Environmental Science Major, or a former Environmental Science Major, who changed to Business, because it proved more lucrative—giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, “go green.”

Whatever their collegiate focus, though, the Nature Snob usually grew up in the backwoods, or near Yellowstone National Park, but essentially was raised in the woods, and despite this, still understands that North Face is an acceptable brand of outerwear. This is probably because, in high school, the Nature Snob worked part-time at Cabella’s or Sportsman Warehouse and has an acute knowledge of every single catalogue item.

All of this seems well and good; I mean it’s charming isn’t it? Growing up on the side of a mountain, re-enacting The Sound of Music without a green screen, it’s kind of endearing, right? WRONG. You grew up in nature, big deal, whoop-dee-do, you don’t have to be a snob about it.

The Type One Nature Snob (N1) remains incredibly sweet and pure until, that is, they emerge from the confines of the wilderness and get lost in the much dissimilar collegiate jungle of orgasms and booze. I guess, psychologically speaking, I can understand why their snobbery is clung to in vain like mashed potatoes in an F-4 twister.

The rarer Type Two Nature Snob (N2) was usually raised in suburbia, nowhere near the Rockies, but despite that, at a young age tasted the sweet elixir of wilderness adventure, whether in Boy Scouts or Youth Group or whatever it was, they became hooked. Once Nature was on the palate, they sought every single opportunity to indulge and “rough it,” and this led them to attempt to live with a foot in both worlds.

At least Academic & Athletic Snobs can, with some authority, say that no one else can perform in their field of study as well as they can, for Cognitive Intelligence and even Bodily-Kinesthetic: intelligence are measurable to a degree. But The Nature Snob is bereft of ethos and usually logos, too.

Their snobbery surfaces in the mind, you see, the Nature Snob, doesn’t think, but knows that only the Nature Snob can successfully navigate both worlds—the epitome of Elitism.. Hell, some of em’ even claim they’d rather live in the woods like Tarzan. And some should live in the woods, given their sculpted physiques. I digress. Combine N1 with N2, who will get along very well, and you have your campus a mighty faction of snobs.

Interacting with them is like being trapped in West Side Story. Due to too many ropes course classes, they have a hive mentality. This gang-like animalistic behavior is above all else, extremely irritating. Nature Snobs are also usually Pinko Commies and if not, then they probably hunt, so watch out they have guns, lots and lost of unregistered guns.

Perhaps it is my own fault for not going on any school sponsored outdoor rec. activities, but, my reasoning for this was because I knew I’d kill someone. Still, because of my isolation from the Nature Sobs, I have been labeled as a snob, myself. Oh yes, I don’t look outdoorsy, so I could not possibly be outdoorsy. “You just don’t seem like you could make it on a hike, you don’t seem like the nature type. You're a city girl.” Thanks. Thank you very much for being prejudice and judgmental.

I’ll have you know, I CAN hack it in the woods, true, I’m best near water, but I grew up in Minnesota, spending half my time in the North Woods. Just cause’ I don’t brag about it… I mean, seriously, you judge me because I look put together?? You should really join the Olympic long-jump team if you can leap that far to conclusions.

And furthermore, I could so out-hike your ass—and probably in heels, too. It’s called natural athleticism, and I have oodles of it. I enjoy nature, damnit, just not when nature is inside and no, that doesn’t make me prissy; it makes me civilized.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

P.E.T.I.




Being a college student for the next 4 weeks I've decided to enroll myself in some sort of non-GOP affiliated activism, so I have founded P.E.T.I.— People for the Ethical Treatment of Interns.

This organization is not to be confused with the word "petty," mostly because P.E.T.I. only has one "t." And though most internships are simply petty and/or rape the respected University of 3-12 credits, mine wasn't. I digress.

Henceforth, there shall be a limit of one intern to a cubicle/office and a mandatory coffee break everyday from 3:30-4:00 pm, and last but certainly not least; there shall be no eating of interns.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Sangria Montana Style



In other news, I make kick-ass Sangria—I only wish we'd had boot-shaped glasses, oh well, next time.

Joy's Punch
1 bottle of cheap cabernet
2 oranges, sliced and squeezed, added to mixture
1 lemon, cut in wedges, squeezed and added to mixture
half bottle of ginger-ale
half bottle of brandy
lots of ice
4 absinthe sugar cubes
Stir with a knife.
Mix in silver pitcher, serve in 1950s crystal tumblers.
Enjoy your hangover!

"I like how she's not drinking her own Sangria, it's really good though!"


WIN.

Hats: A Crowning Success




"I love your hat, when I was a girl I worked in a hat shop and oh did I have hats! I also had 32 pairs of high heels. But, when I got pregnant, I fell down the stairs in my heels and after that my husband burned them all, " she said pausing to peel the room with elderly and somber eyes, "it took weeks to get over."


It never ceases to amaze me how far the world has turned. My mom and I always wear hats on Easter Sunday, and sometimes Palm Sunday. The more elaborate the hat, the more we're winning. Though 832.5 miles away from mom, I continue this tradition—and quite frankly, it made my new church stir. I was even asked to help with the procession, "we're letting women do that now?" Said the usher, sarcastically, "well, you are an Apostate church," I retorted, "I think any church that does not allow a nice young lady in an Easter bonnet to carry in the cross, they are an Apostate church," interjected the pastor. Win.

This might sound superstitious and a bit puerile, but, I write better when I'm wearing a hat—specifically my black $5 cowboy hat, that is sun-bleached from living in the back window of Thundytoes, my car. If Scotch is a hug that you drink, a hat is a hug that you wear, for your head. (I should really write for the SAT people).

Whenever I feel sad or angry or upset in general, I always go visit the hats at the department store. I just feel better with them all around me. That and they all look good on me—they accept me. The hat section at Macy's is like my Tiffany's. (I wonder how much the SAT people pay?) When I put on a hat I feel special. Wow, I just typed that, but I mean it.

Random thought as I just saw an unfortunate looking dog pass by in the street, I wonder if ugly dogs know that they're ugly? I'm sure cats do, because cats are vain. This brings me back to the Dufflepuds in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

I'm having thoughts all at once now. Shoe was right, "people accuse me of having my thoughts all at once—but really they come one after another, but you, Naomi, you really do have them all at once." :)

Sunday, April 4, 2010

My Bible Has A Heartbeat




Christ the Lord is risen today—alleluia! He is alive—God is alive, and I refuse to keep Him in a neat fundamentalism-box! After a marathon of church (Thursday-Sunday) this week, I've began to feel real again—the realness C.S. Lewis described in The Great Divorce. Sometimes Lutrens (ya sure) scoff at the whole Faith by Reason deal and I suspect that is because often times churches ignore the liturgy, glaze over the meaningful aspects of being in Christ and the — quite literal — fire of God.


Easter Vigil will never be the same for me. Shoe procured a fire pit from an undisclosed location and we lit that puppy up like a good old hick fire. The Candle of Life was lit by this fire (see pictures), but unfortunately, maybe it was God's little joke, but there was about a 40 knot wind coming from, well, everywhere. We weren't so concerned about lighting the church on fire as much as lighting the pastor and assistant pastor on fire. It took all four pastors to light the stupid candle. Although flaming white robes would've been very dramatic, I think we prefer our clergy un-singed as well as un-hinged.

Shoe always brings exuberance and realness to his sermons and last night's did not waver in the howling wind nor in the face of the modern-fundamentalist evangelical-Christians and quite frankly the world. One of the things I love most about Bethlehem Lutheran is that they juxtapose relevant and prevalent issues into High Church—even on high Holy days—this is the modern Christianity that the world needs, not a rock show.

In my four or so months of attending Bethlehem Lutheran church, I have come to feel again, both joy, terror and Christ's strong, scared hand engulfing mine. So often we ignore the sprouting faith within us, as I have for some time, being churchless and all, but to turn our backs to the voice and Grace of God is just silly, and selfish.

Today leaves me feeling that my allegiance—my faith—to Christ has been re-affirmed and re-secured. And it is a good feeling. Happy Easter from the Lutrerns, ya sure!

Monday, March 29, 2010

Flip A Switch?



Letting something go should be as easy as flipping a switch, but it isn't. Neither is trusting, believing nor hoping. But we should all do so. I should've been less defensive, but I wasn't—but that's my personality. True. Lately, things have surfaced in ugly and unexpected ways, like a cancer—not the Zodiac, because Cancer's are alright. Wink.

What's thoroughly interesting, though, is that those who most think others should "let go" and easily so, are the ones causing the scenarios to be let go of. Or, they're the ones observing and not quite understanding what's going on.

Note: when God tells you to let something be, just do it. Nike.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Tenderized Me



I'm as tender as a peeled grape. I'm broken. This campus has finally gotten to me and I have snapped. The caged animal mentality has passed, lashing out is no more for I am now as a kitten rolled over on my back in vile submission to the dog that is the world. That was quite possibly the worst sentence/comparison I have ever written. I'm with it enough to recognize that, a step in the right direction.

No jazz for me tonight. Not even with the bribe of martinis. I can't hold it together around people. There is a sense of calm associated with losing it, though, I can stop fighting my emotions now. It's like the day after the election, when we're just all glad it's over. Now to rebuild the country within me. My writing improves.

Playing my cello is the only thing I seem to want to do. Tonight I ate an actual meal though, no more oranges for dinner. I need sustenance. The scriptures and cello feed my soul only I can feed my cells.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

I Can't Ignore How Similar Loneliness and Hunger Are

I can't ignore how similar loneliness and hunger are.

Loneliness for an introvert is unbearable. As unbearable as the broiler setting would be to an ice cube—a different environment. I used to think of "keeping my sense of humor" as a strength. It's not, at least, not anymore. It's a mask—a shroud. Why cant I cry? Because I laugh, often maniacally. Now I find myself weeping on a "Sunsational" Saturday morning, I've lost the humor. I'm so Goddamn lonely and can't do a thing about it. So, let my hair down and go on and cry? OK. Check.

What does it solve, nothing. What does sleeping solve? Nothing. WHy sleep when you can worry? Worrying is, by nature, selfish, though, for we should trust God in all we do. Do you know how hard that is? What will become of me in life? What the hell have I done besides mess up after mess up? I don't even have a friend I could call right now. Not that I'm the "call you crying" type. No, which is why men love me. That, and my wit.

But wit is but a feather in my mask. I use it when I flirt and become vulnerable. I use it when I feel sad or * gasp * lonely. I use it when I'm nervous. One hell of a defense mechanism, don't you think? Reaction formation? I become witty when I come unglued, for wit is tight, calm, cool togetherness. I use it when I write these stupid blogs to keep from being "too emotional" or complaining. I hate complainers, but I hate false people even more-so.

Don't be fooled by my calm visage—I've been false. I've been hiding.

I hide behind the "I hate people" image, so many "friends" think I actually subscribe to, I don't hate people and I am not socially inept. I find most people iritating and FALSE. I want real, lasting, truthful realationships, but I do not find them. Howcan I be so open when I seek and do not find? Tell me, my extroverted social geniuses. Tell me.

I do not have a need to please everyone, or to have everyone accept me, but to paint me as "anti-social" or "depressed" or whatever, is just plain wrong. I hate it. I don't care if you like me, but please don't think that, anything but that. Children are the same story, I do not want them, and no it won't change when I have my own, because I'm not going to. Blah blah blah. I do not like them. Do I hate them, no. Do I hate anyone? No.

I just want to rest. I want to go home, but even home isn't really home anymore.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Poetry > Rage

It took me a while to channel my rage into poetry, it helps that the Writing Competition due date is tomorrow. Here goes...

“Coward”
By: N. Myrick

I simply shake my head at you —
sifting Voltaire,
and off of your Vanity,
peeling layer
after odious layer.

Noxious waves flow —
from your deceitful hole.
Your Silver tongue spews,
blames and excuses.
It penetrates my nostrils, ears and bones.

So flee, coward, to your layer —
stew in blackest dank and putrescence.
And concerning wrath and ware,
you’ll be in my prayers.
Your heart so full of fear.


And for the ex-wife, of course...

“An A Flat Major Kind of Day”
By: N. Myrick

It’s an A Flat Major kind of day.
The landscape entombed by apathetic snow.
Frost fills the inside of my small vessel.
As an already dank morning sits on my head,
sinking claws of still dissipating wine into my scalp.
All fibers forebode betrayal—my unconscious stirs.

My head swims as I re-enter our happy home,
And there you sit, perched frozen in icy guilt.
Barely look at me — go ahead and
pull the strings of your puppet dad—
or the boyfriend figure with dumb beady eyes.
Do I not look surprised?

It’s an A flat major kind of day.
An ugly key in which we play.
Beautiful, sorrowful, though,
sharp tones and major falls paint our trials,
with indubitable plotted perfection.
Marks the beginning of downward progression.

Returned again upon sunlit afternoon reeling ambushed rejection,
steamy eyes, searching for a couch on which to cry.
But the floors are as barren, as your heart is for me.
Upon discovery, you both emerge and smile audaciously.
Nodding in repugnant realization I exit,
the human fiends — leaving them to dragonish subsistence.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

The Montana Difference



Just taking a break from trying to sunburn the back of myself to match. Re-reading—for the 15th time—Nicholas Evans, The Horse Whisperer, and finding myself tearing. Or maybe that's sweat. It is HOT out. 72 already and we've got another two hours of heating and 3 inches of snow on the way. See for yourself. Behold, the Montana Difference.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

My Burn Burns




By 1030 this morning, it was 65 degrees outside and I do believe it was still 70 at 1800. Needless to say, I spent all afternoon reading outside and ultimately, sun-burning. A lot. I beat last years record of April 1st, though, I just didn't think I'd burn this badly. And people wonder why i always have aloe at the ready. But alas, the warm wind blowing through my toes and the wispy white clouds sifting in and out of cerulean blue sky, made it well worth the burn.

I've been playing cello everyday for a while now, sometimes in the music building, sometimes not. I'm actually improving even if I'm just dinking around. I also have a feeling my legs will soon match the stain of the wood. Oh well, it's supposed to snow on Friday—such is life here in Montana.

That's all I've got. I'm going to go slather myself with aloe now.

Monday, March 8, 2010

If Someone Asks if You Want a Fork, Say Yes.



Today started well enough, I awoke at 0730 with a small jazz hangover. (Win). I did my laundry, had some cookies, you know the usual Monday. Right? WRONG. It all started at Verizon Wireless...

"My phone broke, again—it won't charge."
"Oh, weird, says you just got one 4 weeks ago."
"I know, it broke again."
"Well this is getting expensive for us, you should bring in your charger and we'll replace it. I can ship you a new phone by THursday."
"Cool, thanks."


Then David's Bridal...

"Hello, I recieved an e-mail notification that my order came in."
"What's the brides name?"
"Magnuson."
"How do you spell that?"
"Umm... m-a-g-n-u-s-o-n."
"Are you the bride?"
"No, but thanks."
"And what's your name?"
"Naomi.—N-a-o-m-i."
"Hmm, ok, let me go grab that."


5 minutes later...

"What's the last name?"
"Myrick."


Three Minutes later

"Huh."



2 Minutes later

"Oh, the sash is in, not the dress."
"Ok, well can i come back when the dress is here, too?"
"Yes, it says it's on the truck."
"I'll just come back, thank you."


On my way home, I decided to get a small deli salad, to celebrate the onslaught of summer, so I stopped at Albertson's on 24th and Central.

"May I please have a small Ceazer Salad?"
"Would you like a fork?"
"No thanks, I'm on my way home."


At the register...

"You know we have forks, don't you? You want one?"
"No thanks, I'm like two minutes from home."


So, I get to the car, and it won't start. Naturally, I walked back into Albertson's and asked for a fork and ate my salad. Two hours and three phone calls later, Hans, had joined me to wait for the tow truck and in leu of paper, I had scrawled Montana AAA's number on my knee.

"Why do you have a car and driver magazine?"
"I like to look at the pictures."


Around 1440 the tow truck shows up, the driver stays on his cell phone all the while chaining my car to the truck. He ends his call, looks me up and down (yes I know I look like Ford Focus Barbie) and asks what's wrong.

"Like I know, man—it won't start and that's enough information for me. "


Thundytoes was then towed to Pro-Tech, where Hans and I waited another good 15 min. until we finally procured a clueless mechanic from the garage.

"Hi, I'm Naomi, I got the Focus, I called earlier, I've brought my car here via tow-truck because it won't start."
"SO, you're bringing in a car?"
"Yeah, I just did."
"Oh, well it's here then?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It won't start."
"Huh, well here write down your information."


He says, handing me the peice of paper that Rick already wrote my info on.

"This IS my information."
"Oh, so, what happened to your car?"
"It will turn over, but won't start, it seems like the fuel injector is dying."
"Ok, give me the key."
"Here."
"When do you think you'll have an assessment?"
"Probably won't even look at her til' tomorrow."


Exit Naomi and Hans.

SO, if someone asks if you want a fork, say yes, it's likely they know something that you don't.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Where's An Orca When You Need One?



MY neighbor, "The Party," is really getting out of hand with consistent parties that begin at 1am and end around 5am. I'm tempted to ducktape a small stuffed animal whale to his door with a note that says, "you've been warned."

OK, that was insensitive, it's tragic, blah blah blah. Whales are evil etc. But seriously, what did they think was going to happen? A whale is a 12 ton beast, void of sentience. I doubt that it was a Murder One deal. Shamoo (or whatever its name is) did not spend the last 16 years, swimming around plotting to kill his trainer. He didn't wake up and say, "Today's the day!" No, that's crazy. And if he did, i am staying far away from the ocean.

Zoos are really depressing. As you've probably surmised from my previous post, I'm not about to join PETA or anything. All I'm saying is that animals are beats, and retain their wildness and wiliness. We hold only a sense of control over them, this is most simply evidenced by the fact that we have to cage them for our own entertainment. We market this watered-down version of nature and ultimately limit the creatures and it pisses me off.

This could easily segway into something about Lent and being captive to fructose corn syrup, or segway into marketing murder pills (Plan B) the same way we cage and market animals. Don't worry, it won't. :)

Last night at Jazz, a good friend of mine presented a spot on and painfully accurate assessment of me—I don't like to lose. I've been awake since 6 am struggling with what he said, "I think, you just don't like to lose." His words were simple, but the thought was profound. When did I become so vain—so despicably vain! I am most disgusted with myself. All morning I've been trying to "win" and talk myself out of this.

I feel as if I should've curtailed this long ago. What is ethical about wanting to win all the time? Winning at the expense of others? Winning at the expense of friends? There is nothing morally obligatory or permissible about that mentality. Who am I to want to win, to deserve to win? Wining only enforces my vanity. This is where my tendency to fight rages out of control.

I've always been a proponent of not necessarily caring if I win or lose—at least rationally—because I'd rather be right. Although, my behavior does not always reflect this.

I think having a competitive nature is a survival skill, but a skill on which I often rely too heavily. Maybe I should've given up vanity and not vengeance for Lent. I need an orca to kill my vanity.

So, where is an orca when you need one?

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Shiraz Would Go Nicely With Kitten




SO, I've been pairing wines with domesticated animals, "peppery, I bet cat tastes peppery!" Sinewy, too. I'm not sadistic and they eat dog in Korea, after all. (Non-sequitur?) What culture eats cat, anyway? None.

Andy thinks that Malbec would go with puppy, but I disagree. Puppy is too gamy. Perhaps a buttery Chard to compliment the after-taste of frisbee and cricket? Besides, Malbec needs to be paired with some creature that also naturally exists at elevations higher than 1,000 feet, like, oh, I don't know, goat. Does Mimosa go with hamster? Sure! This is Fun!

One time, Shoe and I gave his cat a White Russian, it was funny. NOW, I'm sadistic and probably going to hell. Interestingly enough, most people I've interviewed do not believe in hell. When I'm trying to satisfy an acquaintance's or stranger's or over-emotional friend's satiation for warm fuzzy feelings, I adhere to that "there is no hell—yay existentialism!" school of thought, too.

I have, however met a few despicable people who convinced me that, if I am to leave vengeance up to the Lord, there must in fact be some sort of hell. And I admit that his mentality is in it of itself vengeful, but it is also mean, right? Just like being ethical is mean. Thirsting for justice is wrong. Let's just ignore what C.S. Lewis said, "Mercy without justice, grows unmerciful." Justice requires critical thinking, and re-evaluation of paradigms, that's just a lot of work, isn't it?

The Culture of Feelings, is also a culture of laziness, and ignorance.

When and why did we become a Culture of Feelings? I've grown real tired of it. Moral obligation—even moral permissibility—has been completely dismantled and incinerated in some cases. I don't have a whole lot of emotion, maybe I use reason as an escape from this suffocating environment of perky—and obviously—medicated people. I really need some air.

Besides, I just ate my body weight in trail mix (thanks, Mom) it's time for a walk.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Bazaar, Nazis & Lemons




This morning, I was awakened at 0235 by my neighbors yelling and blasting their music. I am not sure why this corner of the building stirs so frequently in the 0200-0400 hours, but I don't like it. In fact, I feel a tad bit shanghaied. Despite sleep deprivation, though, I must say that I look like I just stepped out of Harper's Bazaar—too bad this campus hates fashion. Go to class in my pajamas, you say? No, thanks—I'd be naked. I digress.

Last week, maintenance was changing my smoke detector batteries, and the first thing they asked was, "how is it going with all of your neighbor's beer pong parties—that guy trashes every room he stays in—you should see the carpets! I hope someone warned you about this room, he is the reason no one wanted to live in this room."

No, no one warned me. Gee, thanks RMC housing, you keep me on my toes. Last year after you illegally searched my purse and bags, I began to view those people as a smaller Nazi Germany, but now, I've realized that it is more of a used car salesman mentality. "Here, have this lemon of a room. Oddly, it's been vacant all year."

I should get a discount. I mean, imagine if this apartment was property sold to me by a party that had full knowledge of the eye-sore (ear-sore) neighbors? I think that would be unethical, if not illegal. But then again, "morally obligatory" seems to mean less and less these days.

And I'm not making an extreme proposal of re-pricing rooms within an apartment complex, according to location, and view of the Rockies (I have a great view, by the way). I am, however, proposing that said obnoxious neighbor should've no longer been allowed to reside here. After all, maintenance said, "apartments," meaning he's previously lived here and in different rooms.

Whew.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Transfigulutheran



Lately, I've been filled with Schubert, and I would also like to be filled with Sherbert. This morning, at church, we were all filled with something alright—that enchanting Holy Ghost! Yes, it is hard to believe but during Hymn 877, "This Little Light of Mine," we all started clapping to the beat.

"Let it be noted that on this day, Sunday, February 14, 2010, Transfiguration Sunday, the Holy Spirit moved the Lutherans to clap on the down beat..." - Pastor Eric


Lisa Simpson once created Lutherans in her science experiment in "Treehouse of Horror VII." Well, I feel as if this morning we re-created or unveiled something rather marvelous. Behold, the Transfigulutheran! Super Lutheran, who, while remains traditionally stoic, now has the ability to clap—on beat—to hymns.

I really hope this happens again. I want to hang out with the Holy Spirit more often, but not in a dead way. :)

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Return of the Ex-Wife & Pink Fuzzy Rocks



Meanwhile, beneath this seemingly harmless looking pink & fuzzy rock dwells an enemy no sword or RPG can fully exterminate — stupidity!

Stupidity is viral. It multiplies and bloats and I am convinced it will be the cause of Armageddon. Last week, I got the electric bill from the old apartment. Took the same courtesy my ex did with me and text the bill information to her. Well, apparently, according to the ex-ball and chain, we're not liable for the fee since "we had both moved out." I didn't move out, ex- roommie, remember? Well, I guess if I stayed then I have to pay it, even though, I was only there until the 6th, thanks, bitch.

What bothers me the most about this is that when she was on the phone with Yellowstone Valley Electric, she didn't bother canceling our account. Even though she thought "we" had moved out? Seem fishy to you? It was my fault for assuming she'd have the presence of mind to cancel the account. Nope. I hope to God and Gandolf that this is the last text I will ever send her.

"Look, I know you grew up under a pink fuzzy rock, but I think this is actually something we have to cancel. Will try to do it without you."



Tune in tonight — same bat-time, same bat-shit-crazy-channel!

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

I Really Shouldn't Be a Diplomat


"I must acknowledge, once and for all, that the purpose of diplomacy is to prolong a crisis." - Mister Spock


In high school, I would often mediate between my more neurotic friends. But when push came to verbal assaults and double-crossing adolescent boys, I lost my knack for diplomacy.

This has most recently been confirmed when i dealt with an over-zealous—stalker—young man who became way to attatched for only knowing me a matter of days. I thwarted advances and called him on his stalker-like behavior. I even familiarized myself with Castle Doctrine and House Bill 228, recently passed in Montana. The following section specifically interests me.

"Section 1. No duty to summon help or flee. Except as provided in 45-3-105, a person who is lawfully in a place or location and who is threatened with bodily injury or loss of life has no duty to retreat from a threat or summon law enforcement assistance prior to using force. The provisions of this section apply to a person offering evidence of justifiable use of force under 45-3-102, 45-3-103, or 45-3-104."


Unlike my baby-sitter homer state, Minnesota, I can actually defend myself in my dwelling structure. I don't even have to announce to any perpetrator/trespasser that they are about to be clubbed—literally—with a 5 iron.

Not retreating is something I'm pretty good at. I told off that guy a few times, despite his alleged connections and obvious mental maladies. I went on one of those anti-stalker websites and they all said to deal with them gently. I did at first, but he didn't get the point. So I went to my penchant for directness. As well as some oddly tactful excuses for not having contact. I should not be a diplomat

Even after being abnormally civil, despite my directness, the guy deleted AND blocked me on facebook. Now, this was either to 1. get my attention, congrats you did. Or 2. I'm about to be whacked. Or 3. it was too emotional for him to still be friends after my rejection, which wasn't really rejection because we didn't even know each other.

I've been a little bit on edge—ever vigilant, never fearful.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Where Do I Keep Finding These People?



Like, seriously, barring entrance to Walmart or Targhetto on Lake St. I have never before felt such a need for a loaded Glock, gat or stockpile of RPGs. And in leu of a firearm, I sleep with a 5 iron by my bed.

Why do I attract crazy people?

1. I'm blonde and thus easier to see.
2. I'm warm and affirming, sometimes.
3. I look innocent enough.
4. The shoes. (Thanks Will).
5. Intelligent enough that crazy people find me engaging. (Thanks Will).

No, this is just, nuts. Of course, when I date "nice, normal" boys, I get bored. I have a problem. I mean, really, I'm already paranoid. Just today i went to the sex offender registry to plan a safe walking route around campus.

P.S. I wonder how many people just watched me pull my clubs from my trunk, analyze, then select the 5, swing over my shoulder and trot back to my room. Shrug.

Monday, January 18, 2010

"Grangefruit"


Hi, my name is Naomi, I'm an English Major and I have also discovered Grangefruit. Please consider my candidacy for Hardin, MT police chief. Just kidding. But just over 30 minutes ago, I did peel, what I thought was an orange, and got a grapefruit. As the sojourn into this new citrus territory I have named my discovery, "Grangefruit," pronounced, "Gr-ah-ngefruit."



Could this cure cancer? Liberalism? Socialism? Piracy? Earth-quakes? Probably not, but there's a chance. If there's one thing I learned from statistics. Blank stare. Twitch.

(How To) De-compartmentalize Your Emotions


"And the strain of the primitive remained alive and active. Faithfulness and devotion, things born of fire and roof were his, yet he retained his wildness and wiliness. And from the depths of the forest, a call still sounded." – Jack London, Call of the Wild


Even if it’s been weeks or months since you neatly tucked away neuroticism in the crisper drawer, and separated vengeance, pain and rage with Tupperwares—must keep those apart for sure—and heaped grief and un-requited love into separate zip-lock bags, and betrayal, well, that’s still in the pot, in the back of the figurative fridge, even after all of that mental tidying, there remains an innate need to re-open and taste the seeping, moldy, noxious humors of your own emotional leftovers. Great, you’re thinking, how the hell do I do that?

I recommend howling. No, seriously. I’ve been researching wolves lately, well wolves and crows—crows have and always will follow me (insert maniacal laugh), which is another story for another blog. But I have always been fascinated by wolves, and, also have grown increasingly envious. I wish I could go somewhere and howl. Even if wolves rarely tilt-back and screech for emotional reasons, the necessity to howl for communication remains.

How liberating would it be just to climb a rock and scream at the sky—the world? To purge emotion through sound and not temporary tidying is something I need to do—we all probably do, either that or we’ll die young of bowel disorders.

My neighbors either acquired a trampoline or had an orgy last night, or both. Probably both. So in revolt to their constant partying and wee-hour stereo blasting—I swear if I hear Party in the USA one more time—I picked up my cello. We all know I play loudly, but how loudly? Well, believe it or not (I recommend believing it) but I actually managed to drown out the thump-thumpery and giggling. But once I figured out I could actually win, in a way, (winning, will be blasting Carmina Burana, Spice Girls, and every Boy Band song EVER—on repeat—during finals week, and no, I have yet to open and deal with the vengeance Tupperware) I couldn’t stop.

Like howling, cello-ing is a necessity for me. Cello playing is my howling. I howled for hours. I didn’t think I still had it in me, but I did. The more I played the better I sounded, and felt, which in turn caused me to play more. I felt such peace, which lasted until 4 am when the stereo blasting returned to full volume. Then I took Tylenol PM and passed out. Like I said, Carmina Burana.

Hey, I’m not afraid of confrontation. So why not just confront the thirty or so drunken football players and cheerleaders and kindly ask them to quiet down? Hmm? Probably because it would go something like this:

0200 Fictional Random Party Night, Neighbor's Room

“Knock-knock.”
“BOOM-BOOM.”
“Knock-knock-knock-KNOCK!”
“Thump-boom-thump-boom-yea Smitty!”
“KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!”
“Hold on, yea, it’s that bitchy blonde chick who never talks to us and just goes from class to her room yea the one that walks with her ass out.”
“Hello?”
“Hi. I live next door and my eardrums are bleeding. Could you please turn down your, um, ‘music’?”
“Uh, sure. Want to play some pong?”
“Wha-no. Don’t you people think I’m a bitch or something?’
“Yeah, but you’re also hot.”
“I’ve always appreciated the Greek take on Theatre; they keep the violence off stage.”

Exit Naomi.

Yea, something like that. Maybe I can take out the moldy emotions and use them as ordinance? Mixed metaphor? Whatever. Back to the question at hand; how does one de-compartmentalize emotions? Howling, check. Now what? Howling is a start, but I have a feeling that tears will soon be a part of this process as well as ultimately opening the creepy pot of betrayal in the dark recesses of the fridge. Lord only knows what lifting that lid will unleash. Like Vulcans purging all emotion, de-compartmentalizing offers a luxury. But, unlike Vulcans, this is temporary for humans.

I’ll just admit it now, I’m afraid of the fridge. I’m afraid of what I’ll find. I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with that mess when simply maintaining this compartmentalization has exhausted me. And if admitting that the events of the last months have significantly affected me and still bother me by more than simple petulance, means I am weak or neurotic, then I accept that. At least I’m man enough to admit I have issues. I bear my weaknesses, not with pride, but with candles of hope.

I can't end this like that, I'm just not feeling it. I also need to point out that you never get a 12-step plan from me when I post "how to" blogs. That's because despite my judging preference, I usually skip steps 2-9 anyway. Which is going to make this even more interesting.