(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.

Sciurus vulgaris: The Tiny, Furrier Taliban

1600, Ramsey, Minnesota. Temperature: 12 degrees

"Whatcha doing Nomers?"

Said my pops as I frantically googled, typed, and plastered the computer monitor with stickies, "head and body up to 24 cm, tail up to 20 cm, weight up to 350 g..." I mumbled. Glasses sliding down my nose, without looking up, I furrowed my brow and with pen in my mouth replied, "researching the the enemy."

"Who's the enemy today?"

"Sciurus vulgaris. In layman's terms, the red squirrel." I replied motioning towards the attic door, "I'm putting together a dossier so we can better understand the enemy and possibly predict the tiny, furrier Taliban's next move."

"Ok, sweetie."

Ah, yes. Those little cheeto-tailed bastards have infiltrated our attic at Rancho De Myrick. Like gray hairs, where you pluck one, three more appear by noon the next day. Either that or the attic is like Marry Poppins handbag on steroids and Pantheism. Dad's attempted eradication of them is detailed in his blog, as well as the Xmas Letter... So I won't go there. Check your mailboxes soon.

Where I will go is to my vexation of people who actually go so far as to label rodents, more specifically squirrels, as "cute." My Dad says that they are cute when they're dead. I'd have to agree. In fact, after live trapping city-squirrels, typically the size of cats, in her flower garden, my Grandma Marge gives them free (and eternal) swimming lessons in her garbage can. Note: Squirrels don't swim well. Especially not in a cage, underwater.

In my research, I have discovered that those cute bushy-tailed friends of every Disney princess spend the majority of their days—up to 7 years, SEVEN years—eating and mating, and when they're not being glutenous, they spend endless time scratching, because they are generally covered in fleas. Bet you think fleas are cute, too. Also, a significant portion of the menu is their offspring. I'm not a cultural relativist, even when it comes to squirrels, so don't say that's, "nature." That is disgusting.

This is nature:

"Until the 1940s the red squirrel was quite widespread. It has now disappeared from large areas of Britain and its place has been taken by the grey squirrel. The larger grey squirrel was introduced to this country in the mid-19th century. Research has shown that grey squirrels put on a lot more body fat than red squirrels which gives them a better chance of surviving. The larger, more robust grey wins in the competition for food and space and it is now widespread in England and Wales. It is more adaptable than the red squirrel and lives happily in hedgerow trees, parks and gardens as well as large woods and forests. Grey squirrels also carry the squirrelpox virus, to which they are immune, but which is deadly to red squirrels." (http://www.ypte.org.uk/animal/squirrel-red-/177).

Ah, yes the grey squirrel. Darwin's little acorn brain-child. This is a great example of survival of the fittest. In my experience, red squirrels are unparalleled in viciousness, but this is mere overcompensation for what they lack in evolutionary engineering. I wonder if the "robustness" in grey squirrels translates into how they taste? Squirrel pot pie, anyone? Red squirrels are inferior and thus nasty. They're like a 12-year-old with a tricycle instead of a mountain bike. They haven't advanced. So what does England do for them? Well, exactly what the well-fare system in America does of course, puts them on the endangered species list. Seriously.

This is the best part, "Grey squirrels also carry the squirrelpox virus, to which they are immune, but which is deadly to red squirrels." Squirrels with bio-weapons. That's awesome. I can just hear them in their tiny English accented voices, probably cockney, "get away from me tree, ye red headed slut or I'll breath on ya!"


So, how many red squirells does it take to make a hat? I'll know by next week. Smile.

"We, uh, tore a roast apart with our bare hands"

I just ate steak and eggs with my hands. And the dishwasher is clean. I guess that makes me an official bachelor? I think I've been spending too much time with my pirate/cowboy friends. Hell, even when I don't spend actual time with them, just by vicinity I seem to absorb their habits. Example: I missed out on Man Day last week because I was typing a 15 pager (got an A, btw). When Tabuchi and Adams dropped by later that night, 2230, I asked how Man Day went.

"We, uh, tore apart and ate an entire roast with our bare hands. Seven course meal and we didn't even dirty a dish."

I'm both disgusted as well as proud. Kinda the same attitude I've adopted towards Adreniline Boy who, by the way, is now in my phone as such. Smiley face. I'm really very impressed and a tad bit proud of his ability to maintain a consistently high level of asshole-ishness. Not sure why I've even retained him as a contact.

Ex-roommie is in my phone as "The Ex-Wife," and her jealous-possessive ass boyfriend is in there as "The Ex Wife's Bf." Just about everyone has an alias. This is for fun, I guess, a passive-aggressive categorizing of the people in my life. My alias system also functions as anti-theft protection. I mean, even if a friend usurps my phone, like that one Tuesday night when Shoe had to change it back to english for me... even if that happens again, the usurper will surely be screwed. Good luck figuring out my system! I digress.

I say that a lot, "I digress." But I actually do. Subject change.

I checked my grades last night on a dare. I typically don't check them until the end of the next semester, which drives my more competitive friends absolutely nuts. Smile. Minus that whole failing statistics thing, I did surprisingly well.

Yesterday I had a professor walk up to me and tell me that my final paper was one of the best he's read. This was my Whitman essay entitled, "Antebellum, Postbellum and Cerebellum, Too."

"Whitman’s bad night did not consist of too much fortified wine nor did it consist of sushi from Tijuana, but instead his writing was poisoned by war. Brutality, dividedness and death became noxious to Whitman’s soul and thus his writing. The reason for the misanthropic transformation in Whitman’s antebellum writing was the Civil War and this is depicted in his post-bellum writing."

I actually had to re-read it last night to remind myself how the hell I tied all my ontological questioning and creative vomit together with a neat literary ribbon. Oh, it's good and I'm going to go ahead and thank wine and sleep deprivation.

My First Ex-Wife

SO, I haven't really slept in three days. I'm going to blame stress and the MAN Chili. This morning I "woke" up at the mansion. Yep. Even the mirrors refused to look at me. I lead an interesting and classy life. As you can tell from my previous post, the last 72 hours have been, well, just plain bad. No adrenaline rush for me. Sorry, I had to. Go ahead, chuckle.

Let's re-visit Tuesday morning. It began far too early, 0645, with ex-roomie's boyfriend, let's call him C, showing up from another city because I had a boy on the couch. We'll call him D. C threatened D. D was minding his own business sitting on the ex-couch working on his iBook. Ex-roomie refused to talk to D. As I facebook chatted with D from my bedroom to gather the details, it became painfully obvious that not only is C, an evil possessive tyrant, but my roommate planned on moving out and not telling me.

I must surmise, at least at this point, that my having a house guest, who had a penis, had something to do with this. Let me also say that I have never come home piss drunk or vomited in our toilet. Or anywhere else in the apartment/sidewalk etc. I'm a good roommate. I'm really clean and I smell terrific.

I hate this divorce thing. I have decided that, unlike my usual plan of having three husbands, I'm only going to have one. I don't want to get divorced. She owned the furniture AND the T.V. This sucks. She also left behind the get well card that I got her when she was really sick. That just hurts. How difficult would it have been to say, "hey, I'm moving out."


The really sick thing is that they never spoke a word to me and I was in the same room. The same room! Actually, after Adrenaline Boy ever so gently rejected me, I got home and walked in and most of the stuff had been removed. Then C walked out of the bed room, and smirked at me. Then he walked back into her room. Wow.

All because I let a boy stay on our couch so he wouldn't freeze to death? This must be that superior moral reasoning I hear so much about.

On the upside, I brought my desk and computer to the living room. What up home office.

Well, it'll be dinner time soon and I'm going to eat pizza on the living room floor like my gypsy ancestors. Or something. Thanks roomie, you're making a great ex-wife already.

Adrenaline Made Me Do It

In my 9+ years of dating, I've heard just about everything. I have quite the arsenal of excuses, "I don't like blondes," and "you're not Catholic" as well as "I hate the way your forehead wrinkles," and the classic "I'm too busy," let's not forget, "You voted for Bush," and last but not least, "you don't fit in to my 5 year plan." That last one has become somewhat of an inside joke amongst friends because it's happened to me three times. I must attract really finicky long-term goalers. Whatever.

The excuse as of late (yesterday, which never ended since I never went to bed) is a real dinger, and has already reached inside joke magnitude. Wait for it... "adrenaline made me do it." I mean at least he called me to tell me that he blamed his youthful horny indiscretion on the levels of a certain hormone in his blood. That's like me blaming vodka for dropping that thing in the toilet on 4th of July... never-mind that. My point is, that I chose to have vodka and as a result of my CHOICE, I dropped something in the toilet. He chose to tickle-kiss and then pounce on me. Then he chose to freeze me out after weeks of solid pursuing-type friendship. He made these choices. He led me on. Don't blame an adrenaline rush from watching the game. Your team didn't even win.

I'm really sore on excuses. I'd rather he just said, "you looked hot/smelled good, so I made out with you. Sorry." But, "adrenaline made me do it." Don't lie, bastard. Let me elaborate, adrenaline makes him, "make bad decisions," (making out with me) as well as, "do things I wouldn't normally do," (be a straight man) and, "I've had this problem for a long time," (tool) and change his personality, "that's just not me." It's not like you to make out with a hot blonde? Well, you have got issues. The "problem" that you have is the problem of being a womanizing ASS and a liar. I know, I know, I'm a little proud of him for being so creative, and I will probably use this line later in life, but, how do we go back to being friends when I know he is lying. I don't like people that lie.

Phone call Yesterday, 1500

"So I don't want to lead you on."
"Ok. I see. I should probably call off the Fatwa on your head then."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, that's it, adrenaline?"
"Yup."
"Ok. I'm going to go now."

He could have just said...."look, i don't want to lead you on anymore. the other night was fun, but maybe it's for the best if we don't do it again." That would've been acceptable. I knew the no good night kiss thing was a tip off. I hate being right.

There is a Campfire in My Mouth

Last night, I was invited to "Man Day." Man Day is a night where my guy friends get together to drink, eat and watch man movies. I felt quite honored to be the only girl invited. Then again, maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. Oh well. The cuisine was chili—not ordinary chili though, MAGICAL MAN chili.

Let me describe to you the entity that was the chili. This stuff could remove tar from your shoes. The meat to bean ratio was astounding. I had a mind altering experience, and that was befroe the gas. I only had one forkful, yeah all the spoons were dirty. It was like having a campfire in my mouth. And it tasted like it, too. I think I ingested fire. Me and my bowels are still recovering. I think the stuff actually caustically burned my mouth.

The movie was also noteworthy. You're not going to believe this, but we watched, "The Good, the bad and the Weird," which is the * Korean * version of, "The good, the bad and the Ugly." Yeah... As if the chili wasn't enough, I was actually coaxed into taking another forkful at one point, and it was better with rice. Rice made the movie better too. It made it feel more Asian. Whatever. No more Man Day for me, and not during finals week. Although, it was the most relaxed I've been in a while. I think that because it is so cold outside that my blood has turned to (chili) sludge and is slowly creeping through my veins. I digress.

In other news, I'm sick of living with a four-year old and her father/boyfriend figure. I had a house guest last night because he was locked out of a friends' house. And I wasn't going to let him freeze to death, so he slept on the couch. At about 0200 my roommate knocks on my door.

0200 Naomi's Doorway
"Yes?"
"There is a boy in our living room."
"I know I put him there."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Wh-no."
"Oh, ok."
"Good night."

0645 Living room.
ENTER roommates boyfriend—I haven't seen him since Sunday. Wait, today is Tuesday... yep. He lives in Butte, MT. which is a 4 hour drive on a good day. She called him because there is a guy on our couch. I re-iterate, I am sick of living with a four-yr. old. More on this later. I have to finish my play before my final at 1215.

Thumper, Soup and Subjectivism

I'm hungry but I don't want to get something to eat because my roommate and her (jealous-possessive-emotionally abusive) boyfriend are in the living room. I don't want to talk to them. As Thumper once said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't go into the living room and confront the people you can't say anything nice to," or something like that. It occurs to me that I must really not like him if he is getting in between me and, not only my coffee, but my soup. Ass. I think I have some tic-tacs in my purse...

It's been snowing all day, which is really odd for Billings, MT. We have about 45 minutes of daylight left, and then I am in for the night because ThundyToes rejects snow/ice. Good MN car. (Sarcasm sign).

I promised an update about my homework. Yesterday during lunch, I finished my Whitman essay. Here in an excerpt:

"If Walt Whitman’s antebellum poetry was some sort of pleasurable climax of prose, then his post-bellum scrawling represents the morning after nausea, confusion & cerebellum trauma. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that controls equilibrium. It is an integral part of the human existence. Whitman’s post-bellum writing is the perpetual hangover. Unfortunately, Whitman never regained his carefree, yet balanced self. Instead Whitman sank into the unstable mindset of suffering."

Literary analysis is not my forte'. I've decided that this is because literature is overwhelmingly subjective. I refuse to draw closure from wide-eyed subjectivism, nor do I relish taking one professor's "interpretation" of literature when lit is, again, more often than not subjective. Perhaps this is the bane of being a Platonist-moral Absolutist.

I often suspect that if I were a liberal, not only would college have been more enjoyable, but it also would have been easier. I guess I don't like things easy. I like the feeling of accomplishment and over coming challenges. Some say this makes me "too tightly wound" or 'difficult." Boo on them. I have fight, and I like it that way.