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.

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.

"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.

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.