Oldie But Goodie: What I Didn't Tell

FROM DECEMBER 2009

"In case you couldn't tell, I'm daddy's girl and I ALWAYS get what I want." Said my new roommie as she unpacked box after box of her wardrobe, what can only be described as the Abercrombie catalogue.

Admittedly, that didn't bother me a lot since I'm kind of a spoiled brat, too. And unfortunately, my curiosity for other people's mental pathology often overshadows the warning bells, resounding a shrill, "RUN AWAY!" So, maybe it was all my fault...

My ex-wife, we'll get to that alias later, also had a puppy. Not just any puppy, no, it was the BEST puppy in the whole WORLD. She had obtained it on the cusp of August, under her parents radar. Puppy turned out to be merely a cog in roommie dearest's plan not have to live in the dorms again, with the, "mean girls."

The puppy was an annoying lab that was incredibly spoiled and if someone didn't like that, well, they were blacklisted, myself included.

"She doesn't like licks, puppy... she doesn't like you..." She is very logical, you know.

Forgive me if I'd rather not indulge in the germ orgy that is a dog's mouth. So sorry, my apologies oh Queen of the Universe... and her little dog, too.

After two weeks of semi-normalcy, as much normalcy as two-English majors co-habitation with a puppy can have, things began to get weird.

"I found this thing in my ear while I was on my run!" Ex-wifey said, bounding through the door, puppy in tow. She held up what looked like a rubber stopper of some sort, far too big to be in someones ear.

"My ear hurts... and my door doesn't lock. Someone must have come into our apartment in the middle of the night and done this!"

Sure. Ok. Let's calm down and think about this.

A few days later, I awoke to find roomie gone on a walk, and the kitchen completely trashed. We were both kind of neat-freakish, so this was disconcerting.

Later that afternoon, I confronted roomie about it.

"Left in a hurry this morning, eh?"

"Why?"

"Well the kitchen was in shambles... I cleaned it up though."

"OH MY GOD! You heard all those noises last night, like someone going through all the pots and pans!!"

"Uh, sure..."

"Wait, the kitchen wasn't a mess when I left at 5:30 this morning."

No puppy is THAT cute, 5:30 am walks?

"Weird, so I got up at 7:45, and in the two some hours you've been absent, someone broke into our place, in daylight, and messed up our kitchen?"

She didn't respond, just looked really creeped out and kept touching her ear.

Were we robbed, I ribbed myself, did they take my fiber bars and the good soups!?!

Actually, I was missing one fiber bar.

Anyway, my mind went to two places; one, our place is haunted and; two, my roommate is batshit crazy.

I went with Option One for about an hour, until I began to reminisce about the three weeks I spent at the apartment prior to my ex-wifey moving in.

The apartment had been peaceful. It had been a very quiet third-floor room with an amazing mountain-view, bereft of dog smells and still lending me the freedom to invite friends over, drink some wine and play my cello.

Logically, option two was the only thing left. Not to allow myself to look too hard for signs of crazy, I remained incredibly objective about roomies behavior and her jealous-possessive baptist boyfriend, Chris.

After a few more, "someone is breaking into our apartment at night! They have cameras everywhere!" outbursts from ex-wifey, as well as ducktaping over all of the crevices that could harbor a Radio-Shack caliber mini-camera and dismissing my suspicions that the FBI wanted me for some reason, I gave in and we went to Home Depot to get a new door-knob.

After several failed attempts at self-installing the apparatus, and wifey, thinking the landlord had purposefully drilled the doorknob hole too skewed for someone to change the locks, ended up getting a chain, and screwing it DIRECTLY into the door-frame. Goodbye security deposit. Ironic?

One night, she "accidentally" locked me out, thinking I had been asleep in my room, at 9pm... on a Friday... I had really been at a coffee place studying for mid-terms. Really.

I finally wrangled one of my guy friends—actually I was his date to a wedding that night—into installing the new doorknob for us. We had just enough time between the ceremony and reception to do some minor home-improvement... and have beers.

So, now roomie and I had absolutely no doubt in our pretty blonde heads that someone could come into our apartment, eat my fiber bars and shove rubber into wifey's ears. Right? Wrong.

The omnipresent, controlling and manipulative father-boyfriend-figure Chris, decided to make a dramatic (probably romantic in his mind) move to buy wifey a rape stick. It was kind that holds the door shut from the inside. He did this instead of, you know, fixing her door lock.

Things began to escalate interpersonally when I wouldn't succumb to wifey's premature need to agree to a new living arrangement. In retro-spect I should've been a wee more decisive, but staying in another state or moving home was a big decision.

So, instead of further talking to me about the issue, we'd only had one chat, mind you, wifey took things into her own gnarled hands.

Roping a mutual friend into living with her, she decided to move out into the apartment directly below our current room, without telling me.

The Monday of finals week, I'd invited a guy friend to sleep on our couch, because he'd been locked out of his temporary residence and it was middle of December in Montana with a balmy wind-chill of 40 below.

I didn't think anything of it. We weren't drunk. He is a decent guy. But I received a knock on my door at about 2am...

I opened the door to find wifey standing there looking like she'd seen a ghost.

"Yes?"

"There's a boy in our living room!" She scream-whispered.

There was almost always a boy in our living room. Her boyfriend would stay over almost every weekend... use our toilet paper, electricity and no doubt eat my fiber bars.

"I know, " I replied smartly, "I put him there."

"Is he drunk?"

"Nooo." I said, fearing that the pink fuzzy rock she grew up under was whispering to her that she was about to be murdered and raped. In that order.

Chris showed up four hours later, coming from about 400 miles away. I discovered this on my way to the bathroom to find a tampon.

He never said a word to me, and wifey was presumably already gone to campus for finals.

My friend, Doug, sat on the couch, playing on his iBook. I facebook chatted him from my bedroom to find out what in tarnation had happened.

"Her boyfriend showed up about an hour ago... he walked up to the couch and forcibly introduced himself. It wasn't what he said, it was how he said it. She didn't say a word to me. He also told me I had to be off the couch by 2, because they are moving your roommate out."

I grabbed my bag, car keys and Doug and we galloped off to a coffee shop near campus for some java and conversation to make sense of everything.

I then spent a few more hours in the library frantically trying to finish my play about unicorns. Really.

My phone suddenly began to vibrate in my sweatshirt pocket. I looked at the caller ID, it was the boy I'd been kinda-sorta-seeing-made-out-with two days ago yet hadn't really heard from.

"Hey." I mustered, typing with my right hand about ontological questioning and unicorn etiquette.

"Hi, so I need to talk to you..."

Yep, REJECTED. He blamed his youthful horny indiscretion on adrenaline. Points for creativity!

Needing some down-time and a whisky, I listened to the message Adrenaline Boy had left before he mustered up the balls, to actually call me in person and drove back to the apartment only to discover that everything had been moved out, everything except for Chris, who only smiled at me and continued to move boxes and the little dog, too.

Fuck this, I thought and promptly drove to Doug's, where he fed me Evan Williams lower-shelf bourbon, string cheese and let me watch, "Die Hard," on the big screen.

We listened to Adrenaline Boy's voicemail about 20 times, laughed, cried and then forwarded it to everyone we'd ever met.

I soon discovered that my now ex-wife, had moved into a hotel for a few days, because she couldn't live with me until Thursday, when she had actually planned on moving out.

She still lives with our mutual friend, and guess what, they both have puppies! (The best puppies in the world!)

As I think about those two days sitting on the living room floor—she took the couch, TV, dog and half the kitchen suppluies—eating a fiber bar and drinking whisky, I find myself humming the Wicked-witch theme from,"The Wizard of Oz," da-du-da-du da-da-DA...

Dating Is An Ocean

Is it just safer for men when I'm in a relationship? I tend to cause a lot of trouble when I'm single. I tend to cause or get into a lot of trouble when I'm bored, too. I like stirring the pot, like Lorelei likes diamonds. I can't help but flirt with good-looking interested men—usually to my eventual non-interest and their detriment.

I've never dated. I've had cuddle buddies, make-out buddies and boyfriends. Maybe the trouble stems from not effectively navigating the oceans of dating. I mean, I could avoid the attachment icebergs by not being so insistent and empathetic—not being myself. I could avoid being anchored by keeping cool and not getting too attached myself, but how does one go from the stability, romance and sometimes confines of a committed relationship, to surfing the high swells of date after date after date? Furthermore, how does one continue to date oodles of men without turning into a serial dater and thus never revive one's hope in love?

One thing I miss about living in Montana, is my friends. I had a great group of friends to go out with. No pressure, no awkwardness and always a fun—often trouble causing—time. I no longer have that social construct. Can I replace it with copious amounts of dates?

I haven't figured it out. Maybe there isn't just one strategy. Or maybe the strategy is just simply not to strategize at all—that would be both preferred and also a challenge. Go with the, uh, flow? I suppose it is a good way to temporarily rendezvous with a lot of men and enjoy great conversations and similar interests without sexual encounters, or relationship-esqu feelings of possession. Free food is nice. Free drinks are nice, too.

I am resisting the urge to strategize in the game-playing sense, but I need my mental frameworks in order to function. There has to be some structure. It is possible I'm just in analysis paralysis due to my need to figure it all out.

I am not convinced that this lifestyle is for me. Then again, it could just be an adjustment period. It could also potentially work in my favor: my mom was dating three different people when she met my dad. She had three different people to compare him to and she chose him.

Here's hoping...

Live and Let, Meow

The other night, my friend Eric and I watched Milo and Otis, mostly for posterity's' sake, but also because Netflix was not functioning on Playstation. I'm glad we decided to watch this movie, because now that we're semi-responsible adults, we noticed several indescrepencies rather peculiar in nature—you know, something a 3rd grader wouldn't have picked up on.

So, it turns out they had used real cats for the stuns, stunts consisting of: ejecting a cat in a box over a waterfall (I wonder how many takes—or cats that cost them?), dropping a cat off of a cliff, pairing a kitten up with a black bear for a brutal game of, "Guess What Drawer Kitty Is In?!?" And last but not least, letting a python loose in a tree with the kitten in some sort of mortal combat scene.

This movie was made in 1986, so I'm thinking that the idiots over at PETA weren't quiet a threat to film-making yet. But, come on, throwing a cat(s) off of a cliff? Really? This movie took four years to complete which not only leads me to speculate that perhaps there was some sort of Kitten v. California suit, but also to question the gestation of orange tabbies. As cruel as these stunts may seem, I had an 8th grade math teacher that used to fish for muskies using cats as bait...

That being said, I have a few more questions for the makers of this film, and I have to get this one off my chest first; where the hell did this movie takes place? Narnia?

The movie begins with a quiet country scene showing kitties and puppies playing near an equally tranquil stream. That stream suddenly turns into The Grand Canyon Class X rapids which then flow over a waterfall and into the Amazon Jungle only to emerge in the Alaskan wilderness. The only explanation I have for this is to suggest that LSD was popular in the 80s as well as the 90s.

And another thing, on what planet do North American black bears and pythons co-exist? Did the creators of Jumanji plagiarize this screen play?? Who knows.

I know I'm not the first person to bring up these issues, and I'm certainly not a card-carrying PETA member, but, to all the Milos and Otises that died in the making of this film, R.I.P.

I Don't Feel Bad That You're Dumb, I Feel Judgmental

Retail-hell beckons a Cornucopia (festive, right?) of dire size situations, coupons that work on less than 16% of our inventory (and subsequent rants, cuss words and storm-offs) and last but not least, stupidity. I and I do mean stupidity, as in dumbness, inanity, idiocy, as in that light bulb never turned on in the first place and the hamster’s wheel is egg-shaped. Am I mean? Yes. Am I accurate, even more so yes.

I’ll begin with some clueless customers, “here’s my coupon does it work with these?” She said as she slung 6 slightly different onesies onto the counter and waved a coupon in my face.

“No…” I began.

“NOTHING works with these coupons! Why even give them out!” She pontificated and with much accuracy, the coupons do not work on a whole lot in our store, but that’s not my fault, nor is it my fault that most customers neglect to read the back of the coupon detailing all of the exemptions and instead prefer the rush of anger/surprise when I tell them the coupon will not work… aaaand I do this for nine hours a day.

“Well, this coupon isn’t for our store…” I said as politely as I could, slightly relieved that I wasn't dealing with yet another neglectful store customer....

“It’s not? Hey ma, what store're we at?”

“Do you still want your items?”

“No! Not without the coupon!” They stormed off to JC Penney’s, where the coupon had come from…

I am SO judging you right now. You drove all the way up here from Wyoming and in those 2-3 hours, neglected to read the entire coupon—specifically which store it belonged to. You’re an idiot. You don’t deserve the coupon. In fact, I want the coupon back so I can give it to a third grader, because at least they still maintain the ability to follow directions!

Another situation I frequently encounter is the Wrong Size-Coup, “what do you mean this doesn’t come in a 48 inch waist?!?” I merely shake my head at you. It’s difficult to refrain from jeering that the FDA banned 6X clothing due to the rampant obesity in the US, if only it were true.

I’ve gotten over working in the plus-sized section, even if the nastier customer specimens manifest there. As one co-worker once whispered to me, “they take their anger out on us because they’re too fat to do anything about it. They have to channel that anger somewhere…” Spot on!

There are also the self-important folks that insist on grabbing my attention while I’m clearly ringing up a transaction with several more waiting patiently in line, “Can I ask you a quick question? What price is this? Where is the bathroom? Have you seen my lost credit card??”

No. I don’t know. Follow the freaking signs. Call customer service.

Trust me, Seemingly Urgent Question Holder, you’re no more important to me than the lady in line with three screaming kids and a handful of coupons I already know won’t work on sale priced items. Get your cuss in cussing line or find an associate that isn’t waist deep in business!

Some customers—on the selling floor—randomly hand me items and ask, “is this on sale? I mean it says it’s this price, but is it really?”

Funny, as much time as I spend here, I have not yet installed a price check device into my wrist nor am I Lt. Commander Data, furthermore, not three feet behind you is the Customer Price Check module. Helpless idiots. All of you!

The Nature Snob 2.0

"Do you know how to use a shovel, Naomi? Said my guy friend as we prepared to plant our vegetable garden.

“Have you ever even gone hiking before?” Said my long-term boyfriend.

Some of my readers may remember a post from a while ago, titled, The Nature Snob. It can be found here.

For those who neither wish to read the entire post nor enjoy my amazing humor, I will summarize, The Nature Snob. The post concerns the snobbiest of snobs: the Nature Snob. The Nature Snob shuns anyone who either doesn't like hiking/camping etc. or doesn't look as if they could like OR, more importantly are capable of hiking/camping etc.

My latest experience with a Nature Snob occurred last night with my boyfriend of a year and a half. I had just walked out on a graphically violent movie he had chosen for movie night. Chosen, knowing full well I am sensitive to that sort of thing. He then called me a, "wimp."

I simply replied, “please don’t say that I am a wimp when you know it’s not true. I am not a wimp. It takes a brave person to stand up and say they are not OK and leave; whereas, a coward would have suffered in silence.” He did not like that.

After he finished his movie, and complained about my sensitivity to violence and how I am missing out on some good movies (whatever is meant by good I am sure I can find a better good), he brought up another activity that we seemingly don't have in common: hiking. He said that because I don't look outdoorsy, I couldn't possibly be outdoorsy.

I’ve encountered this before from people, specifically my 11^th grade Lacrosse teammate who said, “you don’t look athletic, so you can’t be.” But it has never come from my long –time boyfriend.

If you ask me, it seems as if he doesn't want me to be outdoorsy. Why do I feel like this? I feel like this because he has never invited me to go camping or hiking up until a few days ago and the lackluster motivation behind this invitation was, "Because I saw something really beautiful up in the mountains and wanted you to see it."

This is insulting for many reasons. First of all, it took seeing something, "so beautiful," for him to even INVITE me. Second of all, this assumes that I have never been hiking in the mountains or seen anything beautiful while hiking in the mountains. This is not true.

"Well, you don't like to get dirty." He said, condescendingly.

"Because I have excellent hygiene and bathe everyday, means I don't like to get dirty? That makes sense,” I said sarcastically, “I mean, I only rode horses for 14 years... in Minnesota... including the summertime... in an outdoor arena... not to mention cleaned up horse poo... you don't think I got a little mussed??"

Silence.

"And further more, why would I want to go hiking or camping with someone who has waited almost the whole summer to even invite me?" I replied.

"You just don't look like you could go hiking. I mean, have you ever even been hiking?"

He seriously asked this.

"Let's see.... Yellowstone, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Wisconsin, North Dakota, South Dakota, Minnesota and Scotland. That good for you?" I said dryly.

Even the people closest to you can get you wrong and at that moment you realize that it's not even worth it to try and prove yourself.

"I can't believe this is what you really think of me. And you know what? Yeah, I might be prissy and over-dressed, I might be a city-kid, but one thing I am not is a snob. That is what you are." I said.

I think men are afraid of the, "whole package," because it wouldn't give them any reason to nit-pick or be self-destructive in relationships.

P.S. Yes I DO know how to use a shovel...

Why Try

It is disturbing to me that a female Republican, gasp, God-fearing candidate strikes more fear in people than an obvious Socialist who is currently ruining the county. Read the comments on the Michelle's Migraine articles. Plethoras of entirely fearful liberals with nothing original to say, but only, "she is a headache," and variations thereof. They are angry people that don't offer their why or what they disagree with, just the fact that a beautiful and intelligent lady, who holds Christian values, happens to be running for president. Like venom they spit, "she will ruin the country!" The country is already in ruins. People need stop hating on the good and wholesome—they're the backbone of this nation.

Furthermore, I'd like to note the unequivocal hypocrisy of the seemingly, "diverse," liberals who cannot diversify their slams on Michelle Bachmann. They should at least attempt to be original with the insults, it would be slightly less difficult to respect witty insulters. I digress.

Is it merely that we as humans have lost the plot or the desire to do good for the purpose of doing good and infusing the fight for justice, goodness and truth into society OR is it that that takes too much work and too much rational thinking, and more importantly, it takes too much courage to believe in something? To paraphrase C.S. Lewis, If you don't believe in something, you're ready to believe in anything. Now THAT is frightening.

Personally, I think (and feel) that the reason a lot of leftward-thinking, "open-minded" people revolt to anyone, be it politician or not, mentioning the G-word is derived from fear. Fear of believing, fear of caring and fear of being cared for. I gander that these are the same people who cannot accept compliments or are, "dry sponges" as my friend calls them. Maybe the issue is with intimacy; the fact that someone sees something in you that you don't thus leaving one with the uncomfortable stab of vulnerability.

And I do not want to limit the Lost Plotter Syndrome, or Dry Sponge Virus—tis' viral because negativity spreads faster than positivity—to Liberals. O contrare. Yesterday, I met a very conservative Wyoming lawyer and his wife and they overflowed with negativity heeding me not to go to law school, a dream I have had for years.

Dream killing, poison spouting people who have lost their purpose. I'm sure at one point going into law was because of the internal need to help people, but when I brought this up I was told, and might I add rather misogynistcally so, that, "if you want to help people, be a nurse." They should trademark that advice and include it on all the welcome signs in Wyoming. It sums up the mind-frame very neatly.

"I'm squeamish and I don't like hospitals. I want to help people in a larger way, and pursue Justice." I replied.

His wife, we'll call her Crystal-crabby-pants, had spent our what should've been 20 minute appointment, complaining about her life and how, "the other book in the area is better and here's why and why do I have to pay so much money for advertising..." and not to be tootless or hornless, "my son is sheriff and I know every other attorney in Wyoming. This guy failed the bar twice but he makes millions..."

Two and a half hours later, the mini-Pomeranian, Teddy, was still licking my toes (not that unpleasant, mind you) when Crystal-crabby-pants began laughing at me as I inched towards the door, "Justice.?? Law is never about justice. No one ever get's justice. If you become a lawyer, everyone will hate you for something or other." She made a good point; Law has lost the path to Justice in the fog of ambiguity and over-regulation.

However, when I went INFJ on her and said that, "life is about fighting for things worth fighting for, even if people hate me, if I can do good in the world, and infuse humanity with goodness and purpose, my job will be satisfying," She gave me a perplexed look, as if I had grown a dragon tail while trying to ride a tricycle, blindfolded, in zero-gravity. To me, this look sent a very powerful and clear message of, "why try?"

Why try, indeed. This is the message I get when I see all of the negative comments about something as trite as Michelle's Migraines. I think these people are subconsciously mad at her FOR trying. Trying to do good. Being and doing good has become laughable in our society. Well, I'm not laughing nor will I grow apathetic—Instead, I will try.

World Ends at 6:30, Looting Party at 6:45!

"Here's your End of The World Burger, Joe." Said the waitress at my favorite little pub.

So I thought, but seriously, Apocalypse tomorrow? OR... ultimate student loan forgiveness! If I survive impending doom, I can tell you one thing, I will be PISSED OFF.

The World Ends. BOOM. SHAKE. Now what? No order, only chaos. And free stuff! What better way to purge my carhtasis then to pointlessly demolish things and pillage??

Maybe I should have bought that Lady Smith & Wesson that I saw at a clients' Pawn Shop... Oh, well. Either way, I am filling up my Bimmer with gas tonight.

Cheers!