It’s interesting the debates that exist over the differences between what exactly a dork is vs. a geek vs. a nerd. Truth is, I’m all of ‘em rolled into one on any given day. Hmm.. gnork? Out of all of them- geek is the one I’m called the most. So why not ÜberGeekGirlie? Cuz. UberDorkGirlie is actually a nickname I earned in an argument with a friend. Some may say I lost that one. I say it suits me just fine.

Nowadays it’s “cool” to be geek, or actually declare yourself as “geeky” or “a geek”, but I’ll hop on that whole soapbox later. Let’s back this to way back in the day first.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know this next part, so feel free to skip ahead. My quest for knowledge has always been there. When I was four, the birthday cut off for Kindergarten was December 1st. Mine is December 2nd. (Yes boys and girls, this is back in the stone ages when K4 did not exist.) Feeling I was more than ready, my mom gave the principal a call. She told her to bring me up and they’d test me. I remember getting a picture of a clown holding balloons. Each test I passed, a balloon received a sticker. I walked out of there with a big smile and every balloon filled with a sticker. Then my mom got the call. The “If we make an exception for her, then someone comes in with Dec. 3rd & 4th, where do we draw the line?”call. I won’t lie, I totally cried my lil heart out. Then, I woke up the next morning pissed. I grabbed all my lil Dr. Seuss books and sat down in front of Sesame Street and taught my geeky ass how to read. Screw them. So, next fall, I show up to Mrs H’s class all kinds of proud and twitchin’ to stuck up some knowledge. During story time each day, I raised my hand and asked if I can read the book to the class. Each day, she replied “No, Natali, you can’t. You don’t know how to read.” Each day my retort was “I’m sorry, but yes I do.” Come Friday, Mrs. H was irritated. So much so, that she yelled “FINE!” and threw the book at me. I smiled, picked it up and started to read. Mrs. H turned white, then red. Then left the room. I kept right on reading Mrs. H returned with the principal. “Oh shit!” I thought as I finished the story, just a touch shaky.

So, that Monday I was pulled out of my class and taken to a big, mostly empty room. There was a big conference table with four adults lined up behind it staring at me as I sat before them in my lil chair. I’d done a quick tally in my head of what I’d done at school the last week, including the couple of boys I sent to the nurses office and was thinking I was really in for it now. Instead, they began firing question after question after question at me. I remember only one of them:

Some Lady: “How many lives does a cat have?”
Me: “They say that cats have 9 lives, but I think that’s a myth. I have a feeling that they are like any other lifeform, if you kill it, it dies only once.”

Yup, total geek. That’s when they slapped me with the label “gifted and talented.” I was then only in my “regular” class room for a limited time daily. The rest was spent with Miss F and eventually more students were added. Miss F ROCKED! As much as I hated the label they gave me, the program was amazing. It’s where my love of Apple was born and my inner geek was nurtured. For example, for those of you that may not know, the Apple II “OS“ was only a built-in BASIC interpreter contained in ROM. So, any game or program you slipped the floppy in for booted directly on the hardware and either had no OS or one that was self-contained. I will so spare you the Commodore BASIC vs Applesoft BASIC and how Beginner’s All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code was conceived and how it’s grown and changed to Visual Basic used today. The point of this lil BASIC tangent- in fifth grade, I taught an adult Apple BASIC class at night. My geek runs deep. By middle school I hacked the library computers and would access a BBS from there. And yup, I played the Island of Kesmai. (But by the time Legends of Kesmai hit AOL, I had already despised AOL 😉 )

My academic life was spent in accelerated classes, my electives in Japanese , other foreign languages and art. My freetime went to reading (seriously, I had reading contests with one of my friends to see who could read the most books in a week), drawing and playing Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy on my beat up ole used Apple. My posse were the band geeks and the skaterboys. Despite being like the only betty in town, the most commonly used words to describe me growing up were “smart” and “weird.” They were titles I wore proudly though. I learned early on in life what it felt like to not be truly understood. Sure, some people got some parts of me and others, different parts. No one truly ever gets the whole picture though. Well, perhaps my daughters do. There’s a strip mall here in town that has a comic/anime store called Lost World of Wonders and a place called American Science and Surplus (seriously check out the site). If they added a B&N, a Micheal’s, Izumi’s for sushi and a Gamestop, I’d plant a double-wide in the parking lot and call it home like forever. (Note the B&N would undoubtedly have Starbucks in it to sate my love affair with coffee.) That strip mall is me in a nutshell. Someday I’ll find that counterpart that gets the whole quirky, dorky, geeky package that is me and want a piece of that double-wide. 🙂

Another thing I learned early on was that while being a bookworm was nongender discriminatory, the science and computer sides of geekdom were definitely male dominated in my time. When I was roped into being a last minute stand in on the science team for state, one of my teammates (who were all male) literally announced to a rival team during pre-round smack talk “oh yeah, well we brought boobs. And they’re actually attached to a girl who is gonna kick your ass in genetics.” In college, yeah, totally the only girl gamer I knew. The shortest lines in arena ladies room history could be found during my first Web Developer conferences. Hell, one of my geek-related nicknames is male! Will. Short for Good Will Hunting. But, thankfully, times they have changed.

Now, back to the whole “cool to say you are a geek” tangent. Through the years, the coin has flipped a bit on the rep of Geeks. Thank you interwebz. When it became clear the geeks shall inherit the earth, peeps started taking notice. Now, they are cool, but to an extent. I mean, let’s face it American Pie upped the street cred for our beloved band geeks, but you didn’t see the “popular” crowd rushing to join the band. And we all know about men’s fantasies about a “naughty librarian”, but outside the bedroom, different story. I’ve been approached by guys swearing they “love geeky girls” only to be told after a conversation I am “too geeky.” What is that?? Of course, my geeky ass then asks them to define the quantitative parameters that constitute “too geeky.” That never really goes over well. I’ve got many a guy friend that has experienced the same, or the flipside. Yup, the geek poser. That just makes me giggle. Geek poser. But, they so exist. My friend, C, found a girl who boldly called herself a geek. He asked her why and she declared herself a “web goddess.” Turns out that means she used Front Page to create a Paris Hilton fan page for herself and a Twilight one for her BFF. I asked him if that meant her friend was “totally goth” then. Turns out (cuz he’s so the male version of me) he asked her the same thing. She didn’t get it. * sigh * They are out there.

Not geeky enough. Too geeky. Poser. Legit. All are in the brain of the beholder. All I know is that because of people like GeekGirls we breast totin geeks are coming on strong. We are standing tall, head held high, glasses straight (ok, cept mine) invading your geek havens in all kinds of ways. If you’re one of us, shout it out. Let your geek flag fly. You’ve freakin’ earned it. It makes you, you. Throw your Star Trek fingers in the air and wave them like you just don’t care. Geek Girls FTW!!!

And I am creating a place for all of us to hang, to play, to proudly wave our lil geek/nerd/dork/gnork flags.

Click here to learn how you can help this dream become a reality for all of us and for future lil geek girls everywhere.

P.S. All my geek girl tweeps, please join me in support of @GeekGirls and add a twibbon here letting others know you’re girl, you’re geek and you’re proud!

The choice to move back to a town I swore I never would was a very hard pill to swallow. Actually, it was more like the seemingly gallons of penicillin I guzzled as a kid growing up during my 3-4 times a year battles with strep throat and whatever other ailment that came along for the ride. I don’t care what anyone says, that shit does NOT taste like strawberry. It’s just vile. Yet, it was the easiest choice I made because it was done so through the eyes of a mother. I rarely refer to myself as that. Typically, it’s mommy. But, this was a very motherly thing to do.

So why so vile? There are many reasons I suppose. But, none are the seemingly obvious ones. I’m not one of those people that thinks they are “too cool” for the suburbs. I’m about the furthest one can get from cool. I’m not one of those people that fear it will change me. I change me. On my own terms. For my own reasons. They failed before, it would be futile for them to even try now. Put me anywhere and I can hold my own.

I guess, in the simplest terms, it may be that I just know too much. Towns, like people, have skeletons in their closets as well. They vary, just like ours, in size and stature. When you spend your whole life in a town and do so with open eyes you see them. Sometimes you crack open the door and peek. Sometimes they are blatantly waving from an attic window. Sometimes you kick down the door and bravely stare them in the eye sockets. No matter the way, once you’ve met them, they’re damn near impossible to forget.

Yes, people change. Yes, towns change. But when generation after generation remain or return- how much change is really made? To change would mean that they’d have to have opened their minds to new ideologies, new people. Embrace that change and then bring it back and cultivate it. That just doesn’t happen around here. At all. I so wish it did too. And the more gruesome the skeletons, the smaller the benefit of the doubt one can muster. And we’re talking pretty gnarly here. The following is where I dig deep and lay it on the line. It’s not pretty and the pacing is pretty odd for me. I have no problem babbling on about things. Trust me. So, yup, it is odd that I rush through them. If you venture on, at the end, I think you may understand why. If not, you are always welcome to ask. Ok kiddies, disclaimer/excuse/stalling over.

It all starts with my parents and how they met….

The biggest suburban fairytale of yore was high school sweethearts getting married, building the ole white picket fence and popping out 2.5 offspring. My parents fall under the next biggest one- my mother ended up marrying her best friend’s older brother. Out of high school my mom and my aunt Diane (my dad’s sister) got a place with another girl. After going through the loss of several of her friends from deaths due to drunk driving accidents (most the other driver’s fault), my mom had no desire to get her license. So, aunt Diane would drop her off and pick her up everyday for work.

On the evening of Thursday, November 3rd, 1966, my aunt was uncharacteristically late to pick her up. Worried, she called my aunt’s other brother (my uncle). He picked her up and they went by my aunt’s job to see if she was still there. No one’s lives would ever be the same again in our family. They still aren’t. There is simply no bracing one for what they saw. The coroner estimated her time of death around 5:10pm. Cause? She was stabbed to death. While the local news toned it down for the public, she suffered over 100 (no, the second 0 is not a typo) stab wounds. Most of which were to the chest, neck and face. Psych 101 will tell you that leaves a high probability that she knew her murderer. Despite the fact that there was a rather large amount of blood, tissue and hair samples found under her fingernails (she put up a fight) and that’s a hell of a lot of DNA for today’s technology- her killer remains unknown. The case is still open. There is no way to describe the weight, the hole, the heavy hurt that this has had on our entire family. I can tell you that growing up in the same town where the mere mention of your last name brings up a story about it, another reminder, another lump in your throat, another case of the hair on the back of your neck standing up takes its toll. The police, despite it still being an open case, have obviously just given up. Leaving a family, still mourning, abandoned. I could write an entire post just about this story, the journey and my encounters with those over the years that came across my name in a phone book or somewhere online and came crawling out of the woodwork with questions and theories and occasional drunken babblings, but that will be for another time. This, my friends, is gnarly skeleton number one.

Number two sits without a date. I recall being young and think perhaps around 1st grade or so. The first “official African American” family moved in to our town. They lived in the subdivision in front of ours. The kids were my sister’s age, so I didn’t know them. But, I remember the entire family being so nice. I also remember the morning I found out that the night before someone had placed a cross on their front lawn and lit it ablaze. Seriously.We’re talking the 80’s here. I had on a yellow Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. At the time I wasn’t sure why it happened. It didn’t make any sense to me. While it still doesn’t, I clearly know now what the significance was and it makes my stomach turn. Roughly a decade later “we” received our first African American faculty member. Mr. Mr. (my nickname for him hee hee and he called me Nata ata li) was a guidance counselor and he freakin’ rocked. He lasted a year and a half before the death threats and people calling the police claiming he was breaking in to his own home chased him out of town. I have NO tolerance for that. I have even less for the cowardly masses that allowed him to leave instead of standing up and screaming “bullshit!”. Gnarly ass skeleton.

Skeleton number 3 still brings a tear to my eye. Throughout elementary school we had a Teaching Assistant that was amazing. Those of us in gifted & talented knew her best, with me knowing her the most. She was in charge of the art supply room, so I used to volunteer to help her out whenever needed. I really loved Miss L. Flash to 4th grade, It was late fall, early winter. I remember it being the time of year it got dark early. It was a Saturday evening and my mom sent me downstairs to get something out of the basement freezer she needed for dinner. My sister just got home from some Forensics thing up at the high school. I was walking up the stairs, in fact I was 3 stairs from the top when I heard the conversation. Miss L hung herself. I would learn on Monday that it was my home room teacher that had found her. It was in the basement, the athletic supply room, with a jump rope. Christ that sounds like a bad game of Clue. Rumor is she left a note. My teacher then has since passed on. So, any remaining hopes of answering the haunting question of “why?” seems small. It just doesn’t seem right. It never did. She would have known there was a possibility of a student finding her and I truly believe she would never, ever do that to any of us. No matter what the reason was she felt her only way out was suicide, she loved her students and was proud of what she did. Am I saying there is some deep, dark murderous plot here? No. Am I saying it’s less than Kosher? Perhaps. All I know is it just doesn’t make sense. Something is blaringly wrong with it.

So, by age 11 I had confirmation this town was full of ugliness and shit. It likes to appear all wonderful and happy. Such a lovely place to raise your family. In reality, it was a Stepford town where football was almost a religion (though we sucked) and nonlocals and those even remotely “different” were completely unwelcome. If they couldn’t chase them out, they would harass them until they masterfully donned the mask of the fake smile. It’s one thing if you are dealing with a town full of arrogant, unkind people. This was an entirely different ballgame (football of course). They were all of that, just plain wrong and (I know this seems like an exaggeration) somewhat topped with a bow of evil.

I learned how to fake the mask when needed. Oh the absurdity of faking a fake smile. It wasn’t easy and there was a price to be paid at times. I managed to dance around it all and even grew to stand firm and speak up when I felt things were wrong. Fuck, growing up is hard enough as it is without having to learn how to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee for what feels like is just to save your soul. In the end, I escaped this town, soul intact, non Stepfordized. Truthfully, I never even went back to pick up the hard copy of my diploma. I hit the ground running and swore I’d never be back.

Yes, I do have happy memories of growing up here. I really do. Sometimes they fight to cloak the skeletons.

And here I am. And here I stay. And heaven help this town.

I’ve gotten to a point in my life where it truly does take quite a bit to phase me. Most events turn into a tiny dip, lil hill or occasional loop de loop on the roller coaster that is my life. This latest one is gnawing at me a bit though.

It’s at times like these that I wished events in my life were made up. Partially because then they wouldn’t be real. Partially because it is just so bizarre that it would make me pretty damn talented. This is one that combines them both.

I’m having many mixed emotions about moving back to the town I grew up in. It’s only been a week so they are all still very fresh. This is a town I swore I’d never live in. A town I loathed for many reasons. Funny how life works out.

So, this past Friday night I’m getting ready to go out and I notice an e-mail notification pop up for a new message in my Facebook inbox. It’s from a girl I’ve known for years. Decades even. Like basically since the 1st grade. Despite being really close (like BFF forget passing notes, we had a notebook we’d pass) a couple years after graduation we lost touch off and on. We’ve kept in spotty contact for the last five or six years. Even this last year on Facebook, our contact remains pretty here and there. It’s been a couple of months since we’ve really had some solid interaction with each other. When I saw the “OMG too funny” subject, I fully expected the message to be a “Ha ha I heard you moved back!” kind of thing. Oh how I wish it was. Instead I got:

“Hey Nat. . .
*** and I are getting divorced, and we are both on evenfreaksneedlove.com. I just logged onto his account. .i like to help him find dates, and I just saw he winked at you!!! OMG too funny. He is (Insert user name here), his pic is bad, he is cuter in person. And the greatest guy!!! btw i am dating girls now, so that kindof was a problem for our marriage. lol Anyway, thought it was super funny, and if you are lookin for a great guy. . he winked.

BFFKindOfFriendYou’veKnownSinceFirstGrade

WHAT THE FUCK!!?!??!??!! Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

I think I read it like three times before it truly started to sink in. Holy range of emotions batgirl!

Ok…

1) Usually one would get more of an ease into things. Maybe not so much on the divorce part. I think even I’m guilty of dropping that one like a “Yeah, Prick is an abusive fuck and I’m done” kind of bomb. But, the lesbian part is usually not quite sammiched between “BTW” and “LOL.” Truth be told, not an entire shock she’s batting for the home team. Also, she knows me well enough to know I’m the gal that’s going to be supportive and all about whatever makes her happy. Still, lil bit of an ease in to all this is all a sister is askin’ for.

2) Not yet divorced and helping him find dates. That’s…ummm…sweet? Perhaps it is the therapist in me, but they’ve been together far longer than my ex & I were and have kids as well. Now, I don’t really know him, so I could be way off on this, but after years and kids and being told you ain’t sportin’ the right equipment, there’s gotta be some healing time involved there. Even if he wants to jump back on a mare- she’s a new lesbian. Do you really want a rookie pickin’ dates for you?

C) WHY WOULD I WANT YOUR HUSBAND?? There may be a sub clause I’m missing in the chick rule book about suddenly jumping off the heterosexual ship but OMG NO! Beyond creepy!! Beyond wrong!! Like I’m calling a technical foul here! And what the hell must you think of me if you feel I’d be all up on that????

Perhaps I should simply be flattered by this whole situation. Lord knows I am no angel and certainly no prude. But leapin’ jeebus on a pogo stick, even I have a threshold of yuckyness. This done sprinted its happy ass right on past it.

And how does one respond to that message?? My first response of “Are you out of your fucking mind???” was put on the back burner while I let this all sink in and fester a bit. Instead I opted for a much more politely worded version of “WOW. Sorry to hear about your divorce. Congrats on embracing your inner lesbian. The offer to date your husband is very flattering but I’m gonna have to pass because umm.. I’m kinda seeing someone. Yeah. That’s it. Best of luck to ya both. I’m here if you need me, but forgive me for not winking back. What a small, crazy, fucked up lil world we live in.”

Still haven’t heard back from her. Future reunions shall be interesting.

Who loses their journal during a move but has every cable and cord wrapped, organized and labeled? That would be me. My journal is where most of my posts stem from. I have many that I want to put up now that we’re all moved in to our lovely new digs. But, goofy me can’t find it. So, you’re getting one pulled fresh from my sleepy brain. (Well, it was fresh Thursday night when it was written.) Courtesy of an Office Max legal pad from 2005 (as dated by the state hearing screen card from my lilest monkey’s birth shoved in the back of it) and the pack of papermate pens I happened upon while searching for something to write on.

Despite the bliss of a bit of closure to a month of much hell in my life, today I am deeply saddened by the loss of John Hughes. No, I did not know him personally. But, the mark his work left on my life and who I am can not be denied. I don’t idolize celebrities and I damn sure am not going to be the crazy chick tweeting about wanting to join him in the afterlife. I am, however, going to give him a lil blog love. I wouldn’t be me without a lil babbling side note in a post and would hate to let anyone reading this who knows me down. It will be short, it will be sweet and it may piss some off but here it is:

I firmly believe that we should mourn the loss of John Hughes on the same level as that of Michael Jackson. In reality, part of me wants to say more than, but who am I to pu tone person’s life above another’s? Yes, as an entertainer MJ was an inspiration for some. His musical catalog, however, was not exactly life changing. While Thriller was fun, grounbreaking and will remain a classic, Hughes gave strength to the underdog, love for the geeks, helped a world understand what it was like to be a teenager and The Breakfast Club should be mandatory viewing for all as it contains one of the single most important lessons we should all learn in life. Will they fill a stadium for Mr. Hughes, hell even a theater, and televise it? Probably not. That, my friends, is a damn shame and breaks my heart.

While I was not even close to a high schooler when the bulk of his greatest hits came out, my sister was. The soundtracks to his movies became the soundtrack to my life. Bits and pieces of each of his movies have been found in my memories, gift wrapped lovingly and stowed away to hand down. From my Duckie who used to ride his 10 speed past the ad agency I worked at in high school every day to me sitting on the floor with my old sewing machine whipping up my prom dress (no, it was not pink, but close). Hell, I even dated a guy named Blaine. While my underwear was (to the best of my knowledge) never up for viewing, the science team appearantly had a bet going where $10.00 went to the first one of them I actually touched while we were at the State Science Finals. I had agreed to fill in for one of the team after they came down with chicken pox or some such thing. I was the Genetics ringer. Also, the only girl. That day is a whole nother blog though. I think you get what I’m laying down here.

John Hughes Rocked. In a BIG fucking way. For the memories, the lessons, the Duckman, the misfits, the no more yanky my wanky the Donger need food, the rise of the science geeks, the stand of Cameron, the hopes we’d all have an Uncle Buck someday, the understanding of a generation, the love. Thank you just doesn’t seem to be enough sir.

I leave you with my favorite moment of his…

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal…Does that answer your question?…

Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.

Harold: So. you don’t use the umbrella any more? No more revolts?

Maude: Oh yes. Every day…but… I don’t need a defense any more, I embrace. Still fighting for the big issues but now in my small, individual way.

After my year term as president for SFAR, I stepped down. No more standing at the edge of a corn field on dark, damp nights with a half ass tv crew facing the owner of a dog farm, his friends and the damned Sheriff all glaring at us while toting shot guns. I will have to find the photo of his giant “stay off my land or alce” sign. Yup, alce.

I had to. Not long into my sophomore year of college, my year from hell began. From that point on, my umbrella was put to rest. The next few years were simply survival mode and healing. But, slowly, surely, my inner Maude returned. I too embraced embracing. Years, experience and some wisdom gained through those had shaped a different spirit of protest for me. No longer standing with a picket sign did not mean I turned a blind eye either. I never stopped voting, writing letters and signing petitions- using the voice, albeit more tempered and quiet, that I had. I strived to lead by example. Hoping it would be infectious. I also learned to choose my battles wisely.

It wasn’t until I left graphic & web design and went back into health care that my voice would once again return with some chutzpah. I have a fiery instinct to protect my residents. My first round back was at a company with all new construction and hoity toity lil old people for residents. So, my biggest battles typically were with hospitals that wanted to discharge them to nursing homes and doctors that didn’t follow through. There is, however, one priest that is not likely to forget me anytime soon.

One of the hardest things to do is to get a priest to come to a group home. Seriously. I’ve had Catholic residents whose entire parish was off on sabbatical and they were dying and no priest from another parish would come to visit them to administer the last rights (now called “anointing of the sick”.) I had a 92 year old lady move in from Racine ( a good 1/2 hour away from where the home was). She was Catholic, came from a nursing home and her priest had developed Alzheimer’s. She still wanted communion every month, so it was my mission to make that happen. Well, I struck out everywhere and finally just called the priest that came by already for another resident. What’s one more for communion? He was a crab on the phone, but agreed to see her and “see what he could do.” In he glides on his monthly visit and all the staff are warned not to let him leave without seeing the other lady. Sure enough, he tries to fly out of there and encounters me at the door. Smiling. I gently remind him of his promise. This jack ass then walks up to my lil 92 year old in the dining room and YELLS in her ear “ I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SUPPOSED TO TALK TO YOU. YOU ARE NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. CALL YOUR OWN PARISH.” Oh the seething. I turned and walked outside to the parking lot while he said goodbye. As soon as he walked out that door (all the staff’s faces now popped up pressed against the windows) I let him have it. Both guns blazing. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? You can NOT talk to my residents like that!” He didn’t even looked shocked. Just smug and pious. “She is not my responsibility. She is not part of my parish.” “Really? Well it’s a good thing Jesus didn’t operate on that theory now isn’t it? That is THE most unchristian thing I have ever heard.” His retort? “I don’t expect you to understand. You are just a commoner and most likely not even Catholic.” *deep breath* “I’m a recovering Catholic and they have the likes of people like you to thank for that. As far as the ‘commoner’ thing goes? Well, you weren’t born with some special mark on you that deemed you the chosen one, you pompous ass. ANYONE can take the vows you have. Clearly they were nothing more than some regurgitated words for you and hold no meaning. Even a “commoner” grasps the concept of the Golden Rule. If Jesus not only did not turn away lepers but embraced them, what gives YOU the right to turn anyone away? Let alone some sweet little 92 year old lady that has been a devout Catholic her entire life. So, go ahead and prance your self-righteous self back to your Mercedes and drive off out of here. But trust me- when it comes time for the God to whom you have supposedly vowed your life to judge you, He will knock that smile off your face.”

I called my mom when I got back in “Mom, it’s official. I am truly gong to hell. I just cussed a priest out in our parking lot.” My mom, bless her lil heart, “Well, that took longer to happen than we all thought and I’m sure he had it coming..”

Then I began running the “community based residential facility for those with chronic mental illness.” My first couple of weeks there I heard the phrase “ Oh ___ , you guys will take ANYONE.” At first I was offended. A long time case manager friend of mine came in surprised as hell to see me there one day. Just like the rest, she uttered “What the hell are you doing here? This place is a total hole and will take ANYONE.” And it hit me. Harder than Bobbie slapped Whitney around. “You’re damn right we will, J. You know why? EVERYONE deserves a home. Period. Yeah, it’s a bit of a hole right now, but I’m working on that. Someday we’ll be the Pfister for “crazy” people.” My crusade on behalf of those with severe chronic mental illness in Milwaukee then began.

The biggest thorn in my side? The VA. They HATE me there. I have gotten in more knock down, drag outs with them than I can honestly count. The reason? I have never seen a more gross negligence for the care for one’s patients EVER. And these are VETERANS. The very people that have laid their lives, and sanity, on the line for us. I have marched my happy ass down there and stood outside doctor’s doors waiting for them to sign off on a script renewal because it’s Friday and they have ignored my gentle fax reminders for two weeks letting them know their pharmacy will not dispense another supply of oh Depakote until the order is renewed. If it’s not signed that day, they don’t have Depakote for the weekend and the last thing that a person with schizoaffective disorder needs to do is go cold turkey off of that. They also insist on messing with the dispensing as well and that is a fight I have yet to win. The prescription will read “75mg of Zoloft, one tab, by mouth twice daily” Do they dispense 60 tabs of 75mg Zoloft? No, they dispense 30 tabs of 150mg and tell us to cut it in half. Not only does this not match the order, most of these medications they have us do this with are not to be cut PER MANUFACTURER’S INSTRUCTIONS. They don’t care though, because it’s cheaper that way. And, well, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t really exist. They’ll tell you so.

So, I found my voice again, using it boldly with my head held high, but only for small, individual “fights” if you will. No picket lines. No rallies. No mass assemblies. No newspapers. No half ass TV crews. No fields at night.

And then, one night, a tweet passed by my screen. It caused me pause. A desperate plea from what appeared to be an Iranian to hackers for assistance. It was @PersianKiwi and I knew there was a chance it was real. From what it was requesting, I knew what it was looking for and why it would be. (Sometimes the 2 years I dated a hardcore hacker comes in handy). As I clicked and read and clicked and read, the story unfolded. I began to research the Iranian election and the candidates that ran. That is all I could find. Nothing of this scandal that they were tweeting of. I then stumbled upon one Twitterer whose emotion was way too human for him to be bullshit. When my eyes could no longer focus, I went to bed.

My head swimming. My heart aching. My eyes wide open.

The decision was simple. I was picking up my umbrella again. That morning, Elphaba was born. My own little personal declaration of unity and support. Over the course of the next weeks I stayed glued and focused on what was going on. I am not ashamed to admit that I have sobbed, screamed and wished that I could do more to help these people that, yes, I don’t even know.

There have been many arguments thrown out there and at me:

“These are Iranians. They hate us, They are our enemies.”

“The change of power will do nothing to protect us from their nuclear program.”

“They made their own bed, let them lie in it.”

“How do we know it’s even real and not some propaganda to engage us in war.”

My retort is simple. Firstly, I respect the opinions of others. It would be hypocritical of me to not and I do understand where their points may come from. Mine is this:

Ghandi is the man in my book. We do need to be the change we wish to see in this world. Whether they are in Iran, China or Istanfreakinbul, they are people. Humans. Just like us. People have been a fascination of mine all my life. I have taken several different language not just for the language, but to understand the culture as well. These people standing (for the most part) silently declaring their desire for independence, for their vote to actually count, for their government to recognize they have given them a vote and need to uphold that are not the same “Iranians” that we have been shown via media for years. Propaganda and distortion of the facts by government and media works all ways. Could their nuclear program remain intact regardless of a change in regime? Possibly. But, I highly doubt it. One of their platforms for change is peace. Symbolized by the beautiful green ribbons bound around their peace fingers. Their eyes have been opened to the truth of the world, not what their government has force-fed them for years. They know. They don’t want to become another America, they don’t want to completely abandon their culture, their beliefs. Their requests are simple. Basic. They want to live peacefully with the rest of the world, they want more of a real say in their government, they want to live more humanely. And I wholeheartedly support them in all of that. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are basic human rights no matter what soil ones bare feet intertwine with. No matter what language they speak. No matter what God they pray to, or don’t pray to.

Perhaps I am odd, but, if someone walked up to me, told me they hated me (yes even if they stated they wished me dead), then was being beaten in the street two minutes later because they were simply walking down the street holding the hand of the person they love, I would stand next to them in saying it was wrong. That, dear friends, is just how Elphaba rolls.

And, for now, Elphaba isn’t going anywhere.

Dear “Dedicated Thin”-

Fist off, thank you for stopping by and reading my post. (I use post vs. blog because your comment leads me to believe that the probability is high that you haven’t ready anything else I have written.) The fact that you took the time to not only do so, but leave me feedback as well is appreciated. Seriously.

Secondly, in re: to “what a piece of complete shit”, it is good to know that I’ve done something right in your eyes. You see, I pride myself on not doing things half-assed, so accomplishing a complete shit versus a partial or incomplete shit is a concept I can more than hang with. So, yay for that!

Now for your big question- “Are you really that much of an egotistical, self-centered asshole?” That is a bit more difficult to answer. I say this because your vagueness doesn’t really give me much to go on. The mere fact that I have a blog where I spew forth random babblings about my life and expect people to read it could indicate yes to egotism and self-centeredness. Then again, one could point that same theory at anyone who has a blog. Further, one could point it toward someone who posts such a comment on someone’s blog whom they don’t know. Goodness knows I would not want to indicate those were my feelings towards them. I am constantly amazed that anyone reads my babblings and frequently thank them for doing so. I put it out there not really expecting anyone to read it at all and am grateful when they do. (I could reference my introductory post regarding my blog and its description, but quite frankly that may come across as snotty and I really don’t feel that is necessary at all.)

Is it the whole topic itself that seems to wreak of egotism and self-centeredness to you? I understand that keeping some tadpoles from being flushed and opening my big mouth when I feel that things are wrong isn’t really saving the world. There are thousands and thousands of people out there that have done and will do great, heroic things to truly save this world. Their stories are FAR more worthy of reading than mine and that fact is one I do not lose sight of. They are also people I strive to be more like on a regular basis. Even if it is just in my own quirky, dorky lil way.

To some extent, I can see why one may question me being egotistical and self-centered based solely on that one post with those points in mind and knowing or reading nothing else about or by me whatsoever. I do honestly apologize if that is the only perception received as such.

Having said that, who does such a thing? Honestly?

Mr./Ms./Miss/Dr. DedicatedThin. You set up an account with LiveJournal, filling in only that you are allegedly from the US and that your birthday is supposedly January the 3rd. That’s it. No entries on it. No following of anyone. No friends. You leave your vague, judgmental comment while hiding safely behind your cloak of anonymity. I trust I won’t offend you by stating that has just a tiny lil whiff of self-righteousness to it. Which brings me to the last word of your question/comment…

Asshole? No, no really I am not. An asshole struts about on a regular basis exuding negativity and unprovoked, rude, inappropriate, unwarranted behavior. It is a skin worn daily and an ugly one at that. So, I say, with great confidence, that I am not an asshole. Can I be a bitch? You betchya.

For instance, I’m willing to bet you may find it just a touch bitchy when I say that before you go on anyone’s blog and start leaving comments such as the one you left me, you may wanna put on your big people’s panties, lay your own self out there for others to see and scrutinize and lob a couple of bricks at your own glass cottage.

Say what you want to say, think what you want to think about me. At least I have the balls to look someone in the eyes. That includes myself in the mirror.

Thanks again for stopping by and have a wonderful day!

Sincerely,
Natali

P.S. You may want to avoid reading part three of my Save The World Syndrome Saga sugar because I’m guessing you’re not going to like that one either and I’m not going to refrain from writing it (or anything else for that matter) due to your comment.

P.P.S. It just occurred to me that another possible reason for your disgruntledness could be that you are an angry PETA supporter that has become offended by my comments regarding them. Well, it that’s the case… fuck you. Yup, I said it.

Displaced paragraph time.

Middle school saw little “activism” action from me. I did end up throwing one bully up against a locker and scaring the ever lovin’ shit outta her for picking on M, the special ed student I was most protective of. Other than that, challenging Mrs. L, our accelerated English teacher who was a total condescending, uppity biotch, on a regular basis was it. Nothing much to report.

Then came High School. My lack of desire to eat meat continued. I went around and around with the principal repeatedly until Mr. W caved and added a salad bar as a healthy, non-meat alternative in the cafeteria.

I rescued a tank full of tadpoles doomed to be flushed. Ok, so the teacher was just scared of me at that point and handed them over. That was a feat in and of itself considering the guy walked, talked and acted like a varsity wrestling coach. Not that an accelerated, college level, Biology teacher can’t be a wrestling coach or vice versa, but com’mon now it was just weird. (side note: him teaching “reproduction” redefined the term “awkward as hell.” ) The tadpole’s poor father was sacrificed in the name of science. Teach decided to just spring a lesson of how to artificially inseminate a frog on us. This started with poor Kermy getting plucked from his lil ole tank, pithed in the head and well I won’t describe the rest to spare my guys that read me. Needless to say, I went OFF. Forced dissection was expected. Springing a frog slaughter on an innocent gal will get you a verbal woopin’ you aren’t soon gonna forget.

The other cause that was important to me was the continued segregation by some. Through a program called “220” here in Milwaukee, city kids could get bussed into the burbs for school. I was close with the three of them that started with the program back when we were in elementary school. Despite knowing these kids for what 8-10 years, well let’s just say “better schools” still have ignorant fucking students. I’ve never been one to label people, especially my friends and certainly not with something ridiculous. They weren’t my “black friends.” They were my friends. Period. Many smaller battles were waged on their behalf. The one that sent me over the edge?

One had a little sis, R, who was a freshman when we were seniors. Her locker was down the band geek/art hall with mine and I loved the hell out of her. (Still do 🙂 ) There was this one girl (I’ll call her IB for Ignorant Bitch) that used to be mean as hell to R for no damn good reason. R just took it each time. I was constantly showing up and threatening IB to back off. One day IB got REALLY stupid and jumped my girl. I came around the corner just as she grabbed her from behind, threw her on the ground and started swinging. R didn’t fight back. At all. I had dropped my bag and hauled ass down that hall. The band director came around the back corner just as I pulled IB off her. Probably a good thing he did in hindsight. He took both of them down the hall toward the office.

Next period I find out R got a three day suspension. IB got two days detention. I shit you not. Yeah… into the principal’s office I STORMED. I suppose I should mention that I’d known Mr. W. since I was in Kindergarten. His son and I were in the same class and I used to tutor his youngest son, who I swear works for like freakin’ NASA now. He sat there listening to me rant not only about this absolute bullshit that just occurred but all the other copious amount of uncalled for shit my friends quietly put up with and shouldn’t have had to. By this point he knew better than to interrupt one of my rants. My happy ass sat in that office until he called R and apologized. Then I made him promise to suspend IB and permanently relocate her locker. Forever. And he did. I just couldn’t be in there for that part.

I then turned around and waged war on the School Board. I insisted they include cultural diversity into the curriculum starting in elementary school. If only I could visually share with you my memory of the looks on their faces when they attempted to use the celebration of Black History Month as a defense. I do feel a tiny bit bad for making the Secretary cry. Just a tiny lil bit though.

It’s safe to say MANY were happy as all get out to see my ass graduate and get the heck up out of there at that point. Guess I can’t really blame them. I kinda screwed up their whole little ignorance is bliss thing. If that is true, if ignorance really is bliss, well I guess I’m just a wipe the smile off my face then kind of gal.

On to UW-Milwaukee. College is fodder for one with Save The World Syndrome’s soul. The list of student orgs you can join is more fun and more difficult to choose than picking your classes. You name it and I wanted to join. The one that seemed most suited to my non meat eatin’, salad bar gettin’, tadpole savin’ self- yup, Students for Animal Rights.

Hold up now! I know the first thing you thought of when you read that was PETA. Don’t even. I’ll get to them assholes later. Just chillax and hear me out.

I think it was like four meetings in when I got nominated and voted in as the first Freshman President they’d ever had. Before I agreed to take it, I told them I would do it ONLY if the group embraced my philosophy on what the group should be and how we should represent ourselves. I even made them revote after I was done with my little speech. The vote came back with me still President. Six members quit and walked out. In the next three weeks though, we gained 45 new ones. My philosophy?

We act as a RESPONSIBLE voice for the rights and treatment of animals and an educational resource for the students. Our library had squat covering anything to do with animal rights. This meant stocking books and literature that presented ALL sides to the main issues that were at hand and allowing those reading them to come to their own beliefs- whether it was that same as ours or not.

We did NOT call people who ate meat evil, we did offer sound, trusted information on how to healthfully embrace vegetarianism. ALL “shock material” was tossed. I got huge shipments of bumper stickers, samples, buttons, literature- you name it- from The Body Shop, The Humane Welfare Society and other groups and companies that did not test on animals. We were not to protest in any way, shape, or form unless it was agreed upon by the whole group. In fact, a dog farm in Darboy was our only real protest. That and assisting in getting steel jaw traps banned in Wisconsin (yuppers, I actually spoke at the hearing they had at the state capitol) were our two big stances that year. I’ll save those stories for another day cuz this bad boy is already way too long. Sorry bout that. I also worked with several other student groups and organized the first ever Earth Day Festival at UWM. That day just kicked ass. Last, but not least, we were NEVER, EVER to portray ourselves as the student division of PETA.

While, at that time, fundamentally I do believe PETA’s heart was in the right place, they’ve had (even then) a history of goin’ about it the wrong way. I don’t do backasswards well. At least not when it comes to important things. My grandma always taught me you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with giant posters of scalpless monkeys and gorey lab animals = beyond vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with vegan brownies, Kiss My Face samples, Body Shop animal friendly buttons and please adopt, spay and neuter your pets posters= honey. And I am all about the sweet folks.

I’m gonna wrap this part up for now (finally!) But, I’ll leave you with a lil something to kick back and ponder while I’m writing the third (and last) part of my Save The World Syndrome “affliction” saga…

Nowadays, you mention PETA and people think of a bunch of crazy assholes that want Obama to apologize for a fly. Seriously, a fly. No matter what you picture, then or now, I never understood one thing. Perhaps it’s just the dork in me. But, it’s the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “EH-THICAL.” Not “EEE-THICAL.” So why the hell do they pronounce it like they’re freakin’ pocket bread???

“You know what your problem is, Pee Wee? You have ‘Save The World Syndrome.’ You wanna save everyone and everything in this world and you’re never going to be able to do it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m gonna die trying then, Dad.”

I was 14 at the time. The cause? A stray cat.

I trust you won’t be taken aback by my divulging that I was an odd, odd lil girl growing up. I hated meat. My three fave foods were peanut butter & banana sammiches, raisin bran and mac & cheese. Not only did I love veggies, to my sis’s great joy, I always ate her lima beans for her. Once, I sat in the dining room for three hours chewing a bite of pork chop my father insisted I try, yet I refused to swallow. My mom finally took pity on me. This lil paragraph is going to seem a bit out of place as I jump ahead, but trust me.. it will all make sense in the end. Well, maybe more toward the middle really. Just enjoy the ride.

My first true sign of activism came at the ripe old age of five. To this day, my parents are still baffled as to where it came from. Honestly, I’ve never cared where, when, why or any of that- it’s simply a part of who I am. I tend to breathe in with the good and boldly expel the bad. Anywho. First week of Kindergarten. I was already getting yelled at by Mrs. H daily for asking to read the book to the class at story time. “You can’t read!” “Yes I can!” By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was feelin’ fiesty.

Recess time. I watched a stray dodge ball take off, with no one after it. I didn’t know then that it would land in my destiny, I simnply saw an excuse to run. While I’m scooping it up, I realize there is a rucous of laughter with an undertone of the sound of a girl crying. It didn’t take long for me to scan the playground and see a group of kids I hadn’t noticed the other two days. Some looked exactly like me, two had foam helmets on, one was in a wheelchair and a few had what I would learn later on were some visual characteristics of Down’s Syndrome. The girl that was crying, was also bleeding from her cheek. Surrounding them was a group of older kids. Fifth graders to be exact. Now, I knew the first group was different in my head, but, in my heart, they were just kids. As I wandered closer, one of the older kids threw a rock at one of the lil boys in a helmet.. Though it missed him, he was still scared.

The look on his face is what first lit that spark, that beyond fiesty protectiveness that has never really gone out. It also sent me sprinting. Right on up to Mr. IThinkI’mCool rock-hurling boy. His arm goes up to pitch again and I tap his shoulder. He swings around and ends up pegging one of his buddies with the rock instead. Dumbass. He looks down at me right pissed and just screams “WHAT??!!!?” I look up at him, smile sweetly and say “I’m going to have to ask you to please stop throwing those rocks at them.” He laughed, literally in my face. Which, of course got all his lil mindless cronies to get to cackling as well. “Go away kid” he says as he pushes my forehead. I swear one of my eyebrows raised. My feet were planted firm though and I didn’t budge. He was too confident though to notice. (Seriously, picture Fargus) He picks up another rock, this one’s pretty damned big. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m going to ask you again to please stop.” More laughter. More fear on those kids faces. Dumbass completely ignored me. He pulled his arm back to chuck away. I’d had enough. So, I grabbed the arm that was up in the air poised to throw, spun him around and I socked that lil bastard in the nose. Knocking him out. Cold.

THEN the teachers decided to saunter over. To this day I think it was the sudden quietness that fell over that area that caused them to stop their freakin’ coffee clutchin’ and finally pay attention. All I know was, I got to meet the principal for the first time that. day.

Sitting outside her door, I could only hear her half of the conversation to my mom. Bless her heart though, she basically asked her why her lil five year old girl had to police the playground against bullies. Mrs. P didn’t really have an answer to that. Especially considering the lil girl whose cry I heard needed stitches. Dumbass came to like 2 minutes later on the playground. I could hear him siffling away in the nurses office though.

The next two days Mrs. P and I would have more bonding time during lunch recess. Dumbass visited the nurse again on Thursday. This time I heard the nurse make a comment about him ever being able to have kids again. Friday one of his cronies got a black eye. I always started the same polite way with them. Asking them to stop. They refused to stop, so I didn’t either. I continued to hover protectively over the special ed kids at recess. Doing the job that I feel the teachers should have been doing. I didn’t care then whose job it was. I just knew someone needed to do it. Each time my mom got called she asked the principal the same question. This continued until the bullies stopped. One would get a lil brave on occasion, but I was never far enough away to not be able to get there in time to handle them. Eventually, they gave up. Hell, by the time I hit second grade, people would finally start playing with the special ed kids too. I think they realized I was getting faster and taller and just wasn’t going to back down. Ever.

By the end of that first week I’d really given the principal a reason to hate me. Turns out I could read. Mrs. H. chucked the book at me and yelled “Fine! Here Miss Smartypants!” When I actually started reading the story, she turned white and ran out of the room. After I said “the end”, I looked up and saw her and Mrs. P standing at the back of the room. I wish I would have had a camera for the “OH SHIT” look on Mrs. P’s face. Especially when I smiled very sweetly at her and it turned into fear.

So, where does the misplaced paragraph from earlier come in? You didn’t honestly think that this was my only story leading up to my father’s lecture at 14? Hell, that wasn’t the only lecture I got. Nope, this was just the birth of my crusade. The full journey takes a bit and this, dear friends, is only the first post. There are three in total. I’ll let this one sink in a bit before our journey continues. Until then…I have the playground of life to go keep an eye on.

Perhaps it is part of the job description of being the “Poster Princess for Murphy’s Law.” Perhaps I was one in a past life and this is karmic payback. Perhaps it’s a side-effect of my ability to attract those who are emotionally/mentally unstable like a moth to a proverbial flame. No matter what the reason, no matter what the rhyme, in the last roughly 18 years, I have racked up 9 stalkers. Bet you thought I was kidding about the whole cats’ lives thing? Nope. I kid you not. Most of them were tame, some even funny, and one… one scared the ever-lovin’ hell out of me. Together they would make an excellent book I think. Or run the risk of sounding like a bad Scream/Scary Movie rip off. Rather than torture you with the full stalker journey (this is bound to be long enough as it is), I shall give you a mere sampling.

I see that look. Of course I’ll toss in the worst one. You should know me better than that. 🙂

They say you never forget your first. Stalkers are no exception. Although, I giggled through the whole first time of having sex, this yeah, no. That’s a whole other post though. Ok.. onward.. I was 16. He went to another school. Classic story- boy meets girl. Boy and girl become friends. Boy professes undying love. Girl says, sorry, not so much. Boy turns into a drooling lunatic. Girl says, thank you bye bye. No, really, bye. Please, leave NOW. Boy threatens to kill himself. Girl is freaked out. I called his parents, his friends, the guidance counselor at his school- anyone I could think of. After a month of nonstop threats, I snapped. Bear in mind, this wasn’t just phone calls, letters would show up in the mail every day, notes in my locker- this was a full on assault. The first (and only time) my dad would hear me utter the word he hates the most was the last time I talked to stalker number one. After uttering “If you won’t be mine forever I swear I’ll kill myself” for the 104th time, I finally lost it. I screamed “Then grow a sac and fucking do it!!!” then hung up. I never heard his voice again.

No, he didn’t actually grow a sac. Rumor has it he found someone much cuter to drive insane. Alright, because I’m all about full disclosure, I did see him a year later. I said I never heard his voice, I never said I didn’t see him. We were playing his school in girl’s basketball. I ran out to the bus to grab something… it was dark, I turn around, alone on the bus and he’s standing at the front of it- smiling. I took a deep breath, walked toward him and when I got close enough, clocked him right in the nose. Laid him flat, jumped over him and got the fuck off that bus. He was gone by the time security made it out there.

The first one that actually creeped me out popped up Freshman year of college. This was also my first tandem stalkage. I was already facing a total single white female scenario when this one reared it’s creepy lil noggin. And no, it wasn’t one in the same. I ruled that out first. Out of all of them, this one still makes me the most upset on some level. Not because of the actual stalker, but because of the UW-Milwaukee police’s handling, or lack of as the case may be, of it. Barney Freakin’ Fifes. This one is the one that smells of Scream, but this was ’93 so way ahead of the time. I lived in the dorms. When our phones rang we could tell if it was an off-campus call (one ring) or an on-campus call (double ring). If it was call waiting, you were screwed. It’s a Saturday morning at like 6:43am and the phone rings. Double ring. I’m thinking it’s my friend Aaron with pancakes for me, because he rocks like that. Me,very sleepily: “Hello?” “*over-exagerated obscene phone call heavy breathing*” Me, still thinking it’s Aaron, “*giggle fit*.” Clearly not Aaron: “Laugh all you want, I know who YOU are.” THAT WILL SHUT A GIRL UP. Especially when it’s followed by a freakin’ cackle. A CACKLE. Then he hung up. I don’t remember how long I stood there trying to process everything that had happened. Though it probably seemed like hours, I’m guessing it was closer to 5 minutes later the phone rang again. Single ring this time. I squeak out a “hello.” He responded: “You stopped laughing. Good. There may be hope for you yet.” Then, hung up again.

Two nicely quiet days go by. I’m in the library and just started working on one of the computers. Random message pops up “Hi gorgeous.” Me: “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong gal.” (there was some hot blonde cheerleader looking gal on it right before I sat down) “You look much better with your hair down. Why don’t you wear it down more?” I realize that, yup, my hair is all piled up. Me: “Who is this?” “HA HA! It would seem I still know who you are and you, my pretty, haven’t a clue who I am.” At least he used proper grammar. I logged out and left.

Next night, mac lab in the Union. It took one message “I love that white shirt on you.” I’m telling you, I scanned that entire lab and there were 5 people, none of which would have remotely been the person. Now, I’m a pretty tough girl (see aforementioned nose breaking) but, I called to have someone walk with me back to the dorms. I never walked at night alone after that. Period. For the rest of the semester I would get typed notes under my dorm room door, he would call and pop up on computers randomly. I eventually got pissed and taunted the hell out of him. I begged him to show up. He never did. I guess I should be thankful for that. But, the UW-Milwaukee police did nothing. They even laughed at me. The didn’t take it seriously at all and certainly didn’t do a thing to find out who it was. After break was over, he had completely disappeared. Honestly, I’d still like to meet him and find out what the deal was. And who the hell he was. In a well lit public place of course, my ass is getting old.

And then there was HIM.

Fast-foward to ’98. My best friend A and I had hit the road and move to Cali. We managed to score a fabulous 3 bedroom at what was totally dirt cheap for Sunnyvale at the time. Locked intercom, cable tv and a pool table in the laundry room, sand volleyball court, pool, jacuzzi- we were livin’ large. We also had an extra room just sitting there empty. Now, A knows my history w/ stalkers and the unbalanced ones. He actually got to witness one of the funny ones (muffins and typed love notes randomly left for me like everywhere). He’s working at a really great company- one of the first online gaming sites ever. I loved hanging out there. He calls me at work one Friday afternoon (this is when I was running the group home for Autistic children and teaching art at the day program attached to it). He’s got a guy he works with that just broke up with his girlfriend a couple of months ago and really needs to move out of his folks’ house cuz they are driving him nuts (oh the irony). His thought- we all have dinner together and see if I’m comfortable enough to have him take the extra room over. I already had plans with my friend L, so I dragged her along too. There ended up being a group of like 8 of us total. First impression… not so bad. Then the red flags start popping up. Just two. But enough to make me a bit nervous. First red flag- he asked a random question, L answered it. He kind of snapped at her and said ” I was asking Natali.” I called him on his rudeness and he apologized. Second red flag- he called me his ex girlfriend’s name- twice.

After dinner, everyone piles back to our place to hang. This is the one moment I almost wish I would have handled just a bit differently and junk punched A all up in his man business for. A, psycho boy and I were all on the patio smoking and talking and A puts me on the spot “So, whatchya think Lolli- can he move in?” Right in front of him. (Lolli was one of the zillions of nicknames peeps had for me). I freak. I stutter. I wanna ram my head into a wall after I say “Well, why don’t we do a trial weekend and all sit down on Sunday and see if it will work or not.” Why I didn’t put on my big girl panties, suck it up and say “dude, I’m really not sure about this, I’m thinking he’s got some issues” is beyond me. I’m gonna blame the beer I just got done sucking down.

Psycho boy then just gave up any effort at behaving. He blatantly hit on me. He kept inappropriately touching me. He kept talking about how much like his ex I was. Always while no one was around to witness. Sneaky little fuck. Everyone left, he passed out in the back room. I told A I was really not comfortable with the situation. In fact my exact words were “This guys has stalker tattooed all over him and he’d be living under the same fucking roof A. The boy ain’t right. Please do something.” I totally locked my bedroom door that night. Next morning, psycho boy was gone. In fact, he stayed gone until Sunday evening. We all sat down and A laid down the “Hey, sorry, this just isn’t going to work.” Psycho boy looked incredibly calm. The anger seething from his pores was palpable to me though.

Monday afternoon, A calls me at work. Psycho boy stole his key, had one made, and moved a bunch of crap into the spare room. Before I can even respond he pleas with me “I promise I’ll handle this. Just make sure L is with you when you come home.” So, L and I get home. He’s not there. We go out back and take a dip. He pops up and jumps in…. with his clothes on. This is now awkwardness personified. I know showing fear makes it worse. I know he knows I’m already feeling it. I do my bet dance of confidence to dissuade him, praying he buys it. We’re all walking back in to the building and L ends up a couple of paces ahead of us. He grabs my arm and pulls me into him, other hand digs into my crotch and whispers “I’m going to have so much fun with you.” Then disafreakingpears. He didn’t come “home” that night. Three days go by and he’s not at work and not back at the apartment. L is out of town now so I don’t go home until A and I meet up and go home together. Friday comes. L is back and her and I are home having a cocktail and chatting. We’re sitting on the floor and with the way the furniture is set up, when someone walks in, all you can see is me. Pscyho boy comes storming in the door, points at me and says “YOU’RE MINE NOW.” Then he notices L and tries to laugh it off. He slams “his” bedroom door. Then it slams again and I hear the bathroom door slam and the shower turn on. Phone rings. It’s A. “Shit, I’m on my way home.. I just found out he was fired.” All I can squeak out is “It’s too late. L is here, but please hurry.” He’s up in the city, so I know it’s going to be awhile. L and I just try to go back to normal chit chat. I keep the phone by my hand.

I glance at the clock and realize 45 minutes have gone by. The shower is still running. First thought- there’s a dead psycho boy in my shower. I pound on the bathroom door. No answer. It’s locked. I try his bedroom, it’s locked. I call 911. I swear it was less than 5 minutes before I opened the door for the cops. They had heard the whole story on the phone. They pound on the bathroom door once. Then kick it down. It’s empty. Just a running shower. They don’t even knock, they just kick down his bedroom door. I’m not going to lie, I was behind them in the hall. I felt the need to see what was going on. Room was dark. He was in the corner of it laughing manically. They flipped the switch and reveal a wall shrine to me. I’m not kidding. An actual shrine. He’s clutching a length of rope. That’s the point I fled back down the hall and waited on the patio wishing I had something a hell of a lot stronger than a Camel ultra light 100 to smoke. He agrees to voluntarily check himself into psych and walks out with the police. Smiling at me the whole time.

I wish this was the happy ending. It’s not.

A comes back as psycho boy is being hauled off. I’m standing there numb. The coast seems clear. L heads home because she’s been gone 3 days and has cats. A decides I need food and drink and heads out to go get it. I jump in the shower to scrub the feeling off. Well try to. I just step out and wrap my hair up in a towel when the intercom rings. It rings through our phone, much like the dorms. Double ring for someone at the front lobby. I throw on a T and grab it. I did not expect to hear him on the other line.

“Hello?” “Open the door.” “No” “I forgot my wallet. Open the door.” “I thought the police had you.” “I’m voluntary. Cab will take me. I need to pay for it, open the door now.” “Nope.” “OPEN THE DOOR YOU FUCKING WHORE!!!” *click* 911. I call L- she’s not home yet. I’m staring at my patio door. Knowing he’s outside the building…somewhere. I stand there dripping. Waiting. I grab a knife from the kitchen, scared to take my eyes off the patio door. All I can hear is my heart beating and the distant sound of one of the neighbors watching Bollywood. The double ring breaks the silence. I pick it up, unable to even speak. It’s the police. They explain he’s no longer at the front door and they are searching the area. I don’t even hang up, just drop the receiver. Still staring at that patio door. Knowing. Time ticked by with my heartbeats. I appreciated each one as I heard it. I honestly knew that there was a slight possibility it may be one of the last times I hear it. Thump. Thuddump. Thump. Thadd- there he was. Face leering up at me over the top of the patio now. A combination of lust and hatred staring me dead in the eye. I took one deep breath and stared back. Let’s fucking do this. Then we both heard it- the shout of one officer to another coming around the back “WEST SIDE CLEAR!” He winked at me. licked his lips and disappeared. Thump. Thaddump. Thump. I waited. I lost track of my precious heartbeats. My eyes never lost track of that patio though. The apartment door bursts open, I spin, knife up.

It was A. I dropped the knife and literally collapsed in a ball sobbing. As he held me tighter than I think I’ve ever been held, he told me that when he pulled in 7 squad cars had psycho boy surrounded. 12 guns were drawn and pointing. At him and his duffel bag. I would later find out the duffel bag contained some very hardcore S&M gear and a wrapped case of medical scalpels. I never saw or heard from him again. He was admitted to a locked, highly secure psych unit. A slept for the next month on the futon in the living room… in front of our patio door. Just in case. From that night on, I wasn’t ever truly alone and always had to check in if I wasn’t with him.

Part of me wants to see him again. He’s getting junk punched for sure. I owe him that at least that. I will also say thank you. We don’t always have control over the things that happen to us in life. But, we do have control over how we let them affect us. Each of my stalkers have taught me a lesson. Prior to psycho boy, I had been through a year of utter hell. One I’m not sure I’ll be able to blog about any time soon. His presence in my life proved to me that I had been able to maintain the me-ness I fought so hard to hold onto. The year of hell didn’t strip it away. Standing there with the knife in hand, staring his deranged face right back proved to me that I wasn’t about to let his punk ass take it either.

So, thank you psycho boy. But, yeah… still getting junk punched. Asshole. 🙂