Monthly Archives: January 2013

“I’m sorry I offended you. Could you tell me about this rubber butt?”

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On Labor Day of 2012, Gail and I had breakfast and went mattress shopping. That, however, was not enough to make us look like lovers, so we stopped into our local sex store (or “novelty store” as the Midwest insists it be called), just for fun. Now, I don’t say “just for fun”, because I’m blushing. I say it, because the one we went to is super trashy, even for what it is. We both much prefer the other one nearby if we’re actually buying anything. This one was strictly giggle-worthy.

Fortunately, we were able to make our jokes and comments without worrying about offending other patrons, as the store was deserted. We laughed over the poorly airbrushed photos: “Where is the rest of her leg?!?!” We recounted the time Gail declared that you’d have to be hit pretty hard with a paddle to brand the word “BITCH” into your skin… just before slapping her arm with it to prove her point and realizing that she was, indeed, getting a “BITCH”-shaped welt. We make these trips a few times a year and this was a pretty standard one. Until…

Me: “‘… and then he touched me down there.’ Seriously. That would make for a great children’s audio book. Read by children for children.”
Gail: grimacing and laughing “Ugh.”
Shopwench: “He didn’t call it that.”
Me: “What?” I was confused since neither of us was talking to her.
Shopwench: “He never called it ‘down there.'”
Me and Gail: in unison “Uh… yeah he did.”
Me: “Like all the time.”
Shopwench: “No. He didn’t. He called it her ‘sex’, but he never called it ‘down there.’ I’ve read all three books.” She said proudly.
Me: “Um… yeah. So have I. He calls it that several times. I know, because we make fun of it all the time.” What can I say? I felt like taunting her.
Shopwench: “Well, no, he doesn’t, but that book has been amazing. That book has saved so many marriages. I’ve had women come in here in tears, because that book has done so much for them.”
Me: “Um… okay. I read it. I liked it well enough to get through it. I preferred Bared to You…”
Shopwench: cuts me off  “Yeah. I’ve read it. Fifty Shades was better. I could’ve done without the three kids and shit, but it was a great book.”
Me: waving a white flag “Um… yeah. I didn’t really care for the two kids at the end. I thought that was unnecessary.”
Shopwench: “No. That book has done so much good. You have no idea.” Yeah… I was just agreeing with your last statement.

Okay, lady, first of all, you are getting awfully offended for someone who is presently standing in front of a vibrating rubber butt. Secondly, it’s just a book. The only reason for you to take this much offense to some light criticism of it, that wasn’t even directed toward you,is if you fucking wrote it. Third, we are your customers. We didn’t ask for your damned opinion and keeping that to yourself is sort of your job title, when you’re selling Fleshlights. I said nothing critical about people who were into bondage, shoving marbles into their lady parts, getting sexy hit, or reading erotic novels. I quoted a poorly written one that I’d obviously read, myself. That’s it. If anyone on this planet is in a field that requires a sense of humor, it’s the gal selling remote control vibrating panties. For all you know, I could’ve bought out your entire stock of wooden and suction cupped dildos, had I received pleasant customer service.

Most importantly, “saved so many marriages”?!?!?! HOW? I mean, sure, it’s nice that these women are realizing it’s okay to be strung up like a super sexy deer, if that’s what gets them going; but if your marriage is truly in jeopardy, it’s not because of a lackluster sex life.

sexy deer
If you’re not impressed by my image search results, you’re wrong.

Marriage takes trust, committment and not stealing hundred dollar bills out of my wallet. Cough: I have issues: Cough. Some satin scarves on the bedpost might spice things up, but they haven’t saved shit. Furthermore, you’ve had women come in “in tears” over Fifty Shades of Grey? Were they sporting black eyes? Did you call the police?!?!?! Gail went to the YWCA charity ball supporting battered women and told me that every story of abuse she heard, from men letting the air out of a woman’s tires so she couldn’t leave, to monitoring their cell phones, reminded her of “that awful book you made me read.” So, while most women are adults and can put that alpha male shit into perspective and realize it’s only sexy in a fantasy, if one were bawling and mumbling about Fifty Shades, I’d be inclined to suggest a nice shelter.

We left the store shortly after this encounter with Gail calling me “honey”, because she thought it would be funny, and I bought my next vibrator elsewhere. In the meantime, this has become a marvelous inside joke that can’t be explained to anyone who asks.

screenshot Im sorry I offended you

Not so sure these thoughts are worth your penny…

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Scene: a dressing room. Insert intermittent laughter.
Me: “What size are these bras?”
Gail: “36 D’s and DD’s.”
Me: “You have enormous areolas.”
Gail: “That might make me self-conscious if I hadn’t had hundreds of men compliment them.”
Me: “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
Gail: “‘Ooooh, look. It’s a full moon.'”
Me: “Did any of them actually say that?”
Gail: “No. But who do you think would?”
Me: “Cam. Definitely Cam.”
Gail: uncontrollable agreeing laughter
Me: “Do you ever lick your own nipples during sex?”
Gail: “No. I can’t reach them.”
Me: “Seriously? How?”

Only now do I realize that there were probably other people in the dressing room to hear that exchange. We tend to overshare.

I once sat quietly at the vet with tears endlessly rolling down my face. I lost three pets in a day years ago and blame myself (though the ex-husband with the matches might be a better target) and that day my Judybug was hurting and I couldn’t fix it. Gail rubbed her hand over my back as I tearfully joked about how we definitely looked like lovers. We decided we could pull off sisters, both being white and brunette, so we said it like 11 times when no one had asked. It was super convincing. We should be spies. Codenames: Flamingo and Whore.

sexy flamingo whore costume

When I was 5 years old, my grandpa died of lung cancer. I thought it would be a nice idea if we just propped his body up and pretended he was still alive. I think I suggested it, because someone told me it was illegal. I decided I’d hide him in the hamper, because that’s where I hid during hide-and-go-seek. Gail hears super-human skills for denial at a young age in this story. I hear the tale of a selfless child who would break the law and give up her favorite hiding place to keep her grandpa near.

I have three different customers who look astoundingly like Levar Burton, Vincent Van Gogh, and a chihuahua. I want to tell them so, terribly. I don’t. None of those are compliments. I kind of want to hum the Reading Rainbow theme song just to see if he joins in enthusiastically. I get told I look like Velma from Scooby Doo all the time. I’d be thrilled to hear someone randomly exclaim “JINKIES!”

A coworker once yanked my Kindle from in front of me (THE HORROR!!!!!) to look at the print, exclaiming “Wow, I wish I could read print that small!” I don’t. I had an explicit sex scene on the screen at that very moment. We’re talking key terms like “errection” and “tight sheath.” I once tried to show the same coworker a picture on my phone, only to have forgotten about the picture of Black lesbian sex I’d sent one of the guys as a joke. Let’s hope she couldn’t see a thumbnail picture that small either.

A woman recently declared that her son did not have a library card, though it was in her name and had the correct birthdate. I tried to suggest a situation in which someone may have used her name.

Me: “I really don’t know. It may have been an aunt or maybe dad’s girlfriend or something.”
Customer: defensively “Okay. I am dad’s girlfriend.”

She was clarifying that she was indeed with the father of her children. I understand that I work in a lower income, highly diverse area, but this was not a sterotype. I suggested two random situations we’ve had repeatedly. I did not say “I don’t know. Why don’t you axe yo’ baby daddy?”, though the look on her face said differently. I can try with all my might to be P.C., but people have really got to try and meet in the middle by not taking everything so damned personally.

When I was married, I would ask my ex-husband to clean, since he wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t do it no matter the methods I used (leaving him alone, nagging him, screaming at him, encouraging him) so I’d do it myself. Then, he’d grab the trashbags from my hands yelling that I never gave him the chance and was just manipulating him. I just wanted a clean fucking house. For the longest time, after the divorce, my house was spotless. Today it’s clean enough, but clothes are scattered everywhere. I think it’s a sign that I’m healing. Then again, I went to sleep cradling my gun in its sock like a stuffed animal a week ago. Maybe not. LOL my pain!

Coworker C was trying to be friendly last night as I read a paranormal romance book. I’ve shared this interest with a couple of the female employees, but that’s all. I’d just finished another and he asked:

Cowork C: “What’s the name of that one?”
Me: “I don’t even know.” I did fucking, too. It was Pleasures of a Dark Prince and I was not saying that.
Coworker C: gestures for me to turn it over. I do and there’s a receipt taped to the front so no one can see the cover art.
Me: “I just… uh… it’s part of of… um… it’s just some series… the uh… dark immortals… or immortals dark… or uh something… um Immortals After Dark. Yeah that’s it. It’s paranormal romance. Not something you’d be interested in.”

It was the verbal equivalent of tripping over a chair and I rocked it.

Get your porn off my smut!

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As I’ve previously declared, paranormal romance is my guilty pleasure. I don’t really watch T.V., so I read book after book after book of what I affectionately and privately call Werewolf Porn or Warlock Smut.

In the last week, I have read 6 books, or 1,800 pages (give or take a few) of my very favorite genre. The thing is, my  title of Werewolf Porn is meant to be ironic, because these books often aren’t even that adult. Don’t get me wrong. They’re dubbed paranormal romance for a reason. I wouldn’t read them to my 9th graders. But LibraryThing, which is far superior to Good Reads, doesn’t even tag many of the series as erotica. On average, I’d declare them a medium on the number of sex scenes. The plots are always incredibly invovled, with an in-depth backstory in addition to the main storyline, which does involve a shapeshifter falling in love with an empath. What can I say? I loved Halloweentown when I was eight and never grew out of that.

Example:

There are three species that control the world: The Changelings, the Psy, and humans. Changelings are shapeshifters. The Psy are beings connected by a neural Internet (not quite a hivemind) and have mental powers, such as telekinesis. They can’t break free of the Net or they die. The Psy shut off all emotions around 100 years ago becaue violence was ripping apart their species. They’re cold and powerful and want to keep it that way by destroying any Psy who are showing a tendency toward power because they can feel. The DarkRiver and SnowDancer Changelings, however, are encouraging the rebellion and a war is a brewin’.

See? That’s no less complex than the latest Janet Evonovich book. It’s more complex than any Nicholas Sparks novel I’ve read. It’s sure as hell more complex than 50 Shades of Grey. Those are still fine options, though, because reading is entertainment. I’m not saying my Warlock Smut is great reading, just that it is reading and it’s pretty much equal to any contemporary literature. So the problem?

slave to sensation

The problem is that that’s the cover of the first in the Psy-Changeling series. The problem is that I’ve been careful not to have that picture show as I’m typing this, because I’m on my computer at work. The problem is that it’s a huge pain in the butt to read about the battle of the Lore, or all supernatural species, while I’m substitute teaching, because I have to make sure that none of my kids get a glimpse of:

no rest for the wicked

There were several sex scenes in that book and they weren’t exactly fade-to-black moments either. But they’re no worse than many contemporary fiction novels. There’s plenty of plot, because I can’t read just plain old erotica without getting bored. I read Bared to You, by Sylvia Day, because I’d read that it was like if 50 Shades of Grey had been written with any level of skill. It was an enjoyable read, for erotica, but I haven’t read any since then, because there’s just not enough going on outside the relationship. I love paranormal storylines and always have, so paranormal romance is great. Sometimes, it is just erotica with claws, and in that case, I stop reading, because it’s dull.

Personally, I often find the covers more offensive than what’s beneath them, because actual pornography is a bigger moral issue for me than literature. As I’ve said before, it’s pretend when you’re reading it. No one is being pushed around (a big theme in most romance) or degraded, because they aren’t real. That naked lady on the screen, though? She had a 3rd birthday party. There was likely a princess cake. That freaks me out.

So, in short:

Get your porn off my smut, because it’s not even kind of subtle to read something with a peice of paper taped to the front. E.L. James can put a classy cover on “I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing. My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.”

50 cover

Surely we can get something classier on my Warlock Smut.

Looking for love…

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At this point, I’m really too busy for dating of any sort and only check my Plenty of Fish account in case the perfect country Catholic boy just happens to message me… and because it’s funny and I love screencapping profiles and messages for Gail.

pof january 12

About Me

1) Must love God and Go to Church
2) Must live some what healthy life style
3) Good communication
4) Likes going to bed fairly early on week days (9ish)
5) Get up fairly early 4-6 ish
6) Like outdoors (camping, fishing, cycling, running)
7) Lounging watching movies, sports,
8) Sex doesn’t have to be crazy just often
First Date
on the fly
Summary:
Must love Jesus… and fucking like wild animals.

How a conversation turns to senseless babble…

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On Fifty Shades of Grey:

Me: “I really don’t understand how people like erotica. There’s just not enough plot for me. ‘I loved the plot! I loved the thick and deep plot.'”
Gail: “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Me: “What plot? Tell that story without abusive sex.”
Gail: “Okay, okay. So there’s this girl and she’s like 22 and has a porn star name…”
Me: “Huh. You’re right.”
Gail: “…and she doesn’t know what a computer is and she doesn’t know what a mechanic is. She’s really plain and she meets this guy who’s really hot…”
Me: “She wasn’t really plain. She was hot and just really insecure.”
Gail: “… and she also hates herself. So one day, he says he… wants to hit her and then play Yahtzee and she’s like ‘Oh my gosh! He said he wants to play Yhatzee with me! So they play Yhatzee… a lot of Yhatzee. Then one day he doesn’t want to play Yhatzee anymore and he just wants to hit her and she cries, because she really misses playing Yhatzee.”
Me: “That was… surprisingly dead-on.”
Gail: “OH! And his mom was sexually active.”
Me: “I said without sex. She played Yhatzee for money.”
Gail: “Or it sounded like she was playing Yhatzee for money. All he knows is that his mom would go into another room with a man and then she died.”
Me: “And there was a Yahtzee board in the living room.”
Gail: “And there was blood all over it… I don’t think Yahtzee’s a board game.”
Me: “We’re clearly quite inexperienced at Yahtzee.”
Gail: “Yeah, I haven’t played Yahtzee in a really long time.”
Me: suggestively “I know. I really need to play some Yahtzee.”

What the hell are we even talking about anymore?

If Rapunzel had a Suzuki…

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When I was little, I used to get so frustrated putting on socks, that I’d end up in tears. If anyone tried to help me, I’d throw a tantrum. That hasn’t changed much. Sunday, on the way home from Mass, my power steering went… then my a/c went… and my battery light came on. I called Chad, because he’s a dear and changes my oil.

Me: “Hey, um… my power steering just went and I was wondering if you could look at my car.”
Chad: sounds like he was asleep “Uh… yeah. I guess.”
Me: “Like… now? I’m sorry. I’m just right by your house and I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Chad: “Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”

So, I promptly got lost in his neighborhood, which is pathetic, because he lives in my hometown, like a half a mile away from me. The power steering wasn’t working and it wasn’t any easier to manage while on the phone getting directions. It was at this point that I started to feel far to Damsely for my taste. Finally, I pull into the drive I’ve pulled into a hundred times, expecting grief for getting lost. Instead, I got:

Chad: “Holy shit, did you not see your car was smoking?!?”
Me: “Uh… no.”
Chad: “Do you not see all that smoke?”
Me: “Um… I do now?”

What? I never wash my car, because I don’t care what it looks like. The windows are always that unclear… and I wasn’t looking for smoke. I don’t know shit about cars. As far as I’m concerned they run on equal parts pixie dust and prayer.

So, we popped the hood and smoke poured out. The anti-freeze was boiling. Literally. We could hear it. I’m in church clothes and Chad’s wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt, clearly expecting this to be a quick fix. After poking around for a little bit, with stern orders for me to stand in the yard in case things explode – Like I want him hurt if things explode? Who would fix my car!?!?! Kidding. I’d feel horrible – Chad pulls out a strip of shredded rubber and tosses it aside, announcing that the serpentine belt was out. I knew that term. I knew the dealership had quoted over $80 to replace it, with labor, on my foreign car. Chad tells me to put the car in neutral and pushes it into the street, grabs his keys and tells me to come on, we’re going to AutoZone to get a new belt. AutoZone tells me the nearest one is a twenty-minute drive and I ask Chad to drop me off at my Gramma’s so I can borrow her car.

Chad: “We can just run up there real quick, if you want.”

So, after a trip two towns over to pick up the belt and some anti-freeze, I bought Chad a pop without asking, because I knew he’d refuse the thank you.

Chad: suspiciously “You’re getting two drinks?”
Me: “Yup.”

I just handed it to him without a word. Then I secretly stashed $7 in gas money in his truck (a page from Gail’s book), when we got back.

Two hours later, I was still sitting in the yard, on a purple Indian blanket from the hatchback, to keep from getting my church pants dirty. Jay, who was supposed to be at work, was threading the serpentine belt through the top of the engine, while Chad was under the car, covered in grease.

dear boys

It was the prettiest day of the year so far and I had my wonderful boys spending their daylight hours screwing with my “jap trap” car, as Chad calls it. I was intensely happy that I’d bought each of them Christmas presents. They never get me anything and they never have to, because I know they’ll pay me back eventually. They didn’t even act annoyed with me, just made jokes about my fear of birds when I’d duck at the sound of wings. They laughed and teased like normal while I sat useless on their lawn.

becca convo 1

It’s not that I’m not grateful. I totally am. I’m grateful I didn’t have to work yesterday or today and that Chad wasn’t busy. I’m mostly grateful to be surrounded by Knights in Shining Armor who, literally, want nothing in return. If I could find a boy like that who wasn’t one of my boys, I’d drop to my knees and blow him in public. Then I’d have his babies. Not because of the public oral.. cuz, you know… that’s not how procreation works. Anyway, they’re wonderful. I just hate being any kind of helpless. I’m cherishing the time I’m spending single, because I love knowing that I can do it on my own. But yesterday, I couldn’t. It’s not like I can ever truly return the favor, either. What am I going to do for them? Help them find a book? Hem their jeans? It’s sure as hell not going to be car related.

After the grueling changing of the belt, my car was making a fun new clanging noise. I took it to the mechanic on prayer yesterday morning and realized I had no way to leave the auto shop. I texted Jay, but he said he was working for Chad (who’d succumbed to a stomach virus) and had only had 3 hours of sleep. Awesome. After Chad spent his day off playing mechanic, he got sick. Gail texted, asking about the car. I told her I was stranded and she said she’d come get me since we had plans later anyway. It felt less Damsely for some reason, likely because she’s just family, like my Gramma. I had her take me by McDonald’s so I could take Jay breakfast as a thank you, since he was having a sucky morning. His face lit up.

Rapunzel spent her whole life in that tower, growing out her hair, waiting to be saved, but why? If her hair was that long, she could’ve just used it to climb down. It probably wouldn’t have hurt as much either.

When I met my boys, I was going through a divorce and was utterly shattered as a person. One night, Jay and Chad went to Buffalo Wild Wings with me, even though Ken and Ward wouldn’t go. Then Jay drove around aimlessly for an hour, just because he knew I didn’t want to go home. Another night Chad stayed out until 2:30 in the morning, talking in his truck with me, because he knew I couldn’t go home to my ex-husband. And in return, they got $7 cash and a pop and some breakfast burritos. Somehow, the scales seem uneven.

Ultimately, the car ended up needing a new pulley of some sort and only cost $165 and was ready today. This meant I didn’t have to ask anyone for money or a ride, which would have been the pink and purple icing on the helpless little lady cake: another reason to be thankful. I suppose it’s just part of the human condition to have to need people sometimes, but I still want to throw my socks across the room and scream about how I can do it myself… even if I can’t. I hate that I can’t. But I absolutely love my boys and I absolutely love Gail for being there with a smile and a “no problem” when I do need it. Hopefully I get the chance to be a good friend in the future and return the favor.

Rapunzel was so fucking lazy.

rapunzel

Titanic: An “Over-Analysis”

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So there comes a time in life when you find yourself turning it over in your brain… approaching it at different angles… coming up with pithy comebacks several hours after the fact… because what did he mean you’re “too analytical” and “over-analyze”?!?! It’s not like you couldn’t get through a simple late night meal you didn’t need at an IHOP without going on your “Titanic Rant”! It’s not even a rant! It’s a simple, perfectly healthy, rational review of historical fiction that was completely ridiculous!!!!!!!

Seriously. That internal monologue totally happened when Jay interrupted someone to say “DO NOT get her started on Titanic“, because…

titanicThat version would’ve been so much better.

I’ll open with a disclaimer. On the surface, Titanic is an enjoyable watch. It’s a cute love story with a strong female lead. It’s too damned long, but I have no attention span for movies and television anyway, as I only watched half the last episode of Vampire Diaries, before I turned off the T.V. to read. My appreciation for this movie, however, is with zero analysis and I have it on good authority that I’m incapable of such a feat. End Disclaimer.

Rose would not have spoken to Jack. She wouldn’t have had the chance to do so. She was betrothed to a very powerful man and likely would not have been left alone long enough for her pretend suicide attempt, let alone the many touching moments that followed. Had the former even occurred, Jack would’ve been arrested and immediately hauled away from her when it appeared she’d been attacked. They wouldn’t have waited around to hear the explanation of a hysterical female. He touched a very wealthy man’s fiance and would pay for it. The movie ends and it’s bloody.

Let’s go ahead and allow them to meet, though. Maybe 17-year-old (they discussed University) Rose really is left alone long enough to threaten to fling herself from the boat and gets the attention she is clearly seeking. This was 1912, ya’ll. Women didn’t talk to strange men and no one married for love anyway, especially not the rich. They hardly do that today. They married for social and economic standing. The end. There were two classes back then: upper and lower. The modern day middle class did not rise until the mid-forties.* Rose would’ve been choosing between extreme wealth and extreme poverty and she wasn’t exactly a low-maintenance gal. Furthermore, by choosing the latter, she was dooming her mother to it, too. The woman wasn’t exaggerating when she asked Rose if she’d like to see her reduced to working as a seamstress. This was backbreaking, 16-hours a day, may or may not get paid and still won’t be able to eat, work. It was some of the only work available to women and they still couldn’t survive on it.* All because Rose wanted a little more excitement? Rose was a strong and feisty woman by 1997’s standard, but by 1912’s, she was a selfish brat with no loyalty to her mother, who did all she could to raise her, send her to the best schools, and hide the fact that the money was gone, so she could procure a nice man to take care of her, because women couldn’t provide for themselves.

This brings us to the men: Jack and Cal. Jack was a homeless man. You can put whatever spin on it you like, but the man was a vagrant and a moocher.

“Just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge and now here I am on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you fine people.” – Jack Dawson*

Had she ended up with him, she’d have eventually been the wife of a factory worker, dreaming of the days when life wasn’t so grueling.

Cal, however, was quite the catch for the time period. He was classically handsome, wealthy, and frankly, he put up with a lot of shit from Rose, because he actually loved her. So, he ordered for her at dinner. It was 1912! That was commonplace and no one would’ve thought anything of it, including Rose. He bought her the paintings he hated, paid a man the equivalent of $476.19* today for saving her life, and gave her a diamond that explorers still coveted 85 years later. That’s more than pretty much all women of the day could ask.

“There’s nothing I couldn’t give you. There’s nothing I’d deny you if you would not deny me. Open your heart to me, Rose.” – Cal Hawkley*

I mean, the man only hit her once and it was for cheating on him. That’s really quite the show of self-control by today’s standards. Statistically speaking, Jack would’ve hit her far more, due to economic standing and because she was impossible.* I mean, the woman told penis jokes at a formal dinner. That’s disgusting in 2013, let alone 101 years ago.

“Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.” – Rose DeWitt Bukater*

So, Rose ends up with the millionaire. The movie ends and it’s bloody.

“He married, of course. And inherited his millions. But the crash of ’29 hit his interests hard, and he put a pistol in his mouth that year. Or so I read.” Rose Calvert, 1997*

Rose never would’ve spoken to Jack and she never would’ve chosen Jack, but let’s just say she did. The events progress exactly as they did in the movie and the ship is sinking and she chooses to risk death with a drifter, all for the sake of luuuuuuv. They’re in ice cold water and the lifeboats aren’t willing to rescue them, for good damned reason, because they’ll be tipped and everyone will freeze to death. We’re supposed to think the guys who make that call are douches, but in reality, they’re the heroes who saved everyone on those lifeboats. Meanwhile Jack and Rose find a floating door that won’t hold the weight of both of them. An entire fucking ship just sank and she doesn’t encourage him to seek out more debris, because then she won’t have a chat buddy? They couldn’t have held hands on His and Hers doors? She’s a selfish bitch and he’s a moron, so he dies. Rose goes on to live a beautiful and fulfilling life full of people she loves, as the result of making Jack her sacrificial lamb. She marries and has children and grandchildren.

“Then she marries this guy named Calvert, they move to Cedar Rapids and she punches out a couple of kids.” Lewis Bodine*

Then, just before her death, she presents a diamond worth millions that could’ve taken care of her whole family for generations, and tosses it off the side of a boat to be dramatic, even though no one is watching. I know we have this idea in society that we aren’t supposed to use the word “cunt” for the elderly, but in this case, I’m willing to make an exception. Finally, Celine Dion music plays in the background, Rose dies and is transported back to the Titanic to meet Jack and the credits roll.

Wait. What?!?! She lived a rich life full of people she adored and screwed out of millions, and her idea of heaven is a ship that sunk and killed hundreds of people, just because of a one-night stand from 85 years ago?!?!?! Her whole family got owned.

“I saw my whole life as if I’d already lived it. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared… or even noticed.” – Rose Calvert, 1997*

Meanwhile, the early 1900’s American poor lived their own adventures, as in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle:

“… meat would be shoveled into carts, and the man who did the shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even when he saw one—there were things that went into the sausage in comparison with which a poisoned rat was a tidbit. There was no place for the men to wash their hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a practice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the sausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the scraps of corned beef, and all the odds and ends of the waste of the plants, that would be dumped into old barrels in the cellar and left there. Under the system of rigid economy which the packers enforced, there were some jobs that it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these was the cleaning out of the waste barrels. Every spring they did it; and in the barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale water—and cartload after cartload of it would be taken up and dumped into the hoppers with fresh meat, and sent out to the public’s breakfast.”*

Meanwhile in China… those are her toes:

chinese foot*

“I know what you must be thinking. ‘Poor little rich girl, what does she know about misery?'” – Rose DeWitt Bukater

Nailed it!

I’m fighting the urge to transform these to Chicago Manual format citations.

http://historymatters.gmu.edu/d/145

http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1882147,00.html

http://fyi.uwex.edu/financialseries/files/2012/02/Financial-Capability-and-Domestic-Violence.pdf

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120338/quotes

http://www.angelfire.com/mi/peachypenguin/titanicquotes.html

http://www.davemanuel.com/inflation-calculator.php

http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/jungle/quotes.html

http://kuhlcat.hubpages.com/hub/Women-Today-Have-it-Easy

Dear PoF:

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Alright, Plenty of Fish. It’s time we had a talk. No, this isn’t about the guy who took me out and tried to sell me a diet plan. No, it’s not about the man who asked if the reason I hadn’t had any real luck was because I was Catholic… and then called me an uptight bitch when I didn’t respond. It’s not even about Abdul542 and his “Ooh very awesome to me I love to be your friend” message.* It’s about your offensive fucking ads… you bag of dicks.

*Copy and paste. Actually.

offensive ads_1

I am being whored out to whom, now? The cop who’s about to use his furry handcuffs to arrest me for “drinking while sexy” or the one who is working diligently on his 1993 MS-DOS 6.2 with a smile on his face?

offensive ads_2
Well, now, obviously the gaping wound between my legs means I’m looking for someone with money. Fortunately, these guys don’t mind claiming that online… perhaps because they’re only 22? That’s why they haven’t had time to date (or put on clothes), because they work so much! Super believable. I suppose this isn’t a surprising pitch in a post-Christian Grey world where I am to assume the man in a pooka shell neckalce is a “megabajillionaire” without asking questions… or he’ll punch me in the neck… and it will be haaaawt.

offensive ads_3

My profile lists me as average, so I can only assume this advertisement was directed at me, because I’m dating online… of course I’m fat and insecure about it. That, however, does not mean I don’t deserve a well-hung billionaire just as much as the next gal. Fortunately for all chubby ladies, there’s an apparent shortage of pushin’ cushion here in the Midwest, where we’re known for vegetarianism and marathons!

offensive ads_4

Well, we’ve already addressed the weight insecurity, so really, your question about artificial sweetener is redundant at best. Even if that works, though, it’s likely time has managed to kick my ass, because I’m desperate enough to find a partner… online!!!!!! Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if he saw me for the first time and I looked like one of The Golden Girls? But let’s get serious people. This is a free dating site. Like I can afford Botox? Fortunately there’s a cream that will stop “women from going under the knife” to battle their insecurities! You know what else might do that? Botox. It’s a fucking injection.

offensive ads_5

For starters, the headline “Wanted” kind of makes everything look like an ad for a drug trial that may give me either the power to start fires with my mind or an exotic venereal disease. Furthermore, what about this random guy signifies his religious beliefs? Am I to assume the back of his shirt reads “I’m Catholic and I Know It”? He is, however, on a beach, so he must be rich, since you know… those cost a lot?

In conclusion, Plenty of Fish, I must admit that your ads are not going to deter me from using your site, because I’m still too cheap to pay for any other. No, no. The fact remains that what might actually deter me is the last “catch” who initiated contact:

Photo: none

Profession: Job

About Me:

“It makes me laugh when people want a picture on your profile but yet they dont have one themselves lol. People on this this are shallow. And i know i look good cause i am in body building. Kgcbhgcbhfcngc fhjgc ghjh ghjh ghhbfc ghjjh vhjjh”

… but that’s a different rant.

Seven Reasons Why I Avoid Working With Children

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I have a confession to make, y’all. I’m Catholic. It’s kind of our thing.

Here goes…

I don’t like children.

Yes, yes, a substitute teacher who doesn’t like children. Could I be more of a Hey Arnold character (or more of a child of the 90’s)? Let me clarify. I don’t like young children. Teenagers, the ones everyone else hates, I adore. They’re funny and sarcastic and I don’t have to worry that I’ll crush their little souls when I snap at them, which I rarely do, because I actually enjoy being around them. I know how to deal with them. I have an undergraduate degree in them. Children, though? Children make me wonder how the species has survived this long when they are so fucking annoying.

public edPublic education looks a little something like this.

While I look forward to teaching middle school and high school, I do everything I can to avoid substituting elementary school, short of not paying my rent or starving. I have literally and purposefully waited until the last minute a job was posted to accept it so I could get paid the same money for less time with young children. I am not cruel to them, by any means. I’m actually quite sweet to them and would never wish them harm. A bystander might even dare to think I’m good with them and maybe I am. I wouldn’t know, because as they’re hugging me and I’m hugging them back, I can only think “Ew. Stop touching me. It’s cold and flu season.” I, of course, love  the children that I’m required to love by blood, but I still avoid them between ages seven and eleven and here’s why:

1. They all like me.
Not only do they all like me, they actually care whether or not I like them. This means I have to be super conscious of my temper when they are driving me fucking insane. If I slip and snap at them, because I’m in a room with 22 attention starved human puppies, I could absolutely crush their little egos. I swear there are people who go into early childhood education, just so someone will love them, because these kids do. They want you to compliment their coloring (it’s just fucking coloring), they want you to listen to their stories, they want to draw you a picture, they want to hug you.

2. They have boundary issues.
Yeah, that’s right. They want to hug you. People are dropping dead of whooping cough (somewhere, I’m sure) and this little seven-year-old wants to sit on my lap and wrap his arms around me. Sweetie, I’m calling you Sweetie, because I don’t even know your damned name. Get off me… and why are you sticky?

3. They’re disgusting.
Seriously, kid. Why are you sticky? No, I do not want to see where your stitches were. Please stop wiggling your bloody tooth in front of my face and wash the hands that you just had in your mouth. Now wash them again, because you just wiped snot all over them.

I would rather have teenagers inquire about my vagina again than be faced with a hoard of young children who desperately want to show me their wounds.

4. They’re hypochondriacs.
If they don’t have wounds to show me, that’s quite all right. They’ll make some up.

“My head hurts. I can’t breathe. My neck hurts.”
“Mine does, too. Yes you can. That’s because you’re squeezing it.”

This went on for the whole damned day. The eight-year-old hypochondriac actually exists and it’s even more obnoxious than the twenty-eight-year-old one, because of the added whine and the fact that they’ve said it 93 times. Maybe this just works really well at home and they get coddled and kissed for it, because they’re all spoiled.

5. They’re all spoiled.
I live in the same white suburban middle class town I grew up in and it’s only gotten wealthier. Just recently, four eight-year-olds told me they own a Northface. Why the hell do you own a Northface?!? That’s a $150 coat and we may get snow this year! I own a Northface, because I work two jobs and I’m not going to outgrow it in the next year. You, however, are growing up in an obesity epidemic and about to hit a growth spurt. It makes about as much sense for you to own that coat as it does for you to own that pair of Uggs. Those are $200 boots, worn by someone who doesn’t even know what $200 is.

6. They’re repetitive and redundant and they just say the same thing over and over again.
Yes, I know you have a Northface, because you told me 14 friggin’ times! Your little friend there has told me five times that you went to P.E. yesterday. The girl to his left has told me seven times that you saw your teacher at lunch. The child with her hand in her mouth has mentioned her loose tooth forty-six times. Please go sit back down before my frustration inadvertantly showers you all with my brain matter.

7. They are little jackhammers of inquiry.
“Where’s our teacher? Why’s she gone? Is that your phone? What time do we go to lunch? Are we having indoor recess or outdoor recess? When do we go to the library? Can I leave my paper on my desk? When is lunch? Is that a Nook? Are we going to music today? Are you going to be here tomorrow? Is our teacher coming back tomorrow? Why is she gone? When is lunch? Why does it say we have P.E. today when we had it yesterday? Are we taking AR tests today? Can I read my book? When do we go to music? When do we go home? Why do you keep rubbing your head?”

Don’t worry. If you just stop answering, they’ll make sure to repeat it at least thirty-nine times.

Maybe one day I’ll get over my whopping committment and baby issues and I’ll have my own kids, because I’m stupid and think babies are cute. They’ll be absolutely fucking adorable until age seven and then I won’t love them anymore until they’re eleven. My Gramma has actually suggested I “farm them out” once they hit this point and take them back a few years later. I always knew she was brilliant.

In the meantime, note to self: Do not substitute elementary school on the first day of your period.

Two Broken Girls

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2 broken girls

Humor: the most entertaining of defense mechanisms.

Oh, for the ability to process emotions like adults.

Frankly, it’s pretty awesome to have a best friend as fucked up as I. They don’t make that Hallmark card.

That’s probably a good call.