No need to check my bag. I only brought my ninja skills.

Posted on May 13, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I did it. I graduated with my Master of Library and Information Studies… and as with many should-be-boring events in my life, I made it an adventure with my finesse and ninja skills.

Me. Just lying. I’d lose a nipple just taking this picture.

In 2010, I received my Bachelor’s degree from Central University, a smaller college known for being the best teaching school in the state. Because of its size and the fact that the ceremonies were divided by college, graduation was held in the gym. My Master’s degree, however, came from University of State, which offers the only degree in several states that is accredited by the American Library Association. Attending a large state university means I officially get to align myself with a football team like it’s my religion, along with several thousand other people in the Midwest .. who were all at my fucking graduation ceremony.

I’ve never exaggerated anything in my life.

Having been told to be at the convention center by 9:15, I decided to leave at 8:45 for the 45 minute drive. Graduation wasn’t until 10:00. Why would I want to wait for 45 minutes when putting on a robe takes like three? Furthermore, it was only the College of Arts and Sciences, so just like my undergrad, it wouldn’t be that crowded. It’s funny how seven years of college left me how-does-she-not-drown-in-the-shower stupid.

Not only was I running late to graduation, but my Gramma was as well, since she didn’t want to drive down alone. Now, just to be clear, my Gramma is the best person in my life. She’s also the most pessimistic. When her football team is ahead by three touchdowns and loses the ball, she will shout “Well, we’ve lost it now!” at the T.V. and try to kick me out before the game ends. I’m not kidding. I had to threaten to never watch another game with her if she wouldn’t let me finish the one on the screen. Therefore, the entire trip to the convention center went like this…

Gramma: “You’re not gonna make it, Belle.”
Me: “Thank you, Gramma. I appreciate the input.”
Gramma: “There’s no way you’re gonna make it in time.”
Me: “Thank you, Gramma. That’s not really helping.”
Gramma: “We should have left earlier.”
Me: “Why, yes, Gramma. I hadn’t considered that.”

The traffic was nearly as terrible as the road work and I hate to drive… probably because I suck at it. This is one time I desperately regreted my single status, because I (not all woman-kind, Gail) would have loved a penis behind the wheel. I wish there were some way to thank the man in the Dodge in front of me for not pulling out a gun, because in my stress I was pretty much on top of him. He kept kindly motioning for me to not follow so closely, an oddly civil reaction to road rage in the Midwest. I tried. I really did. But in my stress, I would just inch more closely all over again. It really didn’t matter how I drove, though, because even when I wasn’t following closely, I got the same response from my Gramma every single time I braked.

Gramma: “Belle!”
Me: “Gramma, I have never been in a wreck. I see that he’s stopped. I’m not going to hit him.”
Gramma: ::Gasp::
Me: “That’s it, Gramma! No more sounds from you! You are on mute, now!”

By the time I pulled up to the convention center, I was convinced I wouldn’t be allowed to walk, because I was so late… and because my Gramma kept telling me so. It was 9:53. I asked her to park the car and bolted toward the door… only to forget my hat and sigh with relief that she hadn’t taken off yet. I rushed back to the door and saw the sign saying I needed to be at the south entrance. I was at the north entrance and it was 9:55. I ran full-throttle to the south entrance… and forgot I was in knee-high leather heeled boots. Stepping off the sidewalk was either a godsend, for it didn’t destroy my legs, or a curse because it caused me to fall in the first place. Either way, I went down. Hard. No one even laughed, it was such an epic fall. When a man asked if I was okay, I shouted “I’m good!” and rolled and jumped up action-movie-style to take off. In my haste, however, I didn’t fully catch my balance and re-face-planted immediately. I took slightly more care getting up that time, shouted “I lied! But I’m good now!” and took off again. Ultimately, my big action scene was far more Will Farrell than Jason Statham.

When I finally got to the south end of the convention center, I was somewhat rumpled and a professor helped me right the ridiculous collar for which I paid $64 last semester and I realized my tassel said 2012, because I’d intended to walk in December before failing my portfolio. My professors were glad to see me, though the time was a bit embarrassing, seeing as how the undergrads had already started walking. As an asthmastic, I couldn’t really handle the run and stress of the morning and once we were seated, kept coughing…

Woman beside me: “I wish I had a cough drop for you.”
Translation: God, I hope I don’t have to listen to that for two fucking hours.

I did my best to shut up while inventorying my injuries, at which point I realized my knuckles were bleeding and my knees were bruised. I texted Gail to tell her this and the conversation went as follows:

My phone kept correcting my sarcastic “Bestie” to “Beastie”. Gail is now stuck with this nickname.

My dad texted to ask where I was. I told him I was the one in the hat. I made sarcastic comments to my little sister, Bea, about how she shouldn’t wear anything under her robe when she graduates high school in a week, because it’s so fucking hot. I believe there was a recommendation to wear baseball pasties (she’s a baseball manager) and fling the robe off into the crowd. Since her nippels wouldn’t be showing, it wouldn’t even be illegal. She declined my advice. Ungrateful little shit. The rest of the ceremony pretty much went the same way. I texted and completely ignored the generic speech so clearly directed toward traditional undergrads.

Speaker: “It seems only yesterday we were moving into our dorms…”
text to Bea: I’m pretty sure I know the official melting point of human flesh.

The names were called.
Bea: I must really love you.
Me: Hey. They’re giving you baby name ideas for when you get knocked up in your freshman year. Pay attention.

I worked to subtly take off the sweater I had under my robe… and failed.
Me: “It’s shockingly difficult to undress beneath a graduation robe.”
Woman annoyed by my coughing: silence

Since my mother is as insane as her mother is adorable, she spent the entire ceremony staring at me through a pair of binoculars… from about 50 yards away. I kept mouthing “find Gramma” at her and texting her to say that I’d had her park the car and would hate for her to sit alone, since I made her late. My mother did not budge, nor did she redirect the binoculars. I could see this clearly, because she was fifty fucking yards away. Finally, I found my grandmother (without a telescope, I might add) and texted Bea to tell her she was on the same row, not far from her, my dad, and step-mom. Minutes later, Bea sent me a text saying they’d found my Gramma and were all chatting outside. My dad made the extra effort to find his ex-mother-in-law and keep her company, while my mother…

… was otherwise preoccupied.

The drive home was significantly less stressful and I laughed and chatted with my Gramma the whole way. When we got back to town, I realized how much my boots were hurting my feet… only to later see the bruise wrapping the left one. My poor knuckles are still raw and a good night’s sleep brought to my attention the pain coursing through my shoulder and left arm. Battle scars. Graduating is hard, y’all.

Gramma: “I can’t believe you made it. I just knew you wouldn’t. I kinda figured you’d miss it.”

S#^t I Can’t Do (Part 1): Share Important News Like a Normal F&@#&*% Person

Posted on April 5, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I would throw myself under a train if this man took a vow of celibacy.

Over Lent, Father shared a series of homilies focusing on the Seven Deadly Sins. Each week, he focused on a different one. This is the same… exactly the same.

Shit I can’t do:

Date Without Being a Jackass
Time Management
Cook on the Stove
Express Sympathy Appropriately
Manage Heartbreak Without Humor
Drive… At All
Share Important News Like a Normal Fucking Person

At the moment, I’m caught up on that last one. I’ll cover the others at some point, if I don’t get distracted and decide there’s other shit I want to discuss, because that’s how blogs work.

If I could watch any man clean a gun naked…

Where was I?

When I was five-years-old, my Gramma had this warm, sweet, cuddly little kitten named Calamity.

Hahaha. I’m just lying. It was really an under grown chupacabra and it ate souls. Regardless of the hellfire coursing through Calamity’s veins, though, my Gramma liked this stray enough to claim it as her own… sort of… it’s difficult to cage that sort of creature in anything but a circle of salt. My dad, however, has always been one of those redneck men who thinks it’s funny to tell stories of cats dying. Yeah… that’s a thing, here in the Midwest.

At the time, my brother was just like any eight-year-old boy, hero worshipping his dad while running around barefoot on an acreage, shooting things with a blow dart gun, after having handcuffed his little sister in a field. So when my dad jokingly (says he) told Bo to shoot Calamity with a blow dart… he did… and she crawled away to die. Yes, someone please tell this story at my next wedding.

So a few days after the demise of Calamity, my Gramma wondered where she’d gone. She asked my parents and my brother and they swore they didn’t know. It really was a shame that she’d run off. Then she asked me.

Me: “Dad told Bo to shoot him with a blow dart, so he did.”

A few years later, a neighbor’s un-collared and often unfed dog kept killing our chickens. One day, I came home from school, all alone at eight-years-old, because that’s totally safe, and found my rabbits inside-out all over the back lawn. You can spread pet rabbit pretty thin, y’all. I called my mother in hysterics and then just a week or so later, the neighbor’s dog met with my daddy’s gun and he buried him the back field… because my father is Jed Clampett.

A week or so later, one of the neighbor kids asked if we’d seen his dog.

Bo: “No.”
Me: “Yeah, my dad shot him and buried him in our field.”
Bo: “Shut-up, Belle!” :silence: “She’s kidding.”

My dad was within his full legal rights to kill this dog that was trespassing on his land, so despite the threats, there were no consequences… for everyone except me. Yes, that’s right. I got yelled at when my eight-year-old brother went full-on Dexter on my Gramma’s cat. I got yelled at when my dad tried to start his own Hatfield-McCoy feud.

As I got older, though, I naturally developed the ability to empathize with people appropriately and recognize the importance of breaking significant news in a personal and serious manner. For example, at 18-years-old, I needed to get on birth control and wasn’t sure how to go about doing so with my insurance. So, one afternoon, I sat my mother down and had a serious heart-to-heart, explaining that I had made the adult decision to protect myself.

Bazinga.

No, no. I was really helping her clean up dog poop in the backyard and blurted “I’m having sex now and I need to get on birth control.” Roseanne handled that topic better than yours truly.

As the Hometown minister warned during our high school sex-ed class – I shit you fucking not – sex led to pregnancy… three years later. My ex-husband wasn’t working… still. I was just shy of my bachelor’s degree and working at the movie theater, living off financial aid and prayer (which is not so tasty). This was not good news. How to tell my dad? I KNOW! I’ll go to lunch with him and tell him then.

Dad: “So what do you want to eat?”
Me: “I’m pregnant.”

So that’s out of the way. Now how to tell everyone else…

Facebook Status:
Belle is… seven weeks pregnant today.

Then, as I’ve mentioned previously, I lost the baby. It was heartbreaking, physically painful with no medication at the end of my first/start of my second trimester, messier than those Lifetime movies ever said, and absolutely terrifying since I was all alone. So I called my Gramma and my dad. I told my mother when she showed up unannounced. I texted my brother, since we weren’t very close. It wasn’t perfect, but it was personal… enough.

So that’s out of the way. Now how to tell everyone else…

Facebook Status:
I lost the baby. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want your apologies or to hear your awful miscarriage stories. Just leave me alone.

It was between that and…

A little over a year later, I’d had enough of the stealing, the lying, the pet abuse and murder, the make-believe jobs… you know, marriage.

Wait. Shut the front door! That’s not how marriage works?!?! Wha…?!?!

So, I told my ex-husband he needed to leave… and he said no.

Wait… that’s not how divorce works either…

Over the course of the next few months, I continued to tell him to leave, often loudly, occasionally with projectiles.

Ex-husband: “We never have any fucking food!”
Me: “Then maybe you should GET OUT.”

Oh, just suck my big fat furry dick, Disney.

At this point, I probably should’ve reached out to someone, told my family what was up, let my daddy bury the bastard in the back field… but nah. I suffered in silence. Finally, I threatened to call the police, on Jay’s advice, and my ex-husband left. He kept sneaking in and taking things, but I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with that, so I still called it a win. Then I filed the paper work two weeks later.

Chad: “You seriously need to tell your family.”
Me: “I will… eventually.”

It was two weeks before Christmas, when I finally got up the nerve to tell my Gramma. I lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, while she watched the news. Neither of us had been talking.

Me: “Gramma?”
Gramma: “Yeah?”
Me: “I’m getting a divorce.”
Gramma: in an almost bored tone “Are you really?”
Me: “Yeah… like I filed the paper work already.”
Gramma: “Huh.”

You see! That is why emotion freaks me out. She wasn’t mad. She fully believed me. She was glad I was leaving. She just understands that feelings are for the inside.

There’s a girl who knows how it’s done!

Voicemail: “Hey, Bo. It’s Belle. I just called to tell you I’m getting a divorce. He wouldn’t work. I couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me. Love you.”

text conversation with my mother
Me: “I filed for divorce.”
Mother: “Do you need anything?”
Me: “I’d really like that Fossil purse for Christmas.”

Then the most epic of all. I pulled up to my dad’s house, knocked on his door.
Dad: “Hey kiddo. What’s goin’ on?”
Me: “I’mgettingadivorce. I’msorryIruinedChristmas.”
Dad: “Do what?”
Me: “I’m getting a divorce. I’m sorry I ruined Christmas.”

Since then, there have been numerous breaking news faux pas.

Me: “Do you like memoirs?”
Gail: “Yeah, sometimes.”
Me: “I do. I really like biographies too. I did shots with Chad and let him feel me up last night. I just really like to read another person’s story, ya know?”
Gail: silence… “Yeah. I’d love to hear another person’s story, too.”

Text message
Me: “I just woke up on my grandma’s patio after passing out from the heat.”
Gail: “WTF? Seriously?”

This particular incident was accompanied by an “I need a ride to the E.R.” text message to my step-mother a couple of days later, when I couldn’t stop vomiting from the concussion.

Over the years, I’ve just accepted it. I am never going to be able to tell anyone anything important in a grown-up manner. There will one day exist the “Honey, I’m pregnant” text message. It’s actually become a running joke.

conversation with my female cousin Mick, the baby of the family
Me: “Well, if you ever do decide to join the Air Force to be a pilot, just remember, the best way to break serious news is via Facebook. ‘Mick… just joined the Air Force. Love y’all.'”
Mick: sitting next to her mother “Yeah… I think that one might get me into a lot of trouble.”
Me: “Well, yeah. That’s why you ‘lose your phone’ that day.”

When Gail was raped and couldn’t figure out how to tell her boyfriend a couple of weeks later (he’d been out of town), I suggested a cake with the words “Your girlfriend was raped” on it. The guy’s had enough bad news. Why not give him a cake, too? Do you have no compassion at all?!?

I also suggested a barber shop quartet… and wrote the lyrics, which did make Gail laugh and that was the whole point. Duh. She’d just been raped, yo.

“Your one and only girlfriend was ra-a-aped.”

I give the best fucking advice.

Sidenote: This incident will also be covered in the topics “Express Sympathy Appropriately” and “Manage Heartbreak Without Humor.”

The fact of the matter is, of the Shit I Can’t Do, several share one foundational issue. Emotion is horribly uncomforatble and should be hidden like the last fucking horcrux.

Right there. That is where your feelings go.

The Purple Pill

Posted on March 23, 2013 by Belle of the Library

You may have noticed I don’t have a blogroll. You probably didn’t, though, because who cares? A blogroll lists the blogs a person recommends. I read blogs… obsessively… because I am a truly obsessive person. When I was a kid, I used to get really into a show or a book and I would talk about it for weeks. I’m still that person. I may control it a little better, but… wait. No. I don’t control it better. That was someone else.

It must have been her.

I don’t list the blogs I read, because they aren’t blogs that my readers would necessarily enjoy. While there are some touching divorce blogs, funny dating blogs, and entertaining satire blogs that I follow, the majority of what I read covers my latest obscure obsession. I went through a phase a few weeks ago where I followed the blogs of several people taking on group sexual relationships. Then it was blogs criticizing Fifty Shades of Grey. Then it was erotic blogs. Then book blogs. Now it’s blogs discussing the Red Pill and anti-feminism. For those of you who didn’t drink seven cups of black coffee so strong you could chew it, because you were up procrastinating on graduate school work last night, allow me to enlighten you. The Red Pill is a movement of sorts that pushes back against extreme feminism. It’s spearheaded by men who are tired of being treated like shit by women who have taken the women’s rights movement too far and think it means they don’t have to have respect or consideration for the opposite sex. That’s the most unbiased description I can give and I think it’s pretty good, because I’m pretty unbiased about this. The people “swallowing the Red Pill” are consenting adults who have chosen to go with the traditional idea that a man is the head of the household and it’s working for them. It’s none of my business. But it’s fascinating.

Yes, I’ve gone on a few Rosie the Riveter rants in support of women’s opportunities and choices, but that’s exactly what they are: opportunities and choices. Telling a woman that she has to hold a corporate position, when she just wants to be milked by snuggling infants is just as harmful as confining her to the kitchen when she wants to go get an MBA. We live in a society where we can make our own decisions and I’m all for that. End disclaimer and back to my point.

My dad’s family is highly matriarchal and Catholic. The couples are mostly wealthy, with each individual bringing in a large sum. We women are all loud and I’ve heard my grandma K shout “That’s fucking bullshit” in her nicest Christmas outfit with a drink in each hand. There are as many opinions as there are hugs. The love and liquor is plentiful. All the gals wear the pants on the little stuff (how to decorate), but will usually defer to the men on the big stuff (that move to Texas). My dad, however, was the obvious head of the household in all ways growing up. Because of my parents’ drawn out and explosive divorce, I was largely raised by my Gramma, who worked as a corporate supervisor in tailored pants suits and heels and was one of the first moms on her block to get divorced in the 60s. This woman never swears, unless it’s in defense of one of her baby chick grandchildren and where her heart should beat, she has the sneezing baby panda instead. She’s that pure. She’s traditional in the sense that she thinks it’s a travesty that my brother does the dishes while his wife lounges on the couch, but doesn’t understand why a woman has to take a man’s last name. She’s an adorable little contradiction. So where does all this leave me in regards to gender and relationship roles?

Confused as fuck.

When I was a teenager, I desperately (and perhaps unhealthily) wanted a man to take care of me. My mom had made certain that I had no relationship with my dad at the time and I was often abused at home when she couldn’t handle the stress of raising the teenager with whom she’d isolated herself. That being said… what the fuck happened?!! I married my ex-husband, who didn’t work, clean, bathe, feed the pets, or contribute in any way. Quite the contrary, he stole from me, trashed the apartment, abused my animals, burned down our house for monetary incentives, lay around all day, cheated on me, and even lied to fabricate jobs that weren’t paying him. He was the worst sort of person and no man at all. On the one hand, he was nothing close to a traditional man eager and willing to practice traditional gender and relationship roles. The very opposite of him should still appeal, yes? Well, yes, in theory, it does. I love my alpha male romances. On the other hand, I’ve had two years to take charge of my life and care for myself and I’m not sure I could ever hand over those reins again. You can only retain so much trust in people after looking at your dead pets all over the front lawn.

Gail is divorced also and had a similar situation to mine. Her ex didn’t contribute in any way, but he constantly quoted biblical ideals about being the “man of the house.” This has sent her running for the hills from anyone who might use that phrase. Today, as we discussed the Red Pill blogs we were both reading, I brought up my concerns. My Gramma has always told me that someone must lead in a marriage. She thinks it should be the man, but her main point is that someone always has more power. Maybe she’s right. Perhaps someone always is more dominant. The Red Pill school of thought titles this “Captain” and “First Officer” with the man taking up the hull. It’s a somewhat extreme take on gender roles that has Gail insisting that there can be two heads of household with no superior dominance. Gail has a kind and gentle, laid back boyfriend, whom she has seen infuriated once or twice, just not at her. They’re neck in neck for who is the most passive. It’s like watching kittens lick each other and trying to decide who’s angrier.

Partly just to piss her off, I told Gail that she was the Captain and just couldn’t tell, because she didn’t like the idea of wielding such power. She refuted my claim and I asked whose name was on the lease since Terry moved in with her. She said that was immaterial and I sent her an “Aye, aye” and the following picture.

Frustrated, she ended the discussion, so I sent her another:

I’m funny as shit. Gail’s lucky to have such an amusing friend.

Regardless of where Gail’s relationship lies, it’s still up for debate for me. Can there be a mutual partnership running the household? Should there be someone in charge, regardless of whether their sexy bits are concave or convex? The Blue Pill is assigned to men who passively let their wives run the show (like Terry, Gail) and the Red Pill designates men who’ve woken up and decided to lead. It’s a Matrix reference and it’s all a little extreme for my tastes, but intriguing. It’s working for these people. It’s giving the men a sense of control and making the women feel protected and they’re enjoying the initiative he takes. We all complain that he won’t just pick a restaurant… so he picks a restaurant. It may not be for me, but it’s made me wonder. Is there a middle ground? Must someone come out on top? Who should it be? Does it even matter?

I must say, I am girly as fuck. I love pretty dresses and the color pink and makeup and nail polish. I own pink guns. I think men should open doors and pay and that if a parent stays home with the baby, it should be the concave one. FOR ME. This doesn’t apply to other people, because I don’t give a single fuck about what other people decide makes them happy. Maybe I have a hot pink master bath and a dozen pretty dresses, but that doesn’t invalidate anyone for not following suit. This isn’t 1943 where women have to stay home and cook and breed. It’s also not 1983 where women have to fight for Vagina Rights and work 60 hours a week or they get their girl power ring taken away. It’s 2013 and we don’t have to do anything.

The key factor in all of this, of course, is respect. The feminists are demanding respect for women and the Red Pill enthusiasts are demanding respect for men. Most women still make .80 on the dollar to men for the exact same job. We’re teaching little boys that girls are cherished and protected, but wrapping those little ladies in shirts that say “Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them.” In society and in a relationship, each group needs to respect the other, genitalia aside. It drives me crazy to see a woman on Facebook complaining that her husband is away on business. REALLY!? How about you have him plant his ass on the couch for four years? That’ll put hard work into perspective. Similarly, my brother regularly tells his wife that her salary means nothing, because she doesn’t bring home as much. It’s broken all around and we need to concentrate on respect and gratitude and praise in general. Example: “Hey, honey. Thanks for not killing all the pets and pawning my Gramma’s jewelry while I was at work.” Was that so hard? But that still doesn’t answer whether or not someone must hold more weight.

I suppose my “girly as fuck” declaration makes it clear that were someone to be in power in my future relationships, it would likely not be me. Despite my oh-so-witty banter with my Gail, I’m not an aggressive person. I’m sometimes too passive, because I tried everything with my ex-husband. I was his cheerleader. I left him alone. I nagged him. I cried. I begged. I screamed. I threw things. I ignored the problem. None of those brands of conflict worked, so I just naturally avoid conflict now. I work in a public service position, which exacerbates the issue, because this is an asset. It truly is. I love my job, but it is paved with eggshells and I know it. I’m good at it. Therefore, I don’t want to be in charge of other people at home. Were dual leadership an option, I could do that. I could be a teammate in leadership. My profession is all about group work. But is it possible? Or is my Gramma right and someone will inevitably tip the scales? Is it better to acknowledge this upfront and be aware of the dynamic or to be surprised when one person takes over, despite who it might be? Is it best to expend the effort to co-captain the relationship and family as Gail has insisted Terry do?* Or will this inevitably become a battle for power, causing more trouble than it’s worth? Is there a purple pill? I have no answers. But it’s fascinating stuff… and it renews my relief that I don’t have time for dating right now.

* You just recently came to me for help pissing someone off, Gail. Just keeping sharp.

Please… no one give the man a microphone at my next wedding.

Posted on February 25, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I’ve had the epiphany that every close relationship I have in my life is unconventional for the title. Gail isn’t just a friend and Gramma isn’t just a grandma. My dad and I are no different. The best way to explain my father is to admit that I watch Tim Allen in Last Man Standing, because it reminds me of him, as does every other Tim Allen character. Even Buzz Lightyear grossly exaggerated everything. Yeah. That’s where I get that.

My dad wasn’t in my life during my teen years. If he had been, there might have been structure and actual parenting involved, and my whole world would be different. But I like my life, despite the parts I leave out of the fantasy tale I accidentally spun for my coworkers. I also love my relationship with my dad. While I will be ‘kiddo’ until the day he stops dropping his G’s, I have a strangely adult bond with him with no Freudian context. Perhaps this is because I’ve not considered him a true authority figure since I was 12, so I don’t have to watch my mouth or my thoughts. Perhaps it’s because he gave me his humor in addition to his laugh. It’s probably a combination of things, including its age, as we started to grow close again when I was about 19. It’s becoming less tentative now as we have weekly lunches and even the occasional text conversation, but as cherished as it is, it’s not exactly from a country song and I don’t know if I’d change that. It’s foundation is simple: the things that shouldn’t be said… and the things that should.

– These are all direct quotes. –

The Things That Shouldn’t Be Said:

Talking about step-mom’s birthday.
Me: “Yeah, I was going to send her an E-card as a joke, but I wasn’t sure if it would be too much.”
Dad: “What was it?”
Me: showing him phone

Discussing the family drama that had pissed him off because it made his little girl cry, and the cause, a woman who has a bad habit of discussing far too personal things.
Me: “Why would I even want to go to her stupid Thanksgiving dinner? So she can talk about her clitoris over turkey?”
Dad: “As far as I”m concerned, the best part of her ran down her momma’s leg.”
Please… no one give the man a microphone at my next wedding.

Me: “Ugh. I’m never getting married again. If I decide I want children, I’ll either get in vitro or pick up somebody in a bar. Just what you want to hear from your daughter, right?”
Dad: laughs “Yeah. Exactly.”
Me: “Yeah, Gail gets mad at me for saying ‘trolling for dick.'”

Me: “So I called Gail and told her ‘We’re gonna be WEINER BUDDIES!'”

Dad: “Hell, just go write yourself a Fifty Shades of Grey book and make millions.”
Me: “Dad, I’m not so sure you want me to go out and get the experience it would require to write that.”
Dad: “Well, shit, apparently she didn’t know what she was talking about either.”

Over lunch, my brother had just said that he didn’t believe a priest could keep a vow of celibacy, as I sat next to my dad.
Me: “Why’s that so hard to believe? I don’t have sex with people I don’t love.”
Brother: “Yeah, but for the rest of your life?”
Me: “Yeah, if I don’t find someone I care about, probably.” not lying or being pious… have deep-seated emotional issues
Brother: “Yeah, well, I’m a man and I don’t believe men can give up sex like that. Men are different.”
Me: a little too loudly in a restaurant “Oh, my ass! Just because I have a vagina, doesn’t mean I don’t like sex!”
Dad: roars with laughter “I always said your sister could stand up for herself.”

My dad holds a high-level blue collar position with the electric company, but still has to climb poles when the weather’s bad.
Me: “I love you, daddy. Be careful in this. Don’t fall off a pole or anything. Make me your sole benefactor if you do.”
Dad: laughing “Alright.”
Me: “You know what I always tell Bea. When you die, I get more.”

Dad: “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna buy my Kimber.”
Me: “Oh, you are so full of shit. You’ve been talking about buying that gun for two years now. My ass.”

– These are all direct quotes, too. –

The Things That Should Be Said:

I was 9. It had just hit me what aging was. Time was passing and I couldn’t stop it. I was sitting on my bed and bawling my eyes out, while watching a home video.
Dad: “What’s wrong?”
Me: “I want to be a baby again!”
Dad: stunned silence for a beat as he hugs me “Well, hell, I wish I was 10 years younger, too.”

Me: Knock on door
Dad: “Well, hey kiddo, whatcha doin’?”
Me: “I’mgettingadivorceI’msorryIruinedChristmas.”
Dad: “Do what?”
Me: “I’m getting a divorce. I’m sorry I ruined Christmas.”
Dad: hugs me as I burst into tears “You did not ruin Christmas.”

Me: defeatedly “What about me is so terrible that it makes the people in my life who are supposed to love me want to hurt me… my husband… my mom? What did I do to make God want to punish me?”
Dad: “Hey, now. There is nothing wrong with you. The only thing you did wrong is let these people hurt you. The rest is on them.”

Crying hysterically over the phone after failing my graduate portfolio
Me: “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”
Dad: “Hey, you listen to me. No matter what you do, I could never be disappointed in you.”

Dad: “My biggest regret in life is that I didn’t take both of you kids when I left.”

Me: “Never again will I be with someone whom my family doesn’t approve of.”
Dad: “Now, I don’t wanna hear that shit. I want you to be with someone who makes you happy.”
And that is precisely why I’d trust his judgement.

Four Reasons I Shouldn’t Breed

Posted on February 14, 2013 by Belle of the Library

So, I’m really not a maternal person. I used to think I was, but then I miscarried and Gail’s daughter, whom I adored, died six months later. Now, babies make me completely paranoid. I don’t even like to hold them, because they might choke on something and die in my care. If I’m invited to a baby shower, I don’t even look at the registry. I just buy glass bottles so your baby doesn’t get brain cancer from the plastic ones. I understand that you’ll probably return it, but whatever. I’m not contributing to the death of your kid and that’s just the same as giving a gift card. I hope that, one day, if I ever give a guy a second date and it eventually leads to marriage, he’ll be confident in my mothering ability and pressure me to breed, because I generally think I’d like to give that another go… when I’m like thirty… two. In the last few years, however, I’ve become convinced that I’m completely incapable of being a mom. It’s not even because I don’t like kids all that much. I’m sure it’s just other people’s kids I don’t like. Rather, I’m focusing on the trivial, background moments in life as a sign of something greater. For example…

I can’t keep a cactus alive.
That is not an exaggeration. I’ve killed several… and some ivy. For years, the weather would warm up and I’d think “Plants! Plants would look great on my patio!” So I’d spend $30 on the prettiest little full sun flowers Lowe’s had to offer and they would look great… for four days. Four days y’all! Inevitably, day five would hit and these pretty pink flowers would start to brown and wilt just slightly. I’d water them more, because the Southern sun was just too severe on the west side of my apartment complex. By day seven, they would be pitifully shriveled and I’d still be someone who worked two jobs and was in graduate school and I’d ultimately just say “Fuck it. It’s just a stupid plant.” A part of me, however, wouldn’t want to give in, so I’d just leave the flowers on the patio. I mean, I spent $30 on them! So, my pretty little patio with its white southern rockers and discount wind chimes was also adorned with dead plants. A year ago, I figured out the solution. I’m upstairs. You can barely see my patio plant life. That means you can’t tell that I just bought some fake flowers from The Dollar Tree and shoved them in some soil. You can’t do this with babies, y’all. You can’t just let them die and pretend they’re still alive and then replace them with dolls. People are going to notice.

My son and daughter… no really.

I keep my dog alive… because he reminds me.
Okay. So the plants are hopeless, partly because I don’t notice I suck at plants until they’re half dead, partly because of my “it’s just a stupid plant” mentality, and partly because I could kill a fucking redwood. I’m just a really busy person. I don’t have time to keep anything alive unless it’s cute. My dog, however, is five years old with the same energetic spirit he had when he chewed up a pack of pens at 9 months, happily giving me his puppy dog grin with ink all over his mouth. Clearly, I can keep something alive and healthy, right? You see, Jude and I have this little… routine… it’s more like a skit really. I go to wash my hands and he barks and howls at me. It’s fucking adorable. It’s also because I forgot to give him water. In my defense, I’d probably remember if it weren’t for our little play. At this point, I’ve just accepted the fact that if he’s thirsty, he’ll tell me. He free eats as well, meaning I give him a huge bowl of food and he just eats it as he wishes over the next several days. Then he bugs the hell out of me when I have food to remind me that he’s out… or that he’s just spoiled and wants table scraps. It’s an imperfect system. He may even get into my bag looking for food (even if he has some) and chew open a pack of bullets or eat my headphones. Yes, we’d make a great sitcom about an inept dog owner who let her puppy eat a pack of pens… and possibly a bullet. I can’t even imagine that ER visit with a child.

I abused an electronic doll.
The graduating class of 2006 was the first to try out the new Baby Think It Over dolls. The edition before this required the user to jam a key in the doll’s back with enough force that it couldn’t be duct taped until it stopped crying… just like a real baby? I don’t know. I don’t have children. Anyway, the 2006 version required diaper changes and bottles placed to the lips. It sounded like a real baby that eats way too loudly and only breathes periodically. Our school didn’t have a fantastic budget for this program, however, so we got to take it home for just one day, while the neighboring town requires four. It pretty much taught me that babies are absolutely fucking adorable and everyone wants to hold them, so I’ll get tons of attention for having one, too. Fantabulous. The point of the project was not to just stay inside and chill out with no other responsibilities, however. You were supposed to take the baby out and multitask to care for it while old ladies in the grocery stores gave you dirty looks. Since I lived for shock value at 16, Gail and I had a ton of fun with this assignment. Then I got my grade. If you’ve read anything I’ve written, you should know about the time I wept over a 98.5%… like six months ago. When I got my 92% on the baby project, I was upset enough to ask why. “A low A?!?!?! Why did I get a LOW A?!?!?!” The teacher explained to me that while she’ll excuse one head drop (the baby had a wobbly head you had to hold up), she had to take off points for the second one… and the child abuse. Apparently, not only did I drop this child’s head twice, but in my attempt to quell the baby’s cries in the milk aisle, I tried to burp it too enthusiastically and the computer registered this as if I threw the poor thing up against a wall. While this project taught me that babies are the most fun a 16-year-old girl will ever have and child abuse isn’t that bad, I’m still a paranoid person. I accidentally abused a hypothetical child. What if it wasn’t while burping it? What if I blacked out? Oh, God, what if I have some kind of neurological issue that makes me hit babies?!?!

I killed my water baby.
Come to think of it, that wasn’t, in fact, the first time I abused a tiny pretend person. It could be neurological! Okay, I have to stop joking about that or I’m going to find myself crying uncontrollably in an MRI machine. The first time, I was four years old. Water baby was the most awesome toy on the planet after the umbrella we used to hold while jumping out of trees in an attempt to fly. I had a really unsupervised childhood, which might explain why I had free usage of dangerous kitchen equipment at fucking four. The best thing about Water Baby was that it felt like a real baby when you filled it up with warm water. I, however, couldn’t get the plug out of its back on my own (an admittedly ideal feature) and my mother wouldn’t just refill the baby every time it cooled down. Some mothering instincts she had, huh? So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Please do not misunderstand this. No part of me was worried that my baby was feeling uncomfortable cold. I was just frustrated, because I wanted my doll warm. Purely selfish reasons. Ask any four-year-old how they make something warm quickly. The answer is obvious. Microwave it. Yes, yes, I did blow up my baby doll. Not only that, but I didn’t even realize until later when I asked my mother what happened to my Water Baby and she explained that it had a hole in it. I wasn’t even concerned. I just wanted a new one. Again, you can’t do this with real children. You don’t just get another one after microwaving the first.

Just add radiation.

Summary: If my baby can make it out of my hostile blender of a uterus, I may leave it out to die in the elements, forget to feed it, accidentally kick it in the head, and then pop it in the microwave. Anyone need a sitter?

Crap I’d Like to Share: An Almost Post

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Ward: “What’s a blog?”
Me: “Well, you just write… about anything you want. People write about traveling, cooking, dating…”
Ward: “So, it’s writing essays for fun?”

Gramma: “In all my life, I have never seen so many fat young people.”

The day I taught her to text, I left her house and got the following a few hours later:

The time I tried to sell a friend on 50 Shades of Grey:

Summer of ’11, Gail and I took the worst vacation of all time. The air conditioner in the car broke as we rolled into New Mexico days before the 4th of July, Gail got strep throat, and my mother was… well, my mother. However, we did leave a basket for the aliens (translate: littered in the desert).

“I’m sorry I insulted your baby on Facebook.”

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I’m not good with apologies.

I’m not just bad with them in general; I’m terrible at knowing when I should apologize and when I should just leave it alone. I do, however, know how to use a semicolon, so it all evens out.

Don’t get me wrong. If I make a complete asshat out of myself, I apologize sincerely and profusely.

Scenario:

I’ve been with one person and Gail’s been with half a dozen, so I make jokes all the time about how she’s a slut. I’m 100% kidding. It’s her body. I love her. If she had sex with 46 people in the next week, I’d mostly be concerned with her mental health, as that’s out of character for her, and I’d want some time management tips, cuz damn. But I wouldn’t douse her with holy water, judge her, or love her any less. She knows this. So she was dating this guy and they’d fooled around for the first time. She’d given me every detail, of course. She seemed a little uncomfortable with what had happened, but it wasn’t that big of a deal… so I forgot. It was a few days later and I was texting her.

Gail: I’ve had a long day and I don’t feel well.
Me: Maybe that’s because you swallow so much cum.

It actually had nothing to do with the guy. It was just a standard joke. She’s used to them. She likes to fancy herself the sweet one, so she surrounds herself with douche bags. That’s her mental fracture, not mine.

silence for about 10 minutes when we’d been texting back and forth

Me: Hey, I’m sorry if that was too much. I was just kidding. I didn’t mean to make you mad.
Gail: Yeah. I haven’t heard from Brandon since then.

OUCH. Poor Gail. Later, she came over and asked:

Gail: “You know how we have this mean and sarcastic relationship?”
Me: “Yeah?”
Gail: “Well, today we don’t.”

Then she hugged me and cried. We don’t hug. We don’t cry. We make sarcastic jokes about rape and our dead babies and other people overhear and think we’re sadistic fucks, when we really just can’t process adult emotions in regards to trauma. It’s our secret handshake.

So, obviously I apologized and did so sincerely.

Then there are fuzzier times when I’m not sure if I should apologize. Invariably, I do and it’s always super awkward, such as the following with a girl from high school who’d recently confided in me about her divorce.

Me: link to a blog on biblical misinterpretations of the subject of divorce
G: Thanks for sharing! It’s so sweet that you always think of me! I enjoyed reading that.

Alrighty then. Now’s the time where normal people end the conversation.

Wait. I just sent her another blog on divorce like 4 days ago.

I’m overthinking this. I should stop now.

She’s got the whole world talking behind her back and I’m repeatedly sending her self-help links? What the fuck? That’s not supportive. I should apologize.

No. You shouldn’t. You should leave it alone.

Me: You’re welcome. I follow the divorce feed on WordPress. I hope you don’t think its pointed like “clearly you need help” or anything. When I read them and they make me feel better, I just think you might like them too.

:Facepalm:

This is copy and fucking paste, people. That was today. That’s how often this shit happens.

G: Oh no, I didn’t take it that way at all lol.
Me: Lol. good. I just knew you’d been getting religious takes on it and thought that one was interesting
G: It most definitely was.
Me: I’ve been blog obsessed lately. Lol.

Oh my God. Just stop talking. Just shut the fuck up. It’s not improving.

This was minutes ago. Thankfully, I finally stopped.

Then there are the times when I really should apologize, but I’m not sure how.

Coworker L: “Happy birthday!”
Coworker K: “You are the first person who’s said that today! Everyone at school knew and was just like ‘Oh.'”
Me: not even in the conversation and therefore should not be talking “Well, that was horribly ungrateful. What a thank you. Geez.”
Coworker K: looks embarrassed at my deadpanned straight-faced joking “Well, I… I didn’t mean it like that…”

Say something. Apologize.

Coworker K: assures Coworker L that she didn’t mean to be rude as I stand in contemplating silence
Me: “Oh, God, I’m kidding. I was just joking. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

That’s right, Belle. Say it four times seven hours later. Then write it on a slab of wood and hit her in the head with it. Or perhaps, save your humor for the 12 people on planet Earth who get it.

That was a year or so ago. Thankfully, these coworkers are the ones who shelve books part time (Pages), so they have no inclination to work in libraries forever and are the few people in the system who sort of know my humor now… until we get the dreaded new guy.

Me: Hey, did you ever watch Friends?
Coworker C: “Yeah… a few episodes. Why?”
Me: “Well, do you remember the episode where Ross has just moved into the building and they want a $100 donation from him for the retiring maintenance guy and he doesn’t give it and then everyone hates him?”

Why can’t you just ask a fucking question without an obscure 90s television reference?

Coworker C: “Uh…”
Me: “They’re going in on a gift for Pregnant Coworker and they want people to contribute.”
Coworker C: “After payday?”
Me: “Yes. Don’t worry. If you don’t want to donate, we’ll just put your name on Coworker K’s We Hate You and Your Baby card.”

Okay. Laugh or something. He’s clearly not getting that you’re kidding.

Me: “I’m kidding. I’m sorry. The Pages are the only ones I joke like this with and I used to with Coworker N and now you’re the new computer tech…”

Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up.

Then, there are the times when I don’t think I should apologize, because I didn’t do anything wrong.

Gail had said she couldn’t hang out, because she was working. Later she texted about being at lunch with a friend in the city.

Me: Tough day at work.
Gail: Hey, you were working and he was available and I always hang out with you and I never see him. I wasn’t going to just not do anything because you couldn’t hang out yet.
Me: Yeah, I didn’t say you should.
Gail: You pretty much just called me a liar.
Me: Well, I’m sorry you chose to take it that way.

Gail and I never fight. Ever. We’re incredibly in sync and just know what buttons not to push, for one. Secondly, we’re passive assertive people. We don’t like confrontation. I was kidding with the original comment, in inquiry as to what changed her day so drastically. She took it as a challenge to her gal pal loyalty, because she’s insane. I explained later and cleared everything up, but I was so annoyed that she’d assume I was so possessive as to pee a circle around her that I just gave the deliberately antagonizing NOT apology of “I’m sorry that this is your fault.”

Around Thanksgiving, Married-In Crazy Relative went psychotic on me for deciding to make other plans rather than go to her dinner to which I was never officially invited. Actual Relative (also crazy for marrying her) wanted me to just give in and apologize and go.

“I’m sorry that you’re a cunt and I had no say in whether or not I was related to you. We’ve got a pool going on your divorce.”

Yeah, I chose not to apologize at all that time. I think it was for the best.

So, now, here I am, with likely my fifth awkward Should-I? moment of the day.

Cousin’s Status Update:
Soo very thankful for everyone that came over today for Mjs 1st Birthday! Wow! What a great day it was! We are SO blessed! Thank you again! Pics to come!! 😉
My Comment:
I had to work. 😦 kiss her big ol’ ears for me!
Cousin’s Response: She doesn’t have big ears but ill kiss her for you 😉
My Response: Haha. They’re adorable, whatever their classification.

Fuck

You should just leave it. You called them adorable. Even though, they’re enormous and she’s said so before. Ugh. People are weird about insulting their babies… probably because no one insults babies. Who the fuck insults someone’s baby?!?! What the hell is wrong with you?!?! Even if she HAS called her ears big, you’re supposed to reassure her that they’re normal. She probably doesn’t care. Of course she cares. You called her baby a yard gnome.

Do not apologize. Leave it be.

Maybe I’ll actually say “I’m sorry I insulted your baby on Facebook.”

DO NOT DO THAT.

“Get your hourglass off my uterus. It’s heavy.”

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Belle of the Library

A co-worker is having a baby.

I’ve been trying to discreetly discover her age, as if that will give me some indication of my time limit.

I go out and my Gramma asks if I met anyone.

“Get your hourglass off my uterus. It’s heavy.”

She laughs…

because I’m fucking funny.

My brother asked if I ever wanted to get married again and have kids…

as he started his stopwatch.

“I’M TWENTY-FUCKING-FIVE AND IN GRADUATE SCHOOL! SUCK MY VAGINAL LIPS!” I want to yell.

I don’t…

usually.

There’s something about the phrase “vaginal lips” that upsets people.

“If you ain’t got two kids by 21, you’re probably gonna die alone.. at least that’s what tradition told you.”

“Tiny little boxes in a row… ain’t what you want, it’s what you know.”

I sing along with the country station.

The song wouldn’t be popular were the singer and I the only ones who felt that way.

I’m going to stop feeling like my time is running out…

because it doesn’t have to be get married and have kids.

They aren’t connected moves…

obviously.

I can do babies alone.

One year, I knew I’d miss the fair if I waited for someone to go with me.

No one wanted to go.

So I went alone.

I had a great time.

I saw what I wanted to see.

I skipped what I wanted to skip.

I left when I wanted to leave.

It was awesome.

On the last day, Jay and Ward went with me and it was fun then, too.

Babies are the same.

I can live without ever being married again…

but I want babies.

If I hit 30 with no prospects…

I’ll just have them…

and if a boy comes along later, that’s great…

but I’m not risking my chance for family on said hypothetical man.

I told my country, old-fashioned, blue collar dad as much.

“Good. Other women are weak. You don’t need anyone else.”

Go dad.

Go me.

I imagine looking for love will be a lot more fun now.

I would not give my mom a kidney.

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Belle of the Library

It’s true.

I wouldn’t.

I would not endure any more discomfort in my life than she already causes, so she could cause it longer.

I would not take any more physical pain than I experienced growing up with her.

You don’t get it, unless you wouldn’t give your own mom a kidney.

“She’s your mother.”

“She brought you into the world.”

That’s what they say in outrage.

These people didn’t beat the dog when they were eight years old so they could cuddle her afterward like their own moms did them.

They didn’t spend their teen years medicated, because it made them easier to handle.

They don’t regularly comfort their Gramma, the woman who did make them feel loved growing up, because their mom tells her she stole her children.

They never got the “What happened to the daughter I loved?” text, because they couldn’t go to lunch.

They were never beaten for refusing to see a therapist for “behavioral problems.”

They don’t suck their thumbs as adults, because it was the only thing that made the rages stop.

They didn’t lose years with their father, convinced he’d molested them, because she was angry.

They can suck my dick.

Because I still wouldn’t give my mom a kidney…

… until I did, because she’s my mom and she brought me into the world.

When she dies, I’ll cry because I spent my life hating her…

and the woman who made birthday pancakes with candles in them disappeared when I was eight…

and I don’t know why…

but I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t give your mom a kidney.

All I Want For Christmas Is Me: A Single Girl’s Christmas Ramble

Posted on December 25, 2012 by Belle of the Library

At Least 12 Things I Shouldn’t Have Said This Christmas

Discussing my cousin’s bracelet made of her horse’s hair:
Me: “Well, I’m glad you like it, but it’s weird.”
Other Cousin: “It’s not weird. It’d be like if you made something out of your dog’s hair.”
Me: “Or maybe I’ll just cut off his foot and make it into a necklace… or a keychain for good luck!”

Discussing same bracelet later:
“I once donated my hair to Locks of Love. That’s sort of the same.”

Me: “So where’s your gal?”
Cousin: “Oh, we’re not together.”
Me: “What?”
Cousin: “S and I aren’t together.”
Me: “What did that mean? Like today or anymore?”
The answer was anymore and I. Am. Smooth.

“Come on. The gifts we get at the big family Dirty Santa always suck and everyone knows it.”

“Oh, no. The library carries all kinds of books. If it’s in demand and the public wants to read about his throbbing member, then that’s what we have.”

“Next year, when you play the game with us for the first time, just know that it’s tradition for the youngest member to get an adult gift, preferably from a sex shop.”

“Taste this and tell me if I’m just not a wine person or if it really does taste like vinegar… and salt… and urine.”

Discussing my four and a half year old niece:
“You know… I think she’s old enough now, that she’s gotten to the age where I really don’t like her anymore.”

“Icy Hot in the lube.”

Brother: “Why’s she crying?”
Me: “She’s being a brat.”

Aunt: “Now why didn’t L and L come?”
Me: “Because they’re selfish and self-absorbed.”

Discussing Uggs:
“I know they’re covered in sheep blood, but they’re so freaking comfortable, I don’t even care.”

Christmas Confessions

I took the batteries out of my vibrator and put them in the Furby my Gramma got me.

I danced to Michael Bluble’s Christmas CD wearing nothing but a pink sparkly Santa hat.

My dog has a Christmas stocking and I played Santa.

The gift I made for you that seemed so thoughtful? I forgot about you this year and found that in my yarn bin, leftover from last year.

It’s possible that I worked on your Christmas present on the toilet.

My Homemade Themed Dirty Santa contribution was a hat I’d made for myself and messed up.

I only gave you that peanut brittle, because it was the batch I botched.