“I’m sorry I asked for detailed information on your sex life before meeting. Lol.”

Posted on April 1, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Motherfucker, I am bad at this.

Not just like a little bad. Like a lot bad.

I met Teacher on OKCupid. He’s a choir teacher and that’s super gay, but I’m aware that I’m being judgemental and stereotyping with said assessment. I’m trying really hard to knock it off with having a “type.” I mean, I think it’s important to have something in common with anyone I date, but I’m a varied and complex person. I’m also not narcissistic enough to think I’m the only one out there. I like to shoot pink guns, but I also went to Batman Live alone, because no one would go with me. I have a dear affection for Disney on Ice and regularly use the words “snazzy” and “keen”. There’s also the little detail about majoring in books. Who’s to say the nerdy girl is any less significant than the country girl? So, I put aside my snobbery and responded when Teacher messaged. Overall, he seems like a pretty nice guy. I was even able to check online and see that he actually works at the middle school he named. But I was still hung up on one little detail from his profile:

The most private thing I’m willing to admit:
I have Dom tendencies.

Yes, yes, I am, indeed, going to end up in Tupperware for the fact that I would respond in the first place, but that phrase could mean a multitude of things, from “I like to be in control in bed” to “How’s that ball gag feel? What? I can’t hear you, because of the ball gag, bitch!” Now, I’m pretty inexperienced, since my ex-husband was morbidly obese, which limited the positions possible, and never wanted to have sex. I also, however, know that I like when the guy takes control, so I’m fine with the first option and that’s what I was thinking in the beginning of my correspondance with Teacher. He also hasn’t asked me a single inappropriate question or implied that he expects anything from me, so I’ve continued texting him. We were supposed to meet Friday, but I got busy talking to tech support about my Gramma’s broken T.V. (that I bought her for Christmas) while she was hilariously and uncharacteristically ungrateful.

Me: “Well, I got a new book loaded on your Nook, at least.”
Gramma: “Yeah, well I’d prefer to have my T.V. working!”
Me: “I had a date tonight, Gramma. I canceled to deal with this.”
Gramma: “Oh, bull. You did not.”
Me: laughingly “Okay.”
Gramma: “Oh, you did not.”
Me: “Okay, Gramma. I love you.”

angry old lady
I didn’t even try to convince her, because she’d be even more upset that I just murdered all of her future great grandchildren and it wouldn’t change anything. Teacher was really understanding about my flakiness, though, so I still didn’t have an excuse to stop speaking to him. Damn it. Gail and I had Easter breakfast and I told her that I was considering “pulling a Belle” and just ending all communication without an explanation, because of the Dom comment.

Me: “It freaks me out.”
Gail: “It freaks you out, even though you’re into it?”
Me: “I’m not into that.”
Gail: “You’re into that a little.”

Good point. Teacher had wished me a happy Easter far too early in the morning and I hadn’t responded. After time with family, setting up my Gramma’s new T.V. with much more gratitude (Wal-Mart did let her return it), and amounts of chocolate that would kill Willy Wonka, I went home and crashed. I woke to a text from Teacher asking how my Easter was. Ugh. This guy will not give me a legitimate reason to act like a dick! He didn’t text at all Saturday, texted once Sunday morning in a way that required no response, and still sent a text asking about my holiday when I didn’t respond, hours later. I can neither accuse him of being annoyingly clingy, nor can I claim he’s not interested either. DAMN IT!

I responded and viewed his profile again. That’s when I saw this question:

If a trusted partner asked you to submit to them sexually, would you? Assume that this would involve letting them collar you, command you, and have control over you during sex.

Teacher’s response was no, with the explanation “I am a Dom.” Okay. He’s not really responsible for that question. OKCupid brought it up. I read into shit, though. I’ve written multiple blogs overanalyzing fiction. I’m also not-so-secretly looking for a reason to sabotage all possible relationships, because I am the White Witch of Narnia.

“Dom tendencies” and “I am a Dom” resonated completely differently with me, even though that could just be taken as an explanation for why he wouldn’t be interested in a submissive activity. Naturally, I texted Gail, because I have no idea what the fuck I am doing and can’t choose a brand of shampoo without her input.

Gail: Ask what that entails. And you should be nice even if it’s super weird.
Me: You’re trying to get me killed.

Gail was shocked when I told her I’d actually asked, because she really was expecting me to pull a Belle and just drop of the face of the earth. My only other female friend, Niki, told me to tell him I had cancer and was dying. Thank you! That’s more my speed and there’s a reason she’s one of two vaginas with whom I’ll associate with any regularity.

So I asked Teacher what “Dom tendencies” meant with no lead up at all. His answer basically told me that he doesn’t know what the word “Dom” means and he just likes to be in control and handcuffs could be fun. That’s cool with me. Collars, not so much. He also asked why I was asking so suddenly, which… yeah. Who asks that with no context? Sending Gail screen caps, I relayed my response to her:

Because there’s a question that asks about collars and that freaks me out. Like, the guy being in control doesn’t, but like… well collars. You seem nice, but that’s extreme.

Gail supplied me with her translation: “you seem weird, but it’d be nice if you’d prove otherwise.” I’d already sent the worst save ever.

Like, for me, I mean. More power to the rest of the world. I don’t care what they do.

His response was as normal and nice as could be in this situation, and he explained that he would never do something that made his partner uncomfortable and that that was ages away and we should probably meet first. I apologized for asking and told him that it had just made me nervous.

I’m sorry I asked for detailed information on your sex life before meeting. Lol.

Again, he was really nice and said it didn’t bother him and he asked what else was making me uncomfortable. I ignored the question and made a joke about how I needed to stop reading the sex questions. He said he hoped he hadn’t scared me off. I was feeling really awkward and started rambling via text. Oh, yeah. That’s a thing.

No, it’s okay. That’s why I asked. And your answer was super not creepy. Lol. Gail and I used to look at the Craiglist personals, because they’re funny and the people who used the word Dom generally weren’t meaning such a mild version.

they were descriptive. And terrifying. Maybe I should stop doing that.

It’s alright to pretend I never asked if you had a woman in your dungeon.

SHUT-UP, BELLE! SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP!!!!!

He asked a quick, undetailed question about my preferences and I said I was inexperienced, but not prude. Then he changed the subject, because everyone on the planet is better at this crap than I am.

I’ll continue to try and find flaws with Teacher that will justify my ditching him. If I can’t do so by Friday, I’ll meet him in person… then I’ll surely find something… because I want to die alone.

“I’m the real one!”, I shouted to the spoon.

Posted on March 28, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Mkay, y’all. Prepare yourselves. I’m gonna do something completely unheard of in this blog. I am going to cover issues so serious they should be the topic of a therapy session… only I’m not going to take them seriously in the slightest, because emotions freak me out.

Get it? It’s funny, because I do that all the time.

One hundred years ago, I met Gail at the Battle of Bud Bagsak*… wait. No. It was ten years ago at the Hometown Mid-High and we were in the ninth grade. It just feels like a hundred years ago, because… well, stay tuned.

* Yeah. I looked that up.

At 15, Gail wore the same grey sweatpants and oversized blue t-shirt with flip-flops every single day, rain or shine, and it was around this time I had begun my “overall phase.” Gail had fake teeth that she nervously clicked and neither of us wore make-up. We were social outcasts with smart mouths and rocky home lives. We met in Yearbook class, stereotypically enough.

Most days of high school…

Awkward 15-year-old Me: “What the hell happened to your teeth?!?”
Awkward 15-year-old Gail: “Well, I was at this party… and this guy had these piercings.”

We were fast friends.

As kids, our pastimes included telling Gail’s parents we were at Key Club meetings and taking photos in the middle of nowhere. We sat in her bedroom floor making collages of scantily clad women, because we thought it would be funny to convince her parents we were lesbians. I used to alter her report cards to raise the low grades and lower the high ones so her parents would never expect more than average and ground their strong B student for getting a low A. My mother never even asked to look at my 4.0 report card. We wrote blogs and did crafts. We fantasized about how we’d both meet country boys, get married early, and have babies. We’d escape our toxic parent/child relationships and our lives would be perfect. No matter what, though, we were always each other’s shelter from the storm and there was nothing we couldn’t tell the other.

Then things got… weird.

Neither Gail nor I had ever been kissed when we got our first boyfriends at 17… within months of each other. For realz, our first real dates were the same movie. Logically, we each lost our virginity around the same time, though Gail much sooner, due to the opposing magnets in her kneecaps.

I’m so funny. Fo sho.

We each got very serious very quickly in these relationships, so boys and sex were a brand new thing for us at the same time. Then came our second semester of senior year. You see, while most of our white middle-class classmates were excited for graduation day and the cliché Felicity college years, Gail and I were both just… uniquely lost. Her parents had made it clear that she was to move out if she wasn’t attending college and that they were neither going to pay for her college nor give her the information she needed to receive loans, because they didn’t want her taking on that kind of debt. My mother had… well, she was gone. She’d moved to a town about two hours away to live with her boyfriend and my ex-husband was living with me in her house. She brought by gas and grocery money, screamed about how messy the house was when she left a child alone for months, and then she’d be off. Gail and I both had zero guidance… no clear plans. So, instead of feeling elated when we threw our caps in the air, we were just terrified.

Who needs this…

… when you could have this?

As summer took hold, Gail and I drifted. Gail was my maid-of-honor, but we both got so busy, we didn’t have time to maintain that high school relationship. About a year and a half later, though, I randomly called her and we chatted like we were 15 and stringing our own necklaces in the floor. It was then that we started to catch up… and realized the odd similarities in our lives.

Just a year after I married my ex, Gail married Shane, the rebound after her first boyfriend. She’d clung to him when her parents had made it clear she had to leave.

I’d clung to and married my ex-husband when my mother had left.

Gail and I struggled to pay the bills on our own as our husbands refused to work. Oddly enough, neither of us ever discussed our near identical marriages at the time. As close as we were, we still hoped that the next morning, they’d magically become good and competent men, get out of bed, go to work, and help support their families. In the meantime, if they could stop abusing the pets (mine) and looking at child porn (Gail’s), that would be super, too. Gail once told me that she didn’t mind that Shane was only working at Blockbuster, because at least he was working. I once told her that it didn’t matter if I didn’t trust my ex. You get different things from different people and there are other people I trust. I just needed him to work. Our best case scenarios involved minimum wage jobs they’d actually keep and no trust or security… ever. Once they grew up and stopped mistreating their wives, though, we couldn’t very well have our best friends and families hating them, could we? Besides, at this point we wouldn’t have to worry about money anymore, because we’d be pulling in millions harvesting fairy dust from a rainbow!

Remember that time we took a group trip to Candy Land with our wizard husbands?

So, as we’d done when we were kids, Gail and I clung to each other, sharing the occasional breakdown. Then Gail got pregnant.

Me: “So are things better with Shane now, or…”
Gail: “I don’t want to talk about my marriage. I want to talk about my baby.”

Okey dokey.

Then I got pregnant.

Me: “I’m not ready for this.”
Gail: “It’s good that you know that, because raising this little girl is the hardest thing I’ll ever do.”

Then I lost my baby in my late-first/early-second trimester.

Then Gail filed for divorce.

Then Gail lost Grace at eight months old.

It was at this point that we’d begun to think our life parallels were… startling.

Then Gail was raped at a party.

Then I woke up one morning, unsure why I was naked and the sheets were clean.

Jeez… he was just trying to do something nice. Must I complain about everything?!?

Then I filed for divorce.

Gail ended her first relationship since her divorce.

We both took up dating again… navigated the treacherous waters of online romance, of boys who don’t call back…

Then we got jobs in our desired fields within months of each other.

What the fuck?

At this point, I could pretty much be attacked by a polka dot pink kangaroo and Gail would know to be on the lookout.

So, we decided some time back, that these similarities were just too bizarre. One of us has to be fake while the other is left rocking in the corner of a psych ward, eating her own lips, and mumbling about the other. The debate has now turned into exactly who is the real one.

Every time we say something in unison, we’ll try to beat each other to the punch with “I’m the real one!”

I think I make a pretty strong case for why I’m real, though a good portion of that case is “I’m me” and that has yet to convince Gail. But I’m always first damn it. I had the boyfriend first, the abusive marriage, the miscarriage. I just inflicted these things on my imaginary friend Gail, so I would have someone who could relate to me. As I vomited on the side of the road on Thanksgiving night of 2010, weeping about my ex-husband leaving the dog tied up so long he dug a hole through the floor until his feet bled, Gail held my hair… in my imagination. I was really just projectile vomiting in a padded room, because the new medication didn’t sit well.

This is a party.

In the last two years, my life has completely lit up. It’s been wonderful. I have great friends and can financially support myself. I didn’t eat free popcorn from my job at the movie theater all through last summer. I know why the mattress is bare. Soooo… after I found a job with the library system, Gail got her job, which she fully intends to turn into a career. After I got an apartment that my ex-husband wasn’t breaking into to steal from me nightly (after the divorce was finalized), Gail moved out of her parents’ home, where she’d been living since Grace’s death. I’m not sold on the idea that having a man in my life will improve it, so I’ve inflicted one on Gail, in the form of Terry, to test it out. I’ve even sent us running in completely opposite directions in regards to gender roles, so I can experiment with both. I regularly say “the boy does that” while Gail changes a tire or pees standing up.

I actually did have an imaginary friend once. The Jolly Green Giant lived in my parents’ ceiling light and only visited me.

Pictured: Gail.

I make a pretty convincing case here. I’d bet even Gail is starting to believe. In the meantime…

See what I did there? See how I totally referenced Buffy the Vampire Slayer in this blog again?

I am so going to end up in Tupperware.

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Remember the post Online Dating: Holy S#!+, I Don’t Have Time for This? Well, if you don’t, it’s pretty self-explanatory from the title. A couple of weeks ago, I swore off dating until I finish graduate school, at the very least. That lasted until one night last week, when I was up late ~~procrastinating~~ studying and decided to sign into my Plenty of Fish account. I’d like to take this moment to thank the good Lord for reminding me why I don’t have time for this… and for doing so in a humorous way.

Amen.

I had successfully avoided Plenty of Fish for about three weeks after trading a few long messages with Catholic Engineer (over the course of a couple of weeks), before realizing that I just couldn’t even fit responses into my schedule, let alone an actual date. After agreeing to the vague “I’d like to meet”, I proved my dick was biggest, like the jackass I am, by ceasing to sign in altogether without a word or explanation. I’m really bad at this. So, the other night, I expected to log in to see one or two messages, maybe a hurt “If you weren’t into it, you could have just said so” that would have made me feel even more guilty. Seriously. I am terrible at this. I should’ve remembered, though; this is the Internet and while, quite often, totally normal people sign up for online dating, it is still the place where crazy people go to hide.

I suppose this profile picture should’ve been a tipoff.

Originally, I let out a sigh of relief. I had not, in fact, received any angry or hurt messages. Then… I let out a shudder. I had received no less than five messages in three weeks, each relatively lengthy.

– The first message was in response to my lack of response, explaining that he’d put the pieces together and realized I must be working the book sale for my library system, as I’d mentioned. He was excited by the prospect of coming by to see me.
(!!!!!!)

– The second message told me that he was sorry he hadn’t made it by, his nerves got the best of him, but he couldn’t wait to meet me. He assured me he knew I was worth it.
(I debated whether this was an “aww” moment or a “get out of my tree and wipe the semen of my window” moment before. It is officially the latter.)

– The third message told me how he’d been thinking of me and hoped I was well. Gee, I must be really busy, but he knew that the best things in life are worth waiting for.
(Dude, if you weren’t so fucking crazy, you’d lose major points for ending that sentence in a preposition.)

– The fourth message told me how lonely he was and how much he missed talking with me and that each night he hoped to sign in and get a pleasant surprise in the form of a response. He was looking forward to meeting me and knew I was worth the wait.
(At least he’s not redundant.)

– The fifth apologized for sending me so many messages and assured me he was just lonely, but he knew I must be busy.

After reading through Catholic Engineer’s epic memoire, I immediately texted Gail to tell her that he was, apparently, super crazy. She told me to block him right away. I wasn’t completely sure if she was serious or not, since we were texting this conversation, so I didn’t. I am so going to end up in Tupperware one day.

That’s big enough for a human head, right?

The next day, I signed in again, also while ~~procrastinating~~ studying. I had a few messages from underwhelming, occasionally entertaining individuals, but nothing out of the ordinary. I realized that my profile was showing up at the top of several lists, because I was signing in again. I decided to make it clear that I wasn’t looking for much and added a short notation to the top of my “About Me” section, explaining that I was off dating, as I didn’t really have the time until graduation. I clarified that I just enjoyed logging in when I was procrastinating.

The next day, working dilligently on my homework again, I signed in for a quick browse and was greeted with message six from Catholic Engineer. He wanted to take the opportunity to thank me for my update and assure me that he understood my absence. He knew I would be worth the wait and couldn’t wait to hear from me in May. May’s just around the corner, after all! He wished me good luck and hoped I might feel like procrastinating soon.

It is in here, that he will store my labia.

This guy had to be checking my profile daily to have read the update I left “him.” For reasons only partly related to this, my Plenty of Fish account has since been deleted.

I’ll give OKCupid a try.

I have got to stop reading romance novels, because they are the catalyst to the above stupid idea. I’m not afraid of dying alone, because I’ll never meet anyone, until I couple one too many romantic suspense titles with all of those Red Pill blogs telling me that without marriage, I’ll cry about cancer to no one. I don’t want to cry alone about cancer!!!! Sooooo… I signed up for OKCupid.

My creepy messages on this first day have been pretty standard, which is still pretty amusing. To quote a few:

You write well. I am a journalist. I was raised Catholic, but I left it behind. I might go back. I pray often about it. I have baggage, but I carry it well. Pun intended.

Now, a compliment to my writing is quite possibly the key to thawing my frozen heart, but I wrote a friggin’ profile, not the Great American Novel or even a kickass blog entry. That’s just a weird thing to say. Following it up by outlining his issues with God and a religion I’ve stated is important to me? Well, it’s not near as panties-dampening as telling me he has a shit ton of baggage. This was his opener!!!!!

Hence, I would be very pleased if I get the chance to have conversation with you sometime, that allows me to know more about you, and see what happens in therms of a physical or spiritual connexion between you and I, you know as the song says “let our hearts discover”

Okay… let’s just get one thing straight. You wait until the person has actually responded to you to mention any kind of “physical connection”. Also, is he trying to sound intelligent or is his grasp of the English language tenuous? I genuinely cannot tell.

In just the last few minutes I got a message from the blank profile, KeepItOnTheDL17. “What’s your e-mail and I’ll send you a pic?” Ummm… no. That’s up there with “What’s your address and I’ll send you a package?”

“What’s in the box?!?!?!”

My absolute favorite, however, has to be the guy who I’ve previously seen on Plenty of Fish with a four or five page profile talking about how awesome he is and actually using the words “if you’re lucky enough to win my friendship”. He used to have a “no fat chicks” paragraph as well, though he seems to have gotten wise about that one. I remember, because Gail and I giggled maniacly over it. Even now his profile includes:

I’m very picky and have high expectations when it comes to women.

I’m really good at pretty much anything I try.

Also, If you’re too busy to date, why are you on a dating site?

They aren’t too busy to date. They’re too busy to date you. Confidence is attractive and I have a higher tolerance for it than most, but wow. What is the purpose of tainting this excellent solo with the presence of another person? But, but… that’s still not the best part. The best is this little gem:

I don’t believe in divorce and only plan on getting married once. I want to make sure she is my best friend and my soul mate.

You don’t believe in it? It’s not a fucking one-armed fairy, you jackass. I assure you, it’s real. Furthermore, a good 70% of those people who are divorced likely said the exact same thing. They sure as shit didn’t walk down the aisle to Eminem’s I Love the Way You Lie. Way to judge 60% of the population of this state you bag of dicks. Also, at age 30, in the Midwest, a lot of your prospects are going to be divorced. Prick.

Pictured: Divorce

All that having been said, I’ll leave y’all to judge for yourselves whether I’m a glutton for punishment or just really dedicated to seeking out good material for this blog, because I gave another guy my phone number. I’m determined not to initiate, since I don’t particularly care about the results and I don’t have a penis. The boy does that.

Gail: “Just for my amusement, what does the girl do in return?”
Me: “Wears pink.”

He contacted me though, and we’ve been texting. I imagine it’s only a matter of time before I write about him asking me to lick his peg leg.

Sigh… I always wanted to be cremated anyway.

I was a 23-year-old divorcée.

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I wrote this entry months before moving to WordPress, so very few of my 80 something followers have even seen it. It still greatly resonates with me and I find myself wanting to make the same points in newer posts, so I’m reposting it and I hate the “reblog” style.

The right idea…

In the Midwest, we marry young, often because we have kids even younger. There are a number of reasons for this trend, but to name a few…

One: you can buy a decent house here for well under $100,000, so a couple of 18-year-old kids can actually afford to care for themselves. Two: our parents did it and still effectively force smiles for the family photo. Three: if you have sex before marriage, you will get syphilis of the broken heart and Jesus will personally punch you in the head (or so say our middle school “sex education” classes). Four: country music said it was romantic

Mostly, we just make bad decisions.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some of these marriages that work, against all odds. Mine, however, was not one of them. Married at 19 (for an astounding number of terrible reasons), I divorced at 23 and can name at least 10 people in my graduating class who also want to start a club. One issue with marrying so young remains consistent regardless of location or motivation. When you marry at 19, you miss out on a ridiculous number of milestones and experiences that everyone else your age is having; or, in my hometown, that half of the people your age are having while the other half prepare for their inevitable divorces right along with you.

After high school has ended, we have the chance to go to parties and find other people our age who like the same weird crap we do and introduce each other to new things. We date and realize how and where to meet people, express an interest in them, recognize their interest in ourselves. We discover a personal style and catch up on any of the things we didn’t learn in high school, like how to flirt and dress up for a night out without looking too slutty. We discover what’s attractive on some and what works and doesn’t work for us. We learn how to let someone down easy or bounce back from a brush off. Maybe we even begin doing things alone and becoming comfortable with who we are. As I said, we have the chance. We also have the chance to throw it all away for a white dress that would’ve fit 10 years later and a whole lot of screaming.

Soooo… fast forward five years later. The divorce from the first boy you ever kissed is finalized. The crying and drunken phone calls have ended. You’re moving on. It’s healthy. And you have no idea what the fuck you are doing.

Divorce is bad enough on its own. You’re humiliated and you feel like you have to explain the story to everyone who hears the D word, so they’ll understand you’re not just careless with the sacred institution of marriage. Only, if you do, you’re that crazy woman who just told someone her life story for no apparent reason. You feel like a failure and if you’re religious, you feel like you pissed all over the Bible. Everyone acts like they knew it was coming from day one and you’re angry because they never told you. Logically, you know you wouldn’t have listened, but you’re furious at them for letting you get married and yourself for being stupid enough to do it in the first place. Everyone assumes you want them to badmouth the ex, but then you feel like an idiot for ever seeing anything in them. You have moments of such intense anger and hatred, you feel like no good and decent person could possibly think such thoughts. These are standard divorce feelings, from what I’ve heard, regardless of age.

A 23-year-old divorcée, however, has these and a whole host of excitingly unique problems. While everyone else was growing and adapting to the previously mentioned scenarios, I had stalemated as a person. Emotionally, I was still 19. Before my ex-husband, I’d never dated. At all. So upon my divorce at 23, I still had the dating skills of the 12-year-old who used to watch and rewatch the same episode of Roswell, desperately wishing she’d magically wake up Liz Parker. I had never changed a tire or filed my taxes or fried an egg. If you think growing up and learning how to be a big girl is embarrassing at 14, try doing it at 24.

Living day to day as a single adult is a completely foreign concept when you’ve been with someone else since you were a child. Waking up in the middle of the night and knowing that you’re the only one to care for you is terrifying. The first time you get sick and no one is there to give a crap, you openly hope it’s Ebola and that all of this will be over soon. Knowing, without a doubt, that you are the only one paying the bills or cooking dinner or hanging photos or getting the oil changed or making the big decisions will cause you to hyperventilate. It’s half the reason you stayed married so long. Even buying your first vibrator is an admittance that you are all alone and caring for yourself entirely. That is scary as shit to someone who has at least been able to pretend someone else was carrying their share of the weight their entire adult life. These are just basic day to day functions, like learning to cook because that was the one thing he would do. However, while you’re fumbling to act like a grown up, you also get to face looking like one.

Bow chicka wow wow…

When you’re struggling to put food on the table and finish college, sex appeal just isn’t a priority. I had to learn, at 23, that hair can do something other than ponytails and braided pigtails. My best friend and a damned Youtube video taught me to apply eyeliner. Multiple times I have stood weeping in a dressing room because I don’t know how to be grown up. One month, I decided I needed a more attractive walk. In my defense, I based this on an interview seminar where the speaker demonstrated the importance of standing up straight. But the forced sway, was all my addition. I thought my usual clumsy stumbling must make me look immature. Only after seeing one of my guy friends imitate said walk, did I realize I looked like someone trying to balance on stilts without stilts. This was nothing compared to the actual interview that involved heels so high, I hobbled in and fell over, praying the manager didn’t see and ran out barefoot with similar aspirations. Figuring out that dresses are a thing, however, is hardly the most terrifying aspect of being suddenly single, though. If trying to master acting and looking like a grown up, simultaneously, when everyone else is years ahead of you, wasn’t daunting enough, there’s dating.

A common issue for even us young divorcées, is that we wonder if we have time to meet anyone else. In the Midwest, we truly are rushed to meet, marry, and procreate as soon as possible. Your 20s don’t really exist. The people who didn’t get married the year you graduated high school are mostly married just five years later. So, not only are you single after the divorce, you are the only single person ever, making dating even less appealing.In my case, I seemed to have polar opposite reactions to men. I either thought they looked at me and internally mooed or they were desperately clutching locks of my hair at night. My first blunder in this area was with a dear friend, who helped me through my divorce. I was on the rebound, terrified of the future, feeling lonely. C was kind and supportive and kept me company through my constant texting. Our mutual friends always made jokes about us being in love. I suppose these things naturally led to my conclusion that C, indeed, had feelings for me. He did not. The awkwardness between us passed and we are great friends to this day, despite the time I tried to kiss him because I figured it would finally set things straight. (Don’t do that.) But even now, a year and a half after the papers were signed, I’m still screwing up my signals.

Online dating was an obvious first choice. I still consider this a valid option. Many people do it and the percentage of them that are nuts is the same as in a local club. Only they don’t usually let you know this by grabbing your ass and saying you owe them for it, so you should come back to their place. The first time around, I wasn’t ready and stopped talking to the guy after he asked to meet me. The second time around, about a year after the divorce, I talked to a new guy for far too long, before meeting him, because he was overseas. He was mostly a nice guy, though too old for me at 30. I felt nothing and purposefully left my phone and purse at the table when I went to the restroom so I wouldn’t talk myself into bolting. Once he informed me that there was no way my divorce was as bad as his, I regretted this decision and ended the date with “I’ll text you.” He never heard from me again.

In hindsight, I regret the way I treated Combat Brian. I should have informed him I felt nothing instead of ignoring him. But this goes along with all of the things everyone else knows how to do at 24. I had no idea how to tell the guy I wasn’t feeling it and figured he’d get the point when he never heard from me again. He may think I’m dead. While Combat Brian did deserve a bit more respect, despite calling my marriage (about which he knew nothing) a bouncy castle, The Air Traffic Controller who told me he ran over a cat on his bike and was pissed that it may have broken his wheel, did not. He had weirdly placed ears, swore too much, didn’t tip the waitress, and told me I was in idiot if I paid less than $2,000 for a bicycle. He texted constantly, even when I didn’t answer. (What the hell? Who does that? Someone with a vagina, that’s who.) So, again, I employed my trademark finesse and just stopped speaking to him. I’m not sorry. However, in the moment he texted me when he saw me at Chick Fil A, I was indeed a bit remorseful… in my pick of restaurants. I smoothly told him I was busy with finals and not deceased. Having more dating experience than I, he took this for what it was, me blowing him off.

Every now and then, I’ll think I’m getting better at this whole thing. I can put on my eyeliner in under a minute. I’ve only found myself stuck in a dress in a department store, near tears, once in the last month. I love living alone and can make Hamburger Helper. I pay my bills and handle rejection from a man I meet online with just enough grace. I feel like I’ve got it all under control. That’s when I do something completely fucking insane.

Bartender was a boy I knew in high school and, something I discovered only recently, worked at a popular restaurant. He’s flirty with a tongue piercing and not my type at all. For some reason, I decided that this was just what I needed. I often feel behind for the fact that my Magic Number is a whopping ONE. Yes. Take the number of people you’ve slept with and divide it by itself and you’ve got mine. I figured casual dating wouldn’t be the worst idea when Bartender wanted to hang out. I took this as a date. He claims he didn’t, but I think he just took the chance to declare crossed signals after I drowned him in text messages for a week and Gail convinced me to send him a sexual solicitation just to see what he’d say. I got $24 for said text and hysterically cried to another friend:

“I suck at this. I have no idea what I’m doing. At least other girls sort of know where they stand. They can look at an orange and think ‘Oh, a fruit’, but I look at an orange and think ‘Yay! A bicycle!.”

After things didn’t seem like they could get any worse, I kept texting him to convince him that I wasn’t insane. At first, it was in the way you’d expect, by explaining the situation… way too many times.Then it was at one week intervals, about unrelated things.

“See. I couldn’t have feelings for you when I’m just texting about True Blood. I’m so casual and smooth. Not crazy at all. Right? I mean, that’s what you’re getting out of this, isn’t it?………..

………..

Lafayette’s my favorite.”

Finally, I’ve realized that the best case scenario here is that the heavy drug use will wipe me from his memory. Really? What was I thinking?

But all of this has taught me some valuable lessons. I now know to let them come to me if I don’t want to risk rejection. I also know that endless texting is really fucking annoying, no matter your intentions. Even the constant self-consciousness has faded a bit. I can now go to a movie alone and not wonder if everyone around me is whispering about why a woman is seeing a movie by herself. (I swear, humans are ridiculously self-centered and Facebook is not helping to convince us that we aren’t constantly being watched.)

This is what everyone in the theater sees…

However, I still find myself assessing every man in the room and looking for a ring. I wonder what they think of me, whether I’d be interested or not. If a sleeve tattoo is one that covers your arm, then the tattoo artist who touched up my foot yesterday had a ski mask. I still could not stop thinking about how badly I wished I’d shaved my feet before this. I may be able to sit through the movie alone, but it’s still awkward to eat out. I know that if I couldn’t take the most basic rejection, I really couldn’t handle a one-night-stand. My brother tells me all the good men are taken at my age and I can hear my biological clock ticking because I wasted so many good years and everyone in the Midwest thinks your soul has died if you don’t have a family of your own by now. I still sometimes cry in the dressing room because I don’t know if I look edgy or silly.

Appropriate for my first day of work, right?

But sometimes, another girl from high school tells me she’s getting divorced and I have some insight. I can relate to how she feels and let her know that, of all places, our hometown is the place to not feel alone in this. And lastly, I can remember that I’d rather be weeping in a dress, because I don’t know if it fits correctly, than weeping in wedding dress because I know it’s all wrong.

Fictional men I’d date… wait… on second thought….

Posted on March 19, 2013 by Belle of the Library

In the past, I’ve dedicated entire posts to a man everyone loves, but I hate: Christian Grey. But there are others, whom I openly cheered for from the beginning… until I gave them a bit more thought. Producers, I must say, you’ve been doing a pretty shitty job of writing my dream guys for the last 50 or 60 years now. For example…

No, no. Not him. I’d have back-of-the-knee sex with this one.

Leonard Hofstadter of The Big Bang Theory

From the beginning, Leonard is the obvious favorite of the BBT gang. Sheldon’s too in love with Sheldon to date; Raj can’t speak to women; Howard’s hand is likely glued to himself in his mother’s kitchen. Leonard is actually a great guy. He’s funny, loyal, independent, cute in a pocket protector sort of way, ambitious, social, successful, smart, and doesn’t mind looking like a nerd when he’s having fun. Even if he is shorter than my preference and probably can’t shoot a gun better than I can, I’d give the guy a chance. On second thought…

I’m 25 and just shy of a Masters degree. Twenty-seven-year-old, PhD-wielding, first season Leonard would be a great match for me. Penny, on the other hand, is an incredibly lost and immature 22-year-old. Yes, at 22, some women are working full-time and planning a wedding. They have an understanding of their life goals and finances. I get that. Some, however, are collecting Hello Kitty panties while they wait for their fontanelles to close, like Penny. This girl has moved from Nebraska to LA with the hopes of becoming an actress. She laments the fact that she cannot accomplish her goal, yet rarely attends any auditions. She works at the Cheesecake Factory and spends well beyond her means, not just shopping, but by living alone in an apartment that two physicists can afford to share. She’s lost and looking for direction in life, a not uncommon occurrence at her age and the entire basis for the Fifty Shades series. She’s often short on her rent, so she needs someone else to pick up the slack, pay for her internet, cover her share of the fast food bill, and just generally finish raising her. Enter Leonard.

Despite his success and security in his career, Leonard is desperately clinging to the idea that the nerd can get the girl. You know what? That’s pretty danged true. Many women his own age have dated enough douche bags to look past the superficial stuff and recognize a decent guy. Leonard, however, is too insecure to approach those girls, so he takes advantage of the hot chick next door, who is desperately seeking someone to take care of her. Penny sees this in steady and reliable Leonard and mistakes it for romantic feelings, so he takes his chance to prey on some of those daddy issues and get a piece of that Hello Kitty clad ass.

The issue here is not the general age difference, but the fact that Leonard and Penny are worlds apart in their interests, their aspirations, and their places in life. I don’t doubt that there are some couples who are 22 and 28 and function quite well. I doubt that Leonard and Penny could even possibly be one of them and that someone of Leonard’s intelligence wouldn’t immediately realize this. There’s no way he thinks he and Penny are even going to have common ground for small talk, but he pursues a relationship anyway, because the cheerleader turned him down one too many times. Penny just sees a nice guy who has his shit together, which appeals to her, because she so very much doesn’t. While both are adults and I’m by no means suggesting Leonard be placed on a national registry, I do think that based on his age and education, he’s more capable of recognizing “using someone” versus “dating someone” and therefore blame him for this destructive relationship.

Luke Danes of Gilmore Girls

When Lorelei Gilmore leaves her stifling upper-class home life as a teenager (baby in tow) she takes refuge in Stars Hollow, Connecticut: a town with an exorbitant land-tax, based on the number of elaborate festivals held each year. Seriously. That’s what the sign at the city limits should say. Lorelei raises her daughter in Stars Hollow and exchanges adorable daily banter with Luke, the local diner owner for years, before she sees what all her neighbors and the entire audience could already see and they finally get together.

Luke is a successful business owner, just like Lorelei. He’s funny, intelligent, frugal, and doesn’t let anyone push him around. Shockingly, he has very little baggage for a guy in his mid-thirties, except for an ex-fiance and delinquent nephew. He loves Lorelei’s daughter and clearly adores Lorelei in a way I can totally appreciate, because it doesn’t involve any obvious emotion or romance. Ew. This is on cable, people, not Showtime. He’s the perfect small town guy. On second thought…

Lorelei loves Stars Hollow, the home that took her in, because being wealthy is awful or something. She really gets into the ridiculous festivals and town meetings and is friends with everyone. Her daughter has spent her whole life here and it’s the only home she knows. Luke is a true native, but he’s so fucking negative all the time that I can’t help but hope he gets lost in a hay maze or run over by a colonial wagon. It’s not enough to just not participate in something, he has to take the time and effort to make everyone else feel stupid for enjoying their surroundings (and massive amount of tax dollars at work) and having a good time. It doesn’t matter if it’s a local hockey game. a town meeting, or a snowman building contest, Luke isn’t having fun unless he’s taking a shit on Taylor’s podium. Granted, that might be worth a celebration, but come on. He’s the fifteen-year-old who thinks it’s clever to publicly criticize everyone who likes Twilight or my coworker who says “That would lower my IQ” about all genre fiction.

Every.

Single.

Fucking.

Title.

No one is superior for disliking harmless fun. It’s fine to skip the All Night Danceathon. I don’t think I’d want to attend that either. However, attending it just to mock everyone who showed up sounds more exhausting than the event itself. Dating someone who’s constantly making you feel like an idiot for being involved in your community and immersing yourself in the local culture sounds like it would lead to the worst pillow talk ever.

Joey Tribbiani of Friends

I don’t care if I was six years old when the first episode of Friends aired. I can still totally relate to the depiction of the random years between college and babies, when you’re trying to figure out who you are and what you want in life. You know, the years that don’t exist in the Midwest. Joey Tribbiani was cute, loyal to his friends, good with birds (totally loses points for that, because birds are terrifying), funny, laid back, supposedly good in bed, and just generally comfortable to be around. He’d have been great for Phoebe, and not only because they were the only two left. On second thought…

I don’t even know how Joey Tribbiani got five friends, because he was a horrible person. This show started with a 24-25-year-old Joey, who was still trying to be an actor. In time, he makes it on a soap opera, which is indeed impressive. The problem is that this lasted only two or three seasons out of ten. How did he support himself the other seven or eight seasons? Oh, yeah. He didn’t. It’s great to pursue your goals in life, but there’s a time to grow up and realize that you aren’t going to be a rock star. Perhaps you can still find a way to support yourself with your passion, and if so, that’s awesome. But that’s not what happened with Joey. He spent most of this series “borrowing” money from Chandler and stealing food from Monica and Rachel, all the while trying his best to contract some kind of venereal disease.

Not only was this guy a financial leech and a womanizer, but as the show went on, he became progressively stupider. I don’t understand how any of these people related to this guy after the first two years. Chandler and Ross were dedicated workers from the first episode, while Monica and Rachel (who were two years younger) found their passions and careers in a relatively reasonable amount of time. Phoebe may never have joined the corporate world, but she did pay her own way through a means she enjoyed. In fact, Phoebe was the grown-up version of Joey, dreaming of being a singer while still working a day job she found financially and personally satisfying. It’s not like Joey even paid back his friends’ generosity in any other ways either. Joey half-asses every relationship in his life, from refusing to share food with his date to losing every single item in an apartment where he doesn’t even regularly pay rent. How did the guy even get laid past age 30 while claiming to be an actor with no day job and few auditions? I know I can’t wait to ~~adopt~~ ~~support~~ marry this guy.

George Bailey

What the hell kind of list am I working from? Present day, 00s, 90s, and then the fucking 40s? For realz, though. If you haven’t thought of George Bailey’s big ol’ greyscale hands while masturbating, you’re doing it wrong.

Still reading? Or was that enough to make you close the browser?

George Bailey is the epitome of American Family Man. He has a sense of family loyalty to rival the Godfather, lost his hearing saving his baby brother, is kind (but not too kind) to the town slut, stands up to Potter, and repeatedly sets aside his own happiness to do what’s right for everyone else. He’s good-natured, charismatic, and the whole town freaking loves him. On second thought…

George Bailey whines more than any single holiday movie character ever and that includes Charlie Brown wanting to kill himself and Ralphie wanting his Red Ryder BB gun. So you gave up going to college to take over the Bailey Building and Loan, George? Well, that’s what happens when you choose to give up going to college to take over the Bailey Building and Loan. You got married instead of traveling the world? Well, that’s what happens when you choose to marry before you’ve traveled the world. No one forced this guy to do anything. George and Mary are about to embark on their honeymoon when they get news of a run on the banks and solve the issue by handing out their own savings. Then the babies come and they keep on coming, so the trip never happens. I didn’t once hear Mary complain about missing her honeymoon and giving birth to George’s litter under the stairs. She didn’t mention how she could’ve been the rich wife of Sam Wainwright instead of listening to George bitch all the time (though according to an alternate reality, no one would’ve wanted her and she’d have become ::duh duh duh:: A LIBRARIAN! Fuck. Off.) The guy wanted credit for making the choices for the greater good, but still wanted pity for all he sacrificed. Life is still about sacrifice and choices and that was far truer in the 1940s. This guy was no trailblazer for his hard times. Instead of standing by his choices, being proud of all the good he’s done, and leading by example, George complains so much that the freaking Heavens intervene. Angels are actually sent down to Earth to shut this guy up. Sure, I want to marry someone good and selfless one day, but not if I have to forever hear about how good and selfless he his.

How about these writers take the best qualities of all these guys – the smarts, the financial awareness, the laid back attitude, the confidence, and the sense of responsibility – and toss out the insecurity, the negativity, the laziness, and all the fucking whining? I’d write fan-fiction over that. Also, make him look like this…

I am telling you, I would do things that would make my Gramma weep.

Why I may or may not be too stupid to date.

Posted on March 13, 2013 by Belle of the Library

So not only do I not have time to date right now, but you know that scene in Where the Heart Is, where Natalie Portman has decided to teach herself to read after giving birth in a Wal-Mart? She explains that it’s absolutely exhausting because she has to look up every other word in the dictionary and then look up those words in the children’s dictionary. That’s me, but with dating, because I have no idea what the fuck I am doing.

She eventually mastered both, however.

A few months ago, I went on a date with Engineer. He was cute enough in his pictures, had a big boy job, and the conversation had gone alright online, so I met him at a fast food restaurant after work one evening. I had homework to do, but figured I could fit in a little bit of a social life (wrong). As I was driving away from our first meeting, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I just didn’t like him. Gail’s always telling me I don’t give guys enough of a chance, because she’ll go out with a guy whose shoes are made of wheat at least four times before she gets tired of hearing about how he’s going to make it big with his “art” one day, so the McJob is just temporary. So, after leaving Engineer, I thought of several reasons not to like him, but didn’t want to share any of them with Gail, because I was afraid she’d tell me I was going to die alone. I did, however, tell her when Engineer asked for a second date. I left out everything negative and she, naturally, encouraged me to continue getting to know him. A couple of days later, I sent Gail this text:

“I canceled my date with Engineer. I just really don’t like him and didn’t want you to tell me I’d die alone.”

At this point, I think Gail realized that she’d been making enough jokes about my dating habits to convince me I couldn’t confide in her and that’s how we both ended up married to lunatics that one time. So she called and was absolutely non-judgemental, but wanted to hear the whole story, because we tell each other everything.

I never was sure what to do with that dress.

First off, this guy hated THE UNIVERSE. He was one of those people who thought that disliking things made him superior. He immediately insulted Twilight and anyone who reads “that stupid vampire crap.” I’ve read five books about vampires this month and had a private True Blood marathon this week. I like Superman, but Batman is better. I hardly watch T.V., but he didn’t even own a T.V. and was super proud of that fact, despite watching the shows he likes on his computer. That’s still screen time! He didn’t read and had never been to the local library. He was oddly against drinking at all and clearly judged anyone who wasn’t. He thought religion was stupid and that football was a waste of time. He didn’t like any movies and told me he hates all music, because it’s all the same. For fucking realz, yo. On the way home, trying to pinpoint why I didn’t like him, I just kept thinking of how little we had in common… because he’d have nothing in common with anyone living. Then, venting to my best gal, the one person who is always on my side, I remembered… the rest.

Me: “I actually hurt my back really badly when I decided to take up running the same week I tried a P90X vid…”
Engineer: “Okay, no offense, but there’s no way you can do P90X.”
Me: “I was going to say it was just the ab exercise.”

He immediately told me he had ADHD and proved he loved to talk about it. He actually stopped speaking for a moment (but only a single moment in the whole fucking date) to tap the shiny lightbulb and comment on how it was shiny and he liked shiny things. It was like his dialogue was written by a 14-year-old who thinks that’s what people with ADHD say.

Me: “So if your ADHD is so bad, how’d you get through college with such trouble focusing?”
Engineer: “I slept. The professors knew that if they woke me up, I’d just correct all of their answers and embarrass them, so they just let me sleep.”

… and….

Engineer: “So I was working as a janitor at this plant, after college, and it just sucked, because I knew I was smarter than every single person there.”

I felt like the best case scenario would be dating for a couple of weeks before I lost my shit and shouted “OH MY GOSH! You hate everything but yourself! Why am I even here?!?!”

… because finally…

Me: talking about how my dad wants bragging rights from his kids “He loves to tell people that I have a master’s degree at 25, even though I’m not finished yet.”
Engineer: “Bet he doesn’t tell them what it’s in, though.”

Oh, go suck a bag of dicks! On your way, be sure to get distracted and suck a bag of super SHINY dicks!

I seriously need to turn on the SAFE SEARCH.

So how does all of this make me stupid? It was a bad date that I tried to smooth over. Maybe I gave that unreasonable effort, but anyone can be the victim of a bad date. “Too stupid to date” is awfully harsh.

The thing is, for someone who shouted “HOLY FUCKING CUNT ROLLS!” the other day, I have it on good authority that I can be shockingly naive. I didn’t even think to tell Gail the following until the end of the story.

Me: “Well, he did say one thing that might have been kind of weird, but I think I was reading into it.”
Gail: “What did he say?”
Me: “Well… um… nevermind. It sounds worse than it is when I say it out loud.”
Gail: “What did he say?!?!”
Me: “Well, when I texted to ask what intersection we were meeting at, he responded with ‘the restaurant or my apartment?’, but I think he just misunderstood what I was asking.”
Gail: imitating my voice… poorly “Ell oh ell! You don’t know how words work!”

She thinks she’s the sweet one.

Me: “That can’t be what he meant! It was the first time we’d met! He did not want to have sex with me. He said he was looking for an actual relationship. People don’t do that.”
Gail: “Yes, Belle. They do. That is exactly what he meant. Also, he was lying.”
Me: “Oh, it is not. We’re too old for those games. If he wanted sex, he’d say so online. But… wait… maybe…”
Gail: “Maybe what?!? What else did he say?!?!”
Me: “Well, when he asked me to go on the second date, he asked what I was doing and said he was watching Arrow. I said I like that show and he asked if I wanted to watch it with him, but I’m sure he meant at some undetermined time in the future!” I spit the last part out before she could interrupt.
Gail: “Oh, he did not! He wanted you to come over right then so he could pretend his computer was broken and fuck.”
Me: “You’re making that up! He called me fat on the first date! No one does that! Ewwww.”
Gail: “Well, clearly he didn’t mind, because that’s what he meant.”
Me: “Maybe he wanted me to go over there, but that doesn’t mean he wanted to have sex. You’ve gone to men’s apartments several times when you’ve just met.”
Gail: “Yeah… and I knew what they wanted.”
Me: “Wait, then what did he mean when he said ‘if tomorrow night goes well’?”
Gail: “OH MY GOD! I am so glad you didn’t go to this man’s apartment! Do not apologize for canceling and do not talk to him again!”

It’s probably best for Gail’s nerves that I’ve put dating aside for a few months… especially since I never was completely sure of his intentions.

The Lucky One… rented a different movie.

Posted on March 10, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I was supposed to go to a baby shower today, but there was an apocalyptic downpour for the ten minute window in which I would’ve left. I still want to send a gift, so I went to Family Video and got a gift card, some candy, and microwave popcorn to go with the sparkling grape juice I’d bought. I figured I’d give a date night, since I know shit about what babies do. Then I was possessed by demons, and not the good kind like the sexy ones from my werewolf porn, but rather the entire hoard of Gentlemen from Hush, the silent episode of Buffy. You know what they did to me? They made me rent The Lucky One.

You couldn’t have just taken my heart?!?!?!

I’ve been on a romance kick with my Kindle, so I figured I’d give this whole chick flick thing another try. Clearly, I like the sweet love stories, right? The thing is, unless it’s done phenomenally well, the words on the page are just too overdone on-screen. I’m afraid of emotion, y’all. I can’t handle this without laughing. You are really going to enjoy my entries if I ever get into another relationship. But… I decided to give the genre another shot and asked for a recommendation since the last movie I saw was The Collection, because boys are gross.

“If you like The Notebook, you’ll love this one.”

I totally intend to write a blog about everything that is wrong with The Notebook, but I didn’t feel like browsing any longer. The thing is, I don’t hate The Notebook. I Titanic it. What that means is that I think it’s a really sweet story if you don’t scratch the surface… not even a little. The Lucky One, though? Well, at one point, I accidentally changed the language to French and wasn’t sure if I liked the movie enough to bother figuring out how to change it back. It may grow on me though… like genital warts.

The movie opens with a battle scene where a freshly shaven and showered Zac Efron (Logan) and company are shooting people with what sounds like cap guns. Whatever, though. This is a love story, not a war story. The next day, Logan stumbles across a photo of a hot chick. When he bends down to pick it up, a bomb goes off and had he continued walking, he’d have been killed. More bad stuff happens and Logan lives, because the photo tells him to “Stay Safe” on the back. All his buddies keep telling him the woman pictured saved his life and he has to find her.

Wait. What? A soldier finds a picture of a woman on the ground and is immediately driven and encouraged to track her down? I know we find out later that the picture belonged to her brother, but Logan doesn’t know that. If a soldier has a picture of a hot chick on him, it’s kind of natural to assume she’s taken by a soldier. No one even considers or proposes this idea and Logan decides he must find his angel and thank her. ::Vomit::

Logan makes his family uncomfortable, because he’s irreparably damaged by war, so he walks from Colorado to Louisiana asking people if they know the girl in the picture, eventually finding her home town.

Wait. Shut the front door! He just happens to find someone who recognizes the girl in the photo, which says only “Stay Safe” on the back? I’m not fucking buying it. Unless there was a visible license plate number in said photo, the odds of just stumbling across her in the straight line you walked through two or three states are just too ridiculous for even a Nicholas Sparks story about fate. I read books about people who have to arrange their wings properly during sex and you still cannot convince me that Zac Efron finds the woman in this picture… but he does… because of fairy dust and love.

He didn’t walk. He rode in.

Logan eventually tracks down his savior and how incredibly disappointing is it for him that she is a total bitch? Has Nicholas Sparks ever even met a nice woman? This man is beginning to make me truly concerned for his personal relationships. If the movies based on his books are any indication, Nicholas Sparks owns a boat, is not nearly as terrified of geese as I am, and is in an abusive relationship. Beth the Savior is nasty to Logan from the beginning, with absolutely no catalyst. He says he’s a marine and she blows him off and calls him crazy, which I’m sure would make her brother proud. She implies that he’s stupid, because he only went to college for a year. Later, we find out that she doesn’t like him because he works too hard. Listen, bitch. Try being married to a man who is too lazy to bathe for four years and we’ll talk about the pitfalls of the man who fought for his country. At this point, I was hoping this was one of those movies where she gets a disease and dies.

Beth eventually warms up to Logan, and we’re not allowed to be angry at her for being a bitch, because she was sad that one time and we women can’t control our emotions around people who had nothing to do with our sadness. Yeah. I’m on board with that.

There are two main conflicts in this movie.
1) When will Logan tell Beth he found her picture?
2) Why’s it such a big fucking deal?
Also, Beth’s ex-husband is a douche bag and sheriff, even though he’d have to be like 9 years old, based on the timeline of this movie. Seriously. They got pregnant and married at 18 and the kid is 8. He’s 26 and sheriff? I suppose it’s possible.

There’s a lot of slow sensual sex, because people in love don’t fuck with wild abandon, duh. We see them dance and laugh, even though we never once hear either of them say something funny. Finally Beth learns that Logan knew her brother… and I still didn’t get why this was a bad thing. I have a big brother. I love him very much, even if he is a bigot who thinks fart jokes are hilarious. I’d be devastated if he died in war. You know what else? I’d think it was super cool that this guy found my picture and it was his good luck charm. It’d be even neater that he was hot and good in bed. I sure as shit wouldn’t be angry about it.

In a wildly unrealistic turn of events, Beth’s kid runs off in the rain, falls into a river, and his dad dies in an act of heroism, because somebody built the worst fucking treehouse of all time. Lady, if that treehouse couldn’t hold up to rain, your kid probably shouldn’t have been in it in the first place. Fo sho.

Oh, I’m not being fair. Louisiana isn’t really known for its storms.

Logan finds a photo of Beth’s brother and realizes that he was one of the guys with the cap guns and he died to save his partner. He tells Beth and dramatically walks away.

Why not just leave the way you got there?

Beth catches up with him, they kiss, and the kid has like zero rebound time to get over his dad’s death. They all live happily ever after.

There are chick flicks I’ve truly enjoyed, such as Sweet Home Alabama, 500 Days of Summer, Riding in Cars with Boys and Bridget Jones’s Diary. It’s just not fun to review those, because I can’t be sarcastic and smart alek. There are many more I’ve enjoyed, but love to tear apart, because according to Jay I’m “too analytical”. These include The Notebook, Gilmore Girls, Bewitched, Just Married, The Twilight Saga, and No Strings Attached. I enjoy watching these movies with and without analysis. Then there are movies I hate: The Women, The Vow, Pretty Woman, Enough, License to Wed, Life as We Know It. I’m not sure where The Lucky One falls. It’ll probably just be forgettable. But it was worth the $3 rental charge to enjoy “over-analyzing” it. The rest are sure to come.

Top Lines That Did Not Work On Screen, Because Emotions Freak Me Out

“Why did you come here?”
“To find you.”
I think someone once told me that in an alley where no one could hear me scream.

“Finding something like that in a war is like finding an angel in Hell.”
Has Sparks read the Bible? Because there are evil angels (known largely as demons) in Hell. The infamous Satan being one of them. Duh. So… ‘finding something like that in a war is like finding ham in a refrigerator.'” – Gail

“You should be kissed every day, every hour, every minute.”
That is going to get really awkward when I’m doing things you’d like to pretend girls don’t do.

Online Dating: Holy S#!+, I Don’t Have Time for This

Posted on March 9, 2013 by Belle of the Library

There’s not a lot more to it than that title. I talked to this nice guy a bit. He wasn’t particularly attractive, but he was Catholic and an engineer. Then he asked if we could hang out sometime and I played the scenarios in my head.

1. He thinks things are going great and I don’t like him because he keeps using the phrase “needless to say”. There’s some legitimate reason to run that I’m not addressing. I realize it later when I tell Gail about his obnoxious quirk and she interrupts to say “Wait. He had blood and fur under his fingernails?!?!?!” I’ve wasted a night I could’ve been working on my graduate portfolio. This is the likeliest outcome.

2. I really like him and think it’s going somewhere, even though my heart is dead, and he doesn’t return the sentiment. His rejection… makes my heart deader? I’ve wasted a night I could’ve been working on my graduate portfolio. This is not super likely.

3. We really hit it off. I give the first guy ever a second date that I don’t cancel the day before because I’ve just realized he asked me to his place the night we met, called me fat, and said my degree was stupid. I shit you not, on that one. Anyway, we start to spend time together… a lot of time. I fret over how to do the whole “relationship thing” without fucking it up. This time and energy could be spent on my portfolio, but isn’t and then I fail my last chance at grad school and blame him. My life is over. This is the least likely scenario.

Online dating. Holy shit I don’t have time for this.

A couple of weeks ago, Catholic Engineer and I were sending each other really long and interesting messages and had mentioned meeting. I was taking longer between each message, thinking about whether or not I should bother, considering responding to him at all was tough to fit into my day. He sent me a message addressing that and included the thought that he didn’t mind waiting, because I was worth it. That could’ve been an “aww” moment or a “dude, clean the semen off my window and get out of that tree” moment. It’s the internet, y’all. I was a little creeped out, but knew I might be being unreasonable. Then I pictured a future without my MLIS and stopped logging into PoF without another word or explanation… because I’m an asshole. Since then, I’ve admitted that I was only using PoF as an entertaining distraction from homework, because Facebook gets old and some profiles are funny. I’ve been able to avoid the site since then, because if I sign in and see all of these unopened messages from Catholic Engineer, I’m going to feel like a dickhole… or be terrified. I have a hierarchical checklist now:

Portfolio

Graduation

Career

Boys

I had a chart I made in Paint, with the intention of demonstrating this, but it kind of implied that “Boys” was the ultimate goal, The Holy Grail of my twenties and I value myself more than that. It’s only hierarchical in the sense that I’m not moving forward until I accomplish each individual goal, not the sense that my life isn’t complete until I suck more dick. Maybe that’s not what hierarchical technically means, but I don’t have time to look it up, because I should be finishing that paper.

All that being said, I’m off dating right now. It’s stressful and time-consuming and I’ve got more important shit going on in my life. Going to the bars takes even more time and the results are even less satisfying. Dedicating myself to not dating has actually been super freeing, in a way. I don’t feel guilty for not going out or giving Internet dates a shot. I’ve just chosen not to do this right now, because I can’t. I’m twenty-fucking-five and despite the fact that the Midwest is perpetually warning of the sand quickly running through my uterus, I’ll have time for it later.

Because even my own embarrassment is funny…

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Belle of the Library

“The kid from The Grudge wasn’t Asian. He was Japanese.”
I was 17. I’d like to thank (blame) growing up in the Midwest (population: white) and public education.

“Why would anybody buy a bag of footballs?”
country song: “bag of pigskins”

“You look like Lucy Lui… but not just because you’re Asian or anything. I mean, you’d have to be Asian to look like her, but you just actually look like her.”
In my fear of sounding racist, I sounded super racist.

“Well, the first book in the series is called 50 Shades of Grey and it has a tie on the cover. The second book has a picture of handcuffs on the cover. It’s called 50 Shades Dee-Darker. I almost said Fifty Shades Deeper. That’s embarrassing.”
That’s right. I actually stopped myself from saying this awkward and embarrassing thing to a customer who didn’t understand that the material was adult. Then I explained that I’d almost just said something awkward and embarrassing. I should be a public speaker.

“Crash. I didn’t really care for this movie.” I suddenly remember I’m not supposed to negatively comment on a customer’s selections… and get flustered and try to make it better. “My best friend loved it. It just wasn’t really my thing. We just have really different tastes in women… I mean movies…” How the FUCK do I mean movies?!?!? “We have really different tastes in movies. She made me watch THE WOMEN once and we just have really different tastes in movies.”

“It’s just really important to try not to touch yourself while you’re cooking.”
This was during a presentation over food safety and sanitation… in front of a class of about 30 people. I got an A, possibly because the professor couldn’t stop laughing.

“People race foxes?!?”
:in reference to the brand Fox Racing:

Me: “We’re not lesbians.”
Waitress: “What?”
Me: “Before. You took our names and you called her my partner. We’re not lesbians. I just wanted to clarify.”
Waitress: “Um… I’m sorry? I didn’t say that.”
Me: “Yeah, you did. Before, when you took down our names. It’s okay, though. You must’ve forgotten.”
Gail: “It’s not the same person.”
Me: “Yes it is.”
Gail: “No. It’s not.”
Me: “Yes it is. Wait. She wasn’t pregnant, was she?”
Gail: “No. Because it’s not the same person.”
Me: “Oh. Um…”
That’s right. Because it would’ve been more embarrassing to admit I’d made this appalling mistake than to try and convince the waitress that she did, in fact, call us lesbians.

Me: “I like your scarf.”
Customer: “Thank you! I got it at Ross.”
Me: “I’m sorry?”
Customer: “I got it at Ross.”
Me: “OH! I thought you said ‘I’ve gotta get bras.'”
Why the FUCK do I clarify the embarrassing part when I have successfully avoided it?!?!

Me: “I thought Benjamin Franklin was a president until I was 19-years-old.”
Gail: hysterical laughter
Me: “What?!? He’s on money! That’s like if Louisa Mae Alcott was on the $27 bill or something.”
Gail: “Why Louisa Mae Alcott?”
Me: “Um… because she wasn’t a president either. Duh.”
I probably could’ve just avoided telling anyone that story.

Me: “Why would I care what nationality my mechanic is?”
The sign read “Japanese Mechanic.”

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.

Coworker B: yanks my Kindle from in front of me “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.

Customer: “And this will let me view the Nook books?”
Me: “Yeah, we have a great e-media selection. Let me show you.”
I turn the screen toward her and pull up my personal account. The following book covers are prominently displayed:

The Worst Pep Talk of All Time

Posted on March 2, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Dear teacher for whom I substituted for one hour,

While you were out, I overanalyzed your décor.

This nugget of wisdom was framed on the desk of a coach. Part of my critique is due to the fact that I occasionally channel my best friend, Rosie the Fucking Riveter. I don’t appreciate gender stereotypes (regardless of how often I bait Gail with them) and that includes the idea that it’s only sexism if it’s aimed at women. Unfairness is unfairness. An equal part of this analysis, however, is that I grew up in the Midwest, where the only acceptable excuse for missing a football game is church. Wait. Maybe the only acceptable excuse for missing church is a football game. I forget. I wasn’t a real joiner in high school.

I enjoy football, particularly when played by my alma mater. I have bling dedicated to my team and my guest bathroom is all decked out in their logo. The other one is just pink as fuck, because girls can like football and pink. I think it builds sportsmanship and teaches the value of teammwork to put your kids in sports… if they want to be there. I also think it builds confidence… if they don’t suck. I believe in first, second, and third place with receding awards for each. I actually adore the fact that my step-brothers used to take their participation trophies and ceremoniously smash them.

Despite all of that, I don’t believe in forcing your kids to play a game they don’t want to play or in bullying them when they lose. Sometimes, you play your very best and the other team still wins. In that case, be proud of your best. I hope you still managed to have a good time. It’s not a wasted day/season/high school career if you didn’t bring home the biggest trophy. You got some exercise (unlike all of the other kids at school), made some friends, and had fun. Way to go. Just like in real life, it’s likely someone else will always have more. That doesn’t negate the value of what you have, though.

WHAT IT TAKES TO BE NUMBER ONE
– Spoiler Alert**** A penis. –

Winning is not a sometime thing; it’s an all the time thing. You don’t win once in a while; you don’t do things right once in a while; you do them right all the time. Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing.
– “Winning is a habit… so is losing” is actually great advice. Too bad it’s preceeded by such verbal diarrhea. Newsflash: winning is a sometime thing, especially in sports. You’re only one part of a team and sometimes your kicker’s dog just died or your fullback has a migraine. Sometimes bad calls are made or your quarterback gets hurt. Even if you defy all the odds ever and bring your A-game every time, there are still other people involved and you cannot control that. By definition, teamwork means you don’t get to be an asshole for it, either. –

There is no room for second place. There is only one place in my game, and that’s first place. I have finished second twice in my time at Green Bay, and I don’t ever want to finish second again. There is a second place bowl game, but it is a game for losers played by losers. It is and always has been an American zeal to be first in anything we do, and to win, and to win, and to win.
– I’m gonna interrupt with a little anecdote of my own here. I adore my daddy and have said as much, but when I was in grade school, he used to look at my report card and tell me to get that 93% up before it dipped down to a B. No fucking joke. I throw this in his face every time he tells me I’m being ridiculous for crying over a 98.5%. The thing is, when I get upset because I’m 1.5% shy of perfect, I’m the only one suffering (the people who have to listen to me whine about this don’t count). When your team gets to a freaking bowl game and you go in all “Whatev, man. My grandma’s knitting bee was more exciting than this” you sound like a bag of dicks, because knitting is hard. Maybe you feel like you didn’t work hard enough, but all your buddies are at a bowl game and they’re totally allowed to be proud of that.

Every time a football player goes to ply his trade he’s got to play from the ground up – from the soles of his feet right up to his head.
– Yes, it does say “ply”. As we’re about to learn, winning intellectually is secondary to winning physically. –

Every inch of him has to play.
– Particularly the penis. Just wait for it. –

Some guys play with their heads. That’s O.K. you’ve got to be smart to be number one in any business. But more importantly, you’ve got to play with your heart, with every fiber of your body. If you’re lucky enough to find a guy with a lot of head and a lot of heart, he’s never going to come off the field second.
– You hear that? It’s “okay” to be smart. It’s not so much encouraged, but it is allowed if you love and excell at football. Also “never going to come off the field second”? Until he does… because everybody loses sometimes. In that case, is he stupid or does he just not care? –

Running a football team is no different than running any other kind of organization – an army, a political party or a business. The principles are the same. The object is to win – to beat the other guy. Maybe that sounds hard or cruel. I don’t think it is.

They’re the same, you see.

It is a reality of life that men are competitive and the most competitive games draw the most competitive men. That’s why they are there – to compete. To know the rules and objectives when they get in the game. The object is to win fairly, squarely, by the rules – but to win.
– Theeeeere it is. The reality of life is that men, specifically, are competitive. This is not the human condition, but the penile condition. Men strong. Men fierce. Golly. No wonder they rule business and the home. Silly ol’ me. I thought that competition was just a drive in some people and that I could hope for success in my career one day. I’m glad I had some testosterone to set me straight. Don’t worry. I am, indeed, typing this from the kitchen. –

And in truth, I’ve never known a man worth his salt who in the long run, deep down in his heart, didn’t appreciate the grind, the discipline.
– If no part of him is competitive… if he’s content where he is in life and doesn’t want to move up to the top, despite the expectation in our society that he should always want more… if he has fun during the football game, regardless of the loss… then he’s no man at all. He’s not “worth his salt”. He’s just a big ol’ walking vagina. –

There is something in good men that really yearns for discipline and the harsh reality of head to head combat.

Uncanny.

I don’t say these things because I believe in the “brute” nature of man or that men must be brutalized to be combative.
– Yeah. I’m not convinced. This is like ending a sentence with “no offense.” It doesn’t undo everything he just said. –

I believe in God, and I believe in human decency. But I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour – his greatest fulfillment to all he holds dear – is that moment when he has to work his heart out in a good cause and he’s exhausted on the field of battle – victorious.
– Did you catch that? He’s saying that men are supposed to love competition… and that any kind of competition, be it football, drag racing, grabbing the last banana before your coworker gets it, is akin to battle. I just want to make sure you’re pickin’ up what he’s puttin’ down here. –

Total mindfuck.

Belle of the Library

… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.

Category Archives: Funny

“I’m sorry I asked for detailed information on your sex life before meeting. Lol.”

“I’m the real one!”, I shouted to the spoon.

I am so going to end up in Tupperware.

I was a 23-year-old divorcée.

Fictional men I’d date… wait… on second thought….

Why I may or may not be too stupid to date.

The Lucky One… rented a different movie.

Online Dating: Holy S#!+, I Don’t Have Time for This

The Worst Pep Talk of All Time

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