Category Archives: Funny

How Nobody is Ruining My Christmas

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‘Tis the season for mild stomach ulcers, yes? Christmas is, sadly, one of the most stressful times of the year for many people. This time for love, annoying music, and glitter has become the disaster of which the Mayans foretold. Pretty much every advertisement on television is designed to make me hate all children as I watch these greedy little parasites state that their parents have finally appeased them on Christmas morning. Then the parents sigh in relief, making me hate all parents. Everyone stresses themselves out trying to cook the perfect dish, putting up the perfect number of lights, and elbowing each other in the ribs to get the last IT toy of the season, because we’re all materialistic and insane. So, I’m taking a stand on the following issues to keep such madness from ruining my favorite time of year.

The Work Party
If I want to go (define: don’t have anything better to do), I’ll go. If I don’t, I won’t. Period.

The Decorations
I’m not going to lie. I pretty much had to rape that fucking Christmas tree to get it to do what I wanted. I knocked it over and broke the stand that was glued on. I hit myself in the knee with my pretty pink hammer getting the old stand off and gave up on the new one once there was glass all over the floor and the tree leaned so far to the left that it was practically horizontal. Then I tearfully texted C and told him I was the worst handyman ever and that I’d even put on a bra and pants if he’d come over and fix it. He had it up in under 10 minutes and I called him a bastard for it. But I love my tree. It was worth all of that trouble. However, aside from this, I have some glitter snowflakes on the wall, a couple of stockings, a wreath on each door, and some patio lights up. That’s it. I am not Tim The Toolman Taylor. I don’t need to prove that I have the most awesome decorations ever. I know my hot pink tree is the heroine of all Christmas trees and I don’t need a trophy for it. People fall off their houses rigging up their lights to connect to music on some random radio station and then bitch about how much trouble it was, because they didn’t even want it and only did it to make other people say “Huh, that’s neat.” Why would I stress out for a competition that doesn’t even actually exist when these minimal decorations make me happy?

beforetreeBefore and after a big strong man had to help me. Pathetic.

The Expense
I really don’t believe in credit. Maybe it’s Gail constantly talking about her dampened “I ❤ Dave Ramsey” panties (how much is too much to spend on a gag gift?), but I think it’s irresponsible to pay on time for anything that is not an actual necessity or a house. Taking out a line of credit to buy other people crap they probably don’t even want? No. I’m not doing that either. Regardless of whether or not they get a Wal-Mart credit card to do their shopping, though, the expense of Christmas is one of the biggest complaints I hear from pretty much everyone. I don’t get that. The people for whom I’m getting gifts are either people I know well enough to choose something they’ll like for $10 or… they’re not. The latter, I just feel obligated to buy something anyway, in which case, why the hell would I spend more than $10? I don’t have children, thank God, but I do have children in my life who I don’t think should be raised to be materialistic, greedy, and entitled little bastards. So… their gifts are also going to be $10. Maybe I’m not mommy, so I don’t get a say in whether or not Santa brought my niece a 32″ flat screen for her freaking third Christmas, but I can do my part by making it clear that while Aunt Belle cares, that won’t be reflected in material items and she doesn’t owe anybody anything. In general, if Christmas is getting too financially stressful, just forget it and give everyone hugs. Christmas is about family and love and stop action movies. I’d rather know that my Gramma had a fun holiday and get nothing but a kiss on the cheek than hear her tell me a week into December that she’s ready for Christmas to be over. But I can’t control what she does. I can only control what I do and that’s to spend $10 on your gift… unless you’re Gail or my Gramma, the only two people who would actually accept a hug as a gift with no hard feelings. Ironic, huh?

The Shopping
I finished most of my Christmas shopping in November… via Amazon. I spent Thanksgiving night watching a movie with my little sister, not telling the cashiers at Wal-Mart to screw themselves (read below) and have a Merry Christmas. We live in a digital age, people. Why the hell are you standing in line to buy that Furby? I even make a point to do my grocery shopping on a Monday morning, because I’m not dealing with that crap.

The Customers
Thank God I don’t work in retail anymore, because people are asshats to customer service representatives during the Christmas season. Lady, I’m sure Jesus Christ, himself, would fist bump you for trying to get that man fired for saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” Yeah. That’s a thing. Welcome to the Midwest, y’all. I’m even happier I don’t work in a movie theater anymore. Sir, if the movie reel messing up “ruined” your holiday, you have shit priorities. You’re supposed to be loving on your family and treating people well, not screaming at a teenager about how you couldn’t see the bottom two inches of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, because seriously, that guy is in everything lately. Library customers are much more mild-mannered, thank goodness, but the number of times I’ve been yelled at over Christmas candy has stuck with me. Now, I make sure to give every cashier a smile and even the occasional apology for the jackass in front of me.

I Want
One of my family members has this super tacky habit of sending out text messages instructing people on exactly what to get for her and the children. I’m not exaggerating. “We want Garden Ridge gift cards this year. The kids want Lego’s.” I didn’t even ask. My Gramma really stresses out about these detailed instructions, because she wants to pick things out and buy what she wants with her money. So, I’m ignoring any such mandates and buying what I want with my money. I don’t care if you want a Garden Ridge card. I already did my shopping and you’re all getting homemade hats. Fucking deal with it or I’ll just donate them to someone more grateful.

The Family Drama
I love my family and I’m looking forward to the 93 and a half Christmas parties that will require me to supply Oreo balls, which are a huge pain in the ass to make. We’re a fun, loud, and offensive bunch. I’m genuinely excited. However, everyone has that one family member they don’t love, but someone loves, so they’re required to be polite… even when they cause drama. Being polite, however, does not mean humoring you if you’re going to be cruel to me. I am 25 years old. I pay my own bills and take care of my own life. If I don’t want to do something, I’m not going to do it. No one is going to bully me or manipulate me otherwise. Nasty text messaging, catty voicemail, creative rumors, none of these things are going to get a response, because I don’t have to respond. I won’t yell. I won’t trade barbs. I won’t hide an insult in a smile. I will sincerely wish you a Merry Christmas and skip that get-together, because I don’t have to sit through that awkward dinner with people I don’t like while they make snide remarks. You can thow that tantrum as loudly as you want while all of your friends agree that I’m a bitch. In the meantime, I’ll be at home, eating raw cookie dough in an oversized t-shirt and my granny panties, reading trashy fiction and blogging in front of my bitchin’ hot pink Christmas tree.

me jude and treeMy view of your fit.

The Worst Online Dating Approaches Ever

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My older brother was also married at 19 without ever having dated. It’s what we do here. Wecome to the Midwest, y’all. He’s perpetually telling me that dating online is a terrible idea, even though it’s “slim pickins” (no joke, he actually talks like that) out there and that stopwatch he’s got on my uterus is slowly ticking away. I’m twenty-fucking-five and in graduate school. There are plenty of single men who are also too busy chasing their careers to date right now. Suck my big furry dick, big brother. But I don’t say that, because I love my redneck brother and don’t like confrontation. Also, people tend to get uncomfortable when I talk about my big furry dick.*

*I do not actually possess a big furry dick.

On the one hand, it’s super sweet that my brother wants to protect me from another abusive relationship. On the other, he has no idea what the hell he’s talking about. Everyone dates online. There are more people from my high school on Plenty of Fish than there are on Facebook. Online dating is a thing now and that’s great. It’s just another way to meet people and it’s amazing to do so without the “buying me a drink gets you the pleasure of my conversation and nothing more” subtleties required in a bar. I’m not a subtle person. I just go full on down-home girl and snap “I don’t owe you shit!” and then we have to quickly leave the cowboy club. So I’m not disputing that online dating is more than a reasonable way to meet people. However, there are some red flags that immediately turn me off a potential online date. They may be perfectly nice people, but I’ll never know. I’m sure these apply for women as well, but my experience is, of course, with men.

“I couldn’t sober up long enough to make my screen name/take my profile picture.”
I was recently messaging a guy until I realized his screen name was something to the effect of KingCrab69. I hadn’t noticed, because I’m not 12, and unless I’m with my guys who often act like 12-year-old boys, that number doesn’t really stick out all that much anymore. It’s just a number.  It’s not that I don’t appreciate oral sex. It’s just that there’s a time and a place for that discussion and the online dating profile isn’t it.

Similarly, when I looked at the profile picture of another, I saw that the thumbnail hadn’t shown that he was flipping off the camera. It’s not that I’ve never flipped anyone off. I’m pretty sure the last person was W at the movies on Friday and it was totally deserved. I didn’t, however, take a photo and put it online as a way to encourage a man to buy me dinner.

An online dating profile is the chance to briefly express one’s values in life and a little bit of their personality. If every picture has a beer in it, you value beer. If your screen name has “pussy” in it, you value stranger sex. These guys presented themselves as horny and vulgar as a romantic opener. I cringe to think what they’d have been like in person. Save it for your blog, y’all.

Answer the fucking question.
Regardless of the website you’ve chosen, the template is the same. You upload a couple of photos, state your age, give a general statement about your body size, education, job, smoking, drinking, and relationship status. You let prospective dates know whether you have or want children. Then you fill out the “About Me” section to describe yourself in the most flattering terms. It’s cookie cutter identical, but sometimes you give them a credit card number. On free sites and pay sites, however, you always get the guy who refuses to fill any of it out.

“………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..”
“I don’t know how to describe myself. Just message me if you want to know anything.”
“This is fucking stupid. I hate filling these out. Blah, blah, blah. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay.”

The following conversation actually happened with one of these guys.

“Hey.”
I don’t respond.
“Hey, again. I just realized my profile just talks about how much I hate this site. Haha. Anything you want to know, though, just ask.”
I still don’t respond.
“People on this website are so fucking rude.”

Seriously? You were already asked all of the things that I want to know. You refused to answer. The entire purpose of online dating is the ability to know key points about a person before I waste my time. Are you divored? Do you have kids? Do you think “student” is a profession at 28? Is there a racist joke in your About Me section? Can you spell? Those are the bare minimum items I should know before I’m going to bother responding. I’m not going to try to subtly re-ask everything again, spending two days trading back and forth questions you already had a chance to answer just because you said “Hey.” Online dating is essentially advertising yourself. Not only do you not want to tell me about the product, you want me to beg for information based on a picture, you arrogant ass. I’ll save us both some time and you can just keep your online dating grab bag.

Ambiguity.
Okay. The questions were answered… almost. This one most often occurs under “profession.” Sometimes it says “Ask” (see above) and I can only assume that’s to force me to start a conversation. All I’m going to do, however, is move along. Don’t get me wrong. I am, by no means, a gold digger. I take care of myself and don’t even want anyone to take that over. However, my ex-husband flat out refused to get a job. As a result, I need to know, without a doubt, how you pay your bills. I also need to know that it’s through a strong career that you enjoy, but that’s another section. This section is: “How do you pay for dog food?”

Answers I’ve seen:
N/A – How in the fuck is that not applicable? That is mega-super-incredibly applicable to me. Don’t message me.
Life – How do you get paid for that? Also don’t message me.
Sales – This could mean anything from drug dealer, to working a kiosk at the mall, to high-end medical equipment.
Government – Unless you have a picture of yourself weilding a gun in camo, you could be anything from a teacher to an assassin.
Art – You sell art? Make art? Like to pretend you make art? Study art? Write? What do you write? Do you get paid for any of it?
Boss – Are you head of your department? Is this a “like a boss” joke? Is it a video game reference? Have you, indeed, captured Princess Peach?
Management – What do you manage? Subway or a corporate office?
Self-employed – Again, drug dealer? Professional gambler? Do you steal and pawn cell phones? Are you some kind of performer?
Automotive – Do you sell cars? Are you a lube-tech? Mechanic? Do you work as the desk secretary at a Chevy company?
Technician – What the hell kind of technician? Are you a computer technician, a lube technician, a lab technician?
Student – You are 27 years old. Being a student does not pay your bills and I want to know what does. This was your chance to tell me.

None of the above elaborations are particularly bad, other than drug dealer or assassin and that one about stealing cell phones. The point is that you have plenty of characters to be specific about what you do for a living. The guy doesn’t need to post a timeline of his day, but telling me that he’s in medical equipment sales might have gotten a response whereas the ambiguous “sales” got a NEXT!

“Athletic”/LYING
If I order a purple toaster online and get a green toaster, I’m going to be disappointed, not because I hate green, but because it’s not what was advertised.

Honesty is the only way online dating actually works. I’m not criticizing heavy people. I’ve been heavy. However, people expect what’s been advertised. If you’re blurring your appearance, anyone you meet is going to feel they’ve been lied to and you’re going to feel like they don’t appreciate you for who you are. I can only assume the guys who call themselves “athletic” rather than “average”  when they’re actually “Big and Tall” are figuring it takes a lot of muscle to haul that around. That still doesn’t make them atheletic. The same goes for pretty much any false description. I don’t advertise myself as laid-back, because I am not laid back. I’m about as tightly wound as a fucking harp and I know it. He’ll know it, too, if we hit it off and he hears me crying over the 93%. I can’t hide that any more than he can hide his wheelchair. If we’re both upfront about it, neither of us has to have that green toaster moment.

Lectures/A list of Don’t Wants
These profiles are some of my favorites to screencap and send to Gail so we can giggle over them. They often open with some kind of lecture along the lines of

“If you’re looking for a good, sweet guy, maybe you should look where you ditched them in the friends’ zone. Stop being such a stuck up bitch and realize that a good guy isn’t always going to be the most attractive or have the best job.”

Okay. Dude, you just 1) called me a stuck up bitch for not swooning 2) told me you weren’t attractive and 3) admitted you have a shitty job. That was your INTRO. You suck at this. Time to hit the bars and “accidentally” caress the breast of a random girl who doesn’t realize it until it’s too late because she has limited feeling in them from her breast reduction.

Many, many, profiles are just pages of lecturing and ranting about how “all of the girls on here are so shallow” and “maybe you should give a guy a chance since you’re dating online for a reason and you’re probably no prize either.” I’m not exaggerating. I’ve read all of these.

In the same category is the list of Don’t Wants. They usually start with weight. Creating a list of things you don’t want in a partner is the same thing as creating a list of things you will judge them for later. Being insulting about it always makes you look like an ass. If I were 50 pounds lighter (which would be super unhealthy) and I came across the profile of a really cute, successful guy, who included a “No Fat Chicks” paragraph, that would make everything good about him a moot point. The rest of the list just makes you look like you have issues.

“I’m tired of girls who are trying to change me. If you have ex-drama, like to fuck around on me, or baby daddy issues, keep looking.”

You just outlined the problems of your last relationship for me and I don’t even know your first name.

Far too much information.
This one includes both giving and requesting too much information. If your profile page is over 3 paragraphs, I’m not reading it. I’d go study or masturbate to trashy supernatural romance if I were in a reading mood. I don’t need that much info on you. Tell me if you’re close to your family, if you like dogs, and what you do for fun. Then shut-up, because I’m not paying attention anymore.

On a similar note, ask me if I’m close to my family, if I like dogs, and what I do for fun. Do not open with “Why smart pretty lady divorce so young?” It’s not racist if it’s a direct fucking quote. Unlike in my professional life, I understand that I have to bring up the divorce when dating. If anything, I force it and just sort of randomly sputter “I’m divorced”, because I know I’m the type of person who’d get to the third month and not know how to tell him. I get that there are questions and I’m comfortable giving me super P.C. explanation of “Well, he wouldn’t work and it was just really bad in a lot of other ways, too.” We’ll save the “Well, there was this house fire” discussion for later. But both of those are going to have to come after I’ve actually been talking to him for awhile, not before my name, the lunatic.

Finally, there’s the guy who leaps right over honesty to give a short paragraph of the worst dating pitch ever.

worst pitch“Well to start off, I want to put it out there that I am really getting discouraged on this whole online dating thing. Guess that’s the difference between free sites and the expensive ones lol. Oh well, nonetheless, I’m here and looking. I just turned 23 and am inbetween like arrangements, so I do live at home for the time being. I’m currently a property manager at an apartment complex, but I’m really looking to continue school and get a real job. I really think I have a lot to offer, but I’m not the best looking guy, and have a little extra weight and that seems to push some people away because they seem to think it shows I’m lazy, but that’s just not the case. Take a bit to try me out, you’ll see what I mean. I could really get into detail, but we would have a pretty dry conversation if I did that right? At least that’s what most excuses are to stop filling these out lol.”

I live at home. That’s what home is. You live in your parents’ home.

Not over his ex.
If he’s mentioning his ex…

“I don’t need anybody with drama. I had enough of that shit with my ex-wife.”
“I went through a bad break-up and think I’m ready to start dating again.”

He’s not over her. Period.

Compatibility.
This is probably the biggest problem I have with men who approach me online. For one there’s this.

“How are you today, pretty lady?”
“25.”

Numerous times, I have had men in their 40’s and 50’s message me with “age is just a number.” No. It isn’t. Age is a reflection of where you are, where you’ve been, and where you’ve yet to go. When I’m not royally fucked in the head about my failed marriage, I think I’d like to give that a try again. When I’m not reeling over my miscarriage and Gail’s dead eight-month-old, I think I might want to have babies. That’s off the table with a man in his 50’s. We are nowhere near each other in life in general.

The second issue is a little touchier. I am not better than the guy who can’t spell pest control. He’s working and that’s awesome. But what the hell are we going to talk about? I’m going to rant about books and information theory and what? He’s going to tell me about bugs? I’m totally willing to look at this from the flip side as well (who the fuck says ‘flip side’ and where do I get these terms?)  and bring up the post doctoral physics student. He mentions a quark and I don’t even know if I have the right subject for that freaking reference. Common ground is sort of a must.

Meet me at
This is one of the funnier ones and Gail is perpetually lecturing me about how it’s only funny in theory and I should not respond to

“Hi. I like your profile. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

because it really means

“Hi there. I’d love to meet you in a dark alley where no one can hear you scream.”

On the one hand, I don’t want to chat for three weeks before we meet. If we do, I’ll get a picture in my head, he won’t match it, and I’ll freak the fuck out and bolt from a Starbuck’s with a super lame excuse because his hands are so furry, it looks like he’s wearing his September mittens. On the other hand, I’m not meeting him anywhere ever if that’s his first request.

Finally… there’s:

Visa Card Guy

visa card
“i want nice girl she understand me i also understand her with love hi i am happy its my name with sir name my name happy singh sangar (may be many person here only-time pass ,i am no here for this )I also like to food, swim, watch movies, and spend time with family and friends. I prefer the simple things in life and just looking for someone who feels the same way as I do.

First Date

not serious for her………..”

I don’t even have a comment, because I have no idea what this says.

Friday: A Day in Quotes

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Text message from Gail after reading my last blog entry
Sung to the tune of Proud To Be an American
“Oh, I’m proud to be a woman!
Well, at least I know I’m a ‘she’
And I won’t forget the men who died
To keep some rights from me
And I’ll gladly sit down next to you
And pretend I don’t know what to say
Well, there ain’t no doubt I obey my man
Let’s bake a pie today!”

Another text message conversation
Me: “D on 50: ‘I just skimmed through the sex for the plot.’ What plot? Did she read it or not?
Gail: “For real. That’s hardly possible.”
Me: “Seriously. It’s erotica. The ‘plot’ was tertiary.”
Gail: “I haven’t had plot in ages. I need some plot. Desperately!”
Me: “My mind is aching for it… deliciously throbbing for plot so thick and deep I can feel it in my soul.”
Gail: “Lol. Ew.”
Me: “You’re welcome for that. My kids are wondering why I’m laughing.”
Gail: “I don’t suggest explaining.”
Me: “Oops. Should’ve said so sooner.”

Boys are disgusting

Ward bends down to get my phone after I get in C’s truck
Ward: “You dropped your phone.”
Ken: “Take a big whiff while you’re down there why don’t you.”
Jay: “Do I smell rotting fish?”

Ken: “Belle, you’re not gonna scream in this movie are you?”
Me: “No. I was just telling…”
Ken: “Chad, is Belle a screamer?”
laughter around the table
Me: “Yes… I am.”
They all rise to pretend to leave me at the restaurant

Discussing the book The Host
Me: “It’s not like Twilight. It’s written for adults and just a lot different.”
Jay: “What’s it about?”
Me: “It’s like the body snatchers from the view of the body snatcher. But like, this woman has two people in her at the same time so…”
Chad: starts cracking up
Me: “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

Jay: “Like you’d know. You can’t even pass your portfolio.”

Ken: “Belle has crabs.”
Me: “I’d have to have pubic hair to have crabs.”

Me: “K, how does Twitter work?”
Ken: “You post twats.”

Me: “Ward, now if you get scared, you can always hold my hand.”
Ward: “I can’t wait!”
Me: yawn and stretch to put my arm around him

Ward: “This movie is disgusting. I’m about to walk out.”
Me: “If you want to leave and tell the guys you’re not feeling well, I won’t tell them otherwise.”

The screen pans over naked dead body parts
Me: “Look, Ward. At least you got to see boobs… twice. You’ve gotten to see FOUR boobs.”

Ward cringes
Me: “It’s completely illogical to bring that gun to kill a serial killer.”

Ward cringes more
Ward: “Who’s idea was this movie?”
Me: “Ken’s. That’s not even how bones work… or how skin works.”

Text to Gail under my coat
Me: “First horror movie in 3 years. Last horror movie in always.”
Gail: “What?”
Me: “I’m watching people get mutilated. A lot. A lot a lot. To the tenth power. That’s the plot.”
Me: “Like no joke. I am actually trying to comfort W.”
Me: “That movie made Saw a romantic comedy.”

After making them listen to Gilbert Godfried read 50 Shades of Grey on Youtube
Ken: “EW! Is this actually in the book?!?!”
Me: “Its…..” laughing… “word…” laughing…
Ken: “What?”
Jay: “It’s word for word.”
Ken: “Do you know how much porn I could watch in the time it takes me to read one page of that?”
I explain my opinion that reading it is better, because it’s pretend.
Ken: “PORN’S pretend!”
Me: “It’s real people doing… you know.”
Ken: “Pretending love. They’re just pretending love!”
Me: “‘Pretending love’?”
Ken: “People say ‘I love you’ in porn all the time!”
Me: “What kind of porn are you watching?!?”

Money Management for the Little Miss

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When I was four years old, I remember my mother driving us somewhere, even though my dad was going. Wait. What?!?! Women can drive even when a man’s available?!?! When I was five, I realized that there are actually women who drive pick-up trucks and they don’t belong to their husbands!!!!! Incidentally, this was around the time I decided to give peeing standing up a go and my brother kept getting yelled at for his aim. No joke. I felt a little bad, but I also giggled.

It’s no real secret that the Midwest is a sexist place, but it was only in the 90’s that I thought penises operated F150’s, the man always makes more money, and was shocked to find my third grade teacher was a boy. I don’t live in the middle of nowhere, people. I can see my suburban town’s water tower from where I sit and I am only about 25 minutes away from several major cities. The Midwest just happens to be the land that equality forgot.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being a girl. I like traditional men and their pick-up trucks. Not having to ever open a door, due to a combination of my genitalia and geographical location is the shit. My undergraduate degree is in home ec. For the most part, when my dear, dear, feminazi best friend goes on a Vagina Rant, I just pat her on the head, tell her she’s cute, and ask her why she isn’t in the kitchen. My Gramma fought for my right to make my choices so I wouldn’t have to do so. I’m pretty content. However, even I am still appalled by the photo Gail sent me of this local technology center’s curriculum advertisement.

math for women
Could y’all, like, use some pictures instead of words… and maybe a little pink glitter?

pinkmoney

OH! It’s like money, but for girls!

It’s hard to type over the distracting sound of my own retching.

“A Woman’s Perspective”
I don’t like math and that is apparently the fault of my clitoris. However, from what I understand, those people (I mean men) who do like it, find it appealing that there is only one answer. It’s all the same… whether or not it’s done on a Hello Kitty calculator. What precisely will I get from “Money Management: A Woman’s Perspective” that I won’t get from “Money Management”? Based on this advertisement, I can only assume it’s shorter columns of smaller numbers.

“Designed Especially for Women”
Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. If I sign up for this class and I don’t get a choice of pink or purple feathered pens on the first day, I am going to be pissed. If you Google the above phrase, you know what you get? Medicine and shoes, both of which must be designed for women, because their bodies are different from men’s. Math is 114% about the mind. Get it? I said 114%, because I have boobs and I’m stupid. Is this class physically designed for women? Are there special ergonomic chairs built for the female form? Or is it just that the problems themselves are more feminine?

Q: If the average menstrual cycle is 28 days long and Maria’s period began on day 1 and ended on day 7, on what day will Maria need more tampons?

Now ladies, I know you want to answer “chocolate”, but really think outside the box on this one.

“Understand the Basics”
Is the class for women, because it’s rudimentary? Does the men’s class start with division and multiplication while the women start by counting the horn on a bedazzled purple unicorn? Were we just too busy giggling about boy bands over our copies of Teen magazine to learn about that math stuff?

“Learn Where You Stand Financially”
Well, you’re apparently $29 in the hole for this ridiculous Numbers for Your Vag course.

I can only assume this is referring to the money coming in versus the money going out. That’s budgeting, y’all. Even an incredibly specific budget is going to be categorically gender neutral and the amounts vary from person to person regardless of genitalia.

Oddly Specific Budget Categories for Women
Body glitter
Make-up
Gynecological Appointments
Shoes

“Where to Put Your Money”
“Why, that’s just silly! I put my money right here, in my purse!”
“No, no, sweet thing. We’re talking about investments.”

Why would a woman’s best investment choices differ from a man’s? As Gail put it, in what tampon company should I invest? Money is money. It doesn’t matter if you make it off of Women’s Apparel or Viagra. It doesn’t matter if you’re using it to buy lipstick or tools.

“What to Do Right Now!”
Apparently, these little ladies might start thinking about funneling some of that babysitting money into their daddies’ dowry funds. One goat just won’t do these days.

Again, what choices should a woman make about her money right now that a man shouldn’t? She should plan a budget. Oh, wait, so should he. She should have three month’s income in savings. Oh, wait. So should he. She should start thinking about retirement. Oh, wait…

That Condescending Exclamation Point
Let’s get these ladies excited about numbers!!!!!! If there’s one thing the women understand, it’s lots of exclamation points!!!!! Can we maybe heart the i’s as well?

“You know what? How’s about we cut this short and she can just let him take care of the money?”
“OH EM GEE! That’s totally what my final paper was about!”

I know that men and women are different. Not only do they differ physically, but they tend to think differently and act differently. I don’t have a problem with that. How much of that is biological and how much is environmental, though? Does any woman benefit from being taught a gender neutral subject in a gender specific way? Is telling a woman that she needs to enroll in “Math for the Gals” any less harmful than telling a little girl that it would be more realistic to play nurse than doctor? I understand that you have to split the contact sports up based on stature to even the playing field, but should my old high school still be calling our girls’ teams the Lady Broncos before we send them off to take Calculations for Chicks?

I’ll help you broads out, here.

It’s unknown, but this isn’t helping
No.
No.
Absolutely not.

How I Took the Sexy Out of Cooking Naked

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9:00 – I begin my 20 minute drive home from Library. The sun set three hours ago. I saw maybe one hour of it after Substituting.

9:20 – I preheat the oven and throw some sweet potato fries on a pan.

9:30 – I inform the dog that he’s disgusting and nobody poops but him before letting him off the leash and excitedly shouting “Go, go Gadget Beagle!” as he runs up the stairs.

9:35 – Fries in the oven, I strip in the kitchen so I can throw my clothes into the hamper. I toss ground turkey into the microwave to defrost.

9:48 – I finish my shower with 7 minutes to spare until the fries are done. Wrapped in a towel, I put the ground turkey in a pan and begin cooking it, taking short breaks to dry and comb my wet hair.

9:52 – I throw some frozen vegetables into the microwave.

9:53 – I stir the meat in the pan. The towel falls off. I leave it, because I live alone and no one cares.

9:54 – I bend down to excitedly ask the dog if he’s the prettiest boy in the kitchen. He is, indeed, the prettiest boy in the kitchen and ecstatic about that fact. I almost lose a nipple to his claw.

9:55 – The fries are done, so I grab a sock from the clean clothes and use it as an oven mitt.

9:55 – I burn my hand using a sock as an oven mitt.

9:56 – I grab the vegetables from the mivrowave.

9:57 – I put the Easy Mac in the microwave and take the meat off the stove. I salt the pan of sweet potato fries and pick it up to shake it… still naked.

9:57 – I burn my hand on the pan of sweet potato fries, dropping a quarter of them. They are promptly eaten by the prettiest boy in the kitchen.

9:58 – I yell at the dog to get out from under my feet after tripping over him while he eats his sweet potato fries. I am now an angry naked person.

10:00 – I take the Easy Mac out and mix in the diced canned tomatoes and cheese powder.

10:01 – Dinner is ready. I grab a t-shirt and some underwear, quickly dressing, because it would be weird to just eat dinner in the nude.


Pictured: Not me.

That time I told a lie…

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While everyone at my work may think my name is Winifred, that’s not because I told them my name was Winifred. It’s because they called me Winifred and I responded without correcting them. As a general rule, I do not lie. I may carefully phrase my truths with the intention of misleading someone at work, but it’s never an actual lie. When I do lie, I get nervous and trip up or it just makes me so uncomfortable, I end up blurting out the truth anyway.

Frankly, even when I should lie, I don’t think to do so. For example:

One night, about a year and a half ago, Gail and I were driving around town in my hatchback. We drove by a building owned by a local church, a sign in the middle of a clearing with small print we couldn’t read. I just decided to drive up to it to get a better look (against Gail’s protests)… and then remembered we’d had heavy rain… after my little hatchback SANK into the ground with a loud slurp. So, naturally, we tried to drive forward… then backward… then (less naturally or reasonably) dig out with a Dollar Tree broomstick before the people leaving the service next door noticed us trenching their church yard. “Trenching” was not even kind of an exaggeration. We destroyed this lawn and just wanted to escape as quickly as possible, muttering about how we weren’t 17 anymore and really couldn’t get away with this crap.  Shockingly enough, the broomstick did not work in digging out a couple tons of Suzuki and the pastor soon approached. He didn’t look happy, but luckily, it’s in his job description to be nice (particularly with his entire congregation behind him) and he happened to have instant access to a suped-up pick-up with a gigantic chain on it. Welcome to the Midwest, y’all.

As he brought over the truck, Gail asked what I was going to tell him. I told her I was just going to say we wanted to see what the sign said. Apparently, “I wanted to read this sign and that’s why I’ve done hundreds of dollars of damage to your lawn” was a terrible excuse. Gail insisted we claim that we were trying to turn around and had started to sink, so we quickly went forward and just sank further. I told her she had to do it, because I was pretty danged sure you go to Hell for lying to a man of God. She pointed out that I had just (jokingly) called Protestantism “pretend” a few minutes earlier, but I stuck to my guns. They didn’t seem happy with us for it, but they also didn’t send us a bill. We got a brief lecture on how rain works, which admittedly, was well-earned.

Regardless of the fact that Gail was 100% right about the necessity of the lie in the above story, I still had to put in a great deal of effort not to blurt out the truth and apologize for lying in the first place. I wasn’t even the one speaking. However, in the following conversation, I didn’t tell a single lie.

Me: referring to J.K. Rowling “She’s a great author, but she took advantage of welfare to write her novel. If it hadn’t worked out, she just would’ve been another person taking advantage of welfare.”
Coworker: “Her husband had just left her. She was horribly depressed. You don’t know how that feels.”

I’ll admit, Winifred came precariously close to death that day, but I remained silent. I let my coworker continue in her assumption that I spent my college years going to parties, getting a little too drunk, and eating ice creem at home after bad breakups. It’s not my fault she chose to believe I grew up in a 7th Heaven episode, nor is it my responsibility to correct her. I did not lie.

When taking my dedication to carefully dancing around the truth into consideration, the following story makes me sound even more broken as a person and psychologically unstable, which is what makes it such great fun.

I substitute teach, because I have a teaching certificate, essentially get paid to sit there, and I love teenagers. One day, substituting for a history class, I heard a student complaining about her job.

Me: “Where do you work?”
Student: “The new movie theater in Yukon.”
Me: “I used to work there!”
Student: “Really? What’s your name?”

I don’t know why I admitted this. The people at the theater hated me. They thought I was a suck-up and a bore. They were right. I’d have done anything for a management position, because it was a dollar more an hour, more hours a week, would look good on a resume, and I was married to a man who refused to get a job. I hated working there and they hated me working there. So why did I excitedly declare that I had? I have no fucking idea, but I put these pieces together just a little too late.

Me: “Belle.”
Student: “You’re Belle?!”
Me: shit, shit, shit “Yeah. Why?”
Student: “They talk about you all the time!”
Me: shit, shit, shit “Really? Do the same people even still work there?”
Student: “Yeah, some of them. Did you used to fill up a tray with popcorn every night and go to home to your husband?”

Student had inadvertantly hit a sore spot, because I had indeed done this. The reason I did was because I couldn’t afford to buy food that summer. I lost 12 pounds on the popcorn and tears diet. So did my beagle. My life sucked and though Student had no idea about any of that, I still felt the need to protect myself from the connection of who I am today to who I was four years ago. So before I had any time to think about what I was saying, I heard the following words come out of my mouth:

Me: “Oh. No. There must have been another Belle that worked there. I’m not married.”

What. The. Fuck?

I immediately processed how incredibly damaged as a person I had to be for this to come out of my mouth without any forethought. I have detached myself so greatly from who I was and clung so dearly to Winifred that I’m flat-out lying about who I am by accident?!?! At least my technical truths at work are presently arranged as carefully as landmines. I am in complete control of the misconceptions I weave today and when they started, they were truly just the product of thoughtless omission. “There must have been another Belle that worked there. I’m not married.”?!?!

My head was spinning as I continued to talk about how there must be a different Belle, because I’m only 24 (at the time) and I’m still in school. The last part was true and intentionally phrased to sound as though there’s no way I could be married, but not even a small part of me thought another Belle worked there. I just didn’t want this seventeen-year-old complete stranger to connect me to a past that might have been relayed by people who worked at a movie theater, regularly used the word “crunk”, and hated me for good damned reason.

Realizing this was disturbing and probably a story for a therapist I’d never see, I immediately texted Gail. She giggled like uncontrollably and joined in while I made jokes about rocking in a corner chewing on my own hair. Even she agreed that Winifred may be comprised of perfectly mapped out truths, but at least it’s intentional (now). Despite this tale, I figured I’d never have to face this lie again and could just move on and pretend I’m entirely psychologically sound. Student would probably ask her manager if another K had ever worked at the theater and realize I was completely insane, but I never go to that theater, it’s a big high school, and teenagers are self-absorbed. I told myself she wouldn’t remember me if I was her substitute again. It was unrealisitic, but I’m great at denial. CLEARLY.

In an odd twist of fate, a month or two later, Gail wanted to see Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter and so did I. I say odd, because usually Gail wants to see movies that tell the tale of a woman and her three best friends all getting cancer and then discovering that their true value lies in the men in their lives, whom they kiss in airport terminals at the end. She’s the worst feminist ever. This time, however, we both had shit taste in movies and wanted to see the same one… which was playing at the Yukon theater. When we bought our tickets, I recognized one of my old managers, who is now GM. She didn’t, however, recognize the 90 pounds less that was me. It was a free pass, especially considering the fact that I saw Student selling popcorn. Then, without thinking, I asked if GM remembered me. She said she didn’t, so I actually prodded her and made sure she knew that I was one of of an apparent several Belles that had worked at the theater a couple of years earlier. She remembered me and I facepalmed myself on the way into the theater.

That movie was quite possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to me. When I had to pee during it, I took it as a blessing from God to escape for even just a few scenes. During this time, I saw Student very obviously looking at me and whispering to her coworkers, undoubtedly about the crazy-ass substitute teacher who just walked by. That was the first and last time I told any lie of any merit in two years and now I can’t go to one of only two theaters in town without feeling like I have to hide from a group of teens who think I’m a pathalogical liar. Not even Aesop could further pound the moral of this story into my brain.

Pathological Liar:  person who tells lies frequently, with no rational motive for doing so

Well, they’re half right.

Why are we reading this crap? (What Twenty-Somethings [I] See in Christian Grey)

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Working in a library, it is impossible not to recognize the title Fifty Shades of Grey or the name Christian Grey. Frankly, living on planet Earth in 2012, it is impossible not to recognize either. Never in history, has any book been more overdone. Don’t get me wrong. I want to be a librarian. I do not care if you read smut. In fact, personally, I encourage it as a healthy expression of your own sexuality, in which no actual person is degraded in any way, unlike in pornographic films and magazines. In short:

Me: “I don’t care if Christian Grey wants to string Anastasia Steele up from the ceiling and gut her because it’s sexy. It’s still pretend.”
Gail: choking on soda “I DO!”

They’re make-believe. No real daddy issues are present. More power to you. End disclaimer.

The sex in 50 Shades of Grey is redundant and dry (pun fully intended), the writing atrocious, and the entire premise of a well-hung over-protective billionaire is just, for lack of a more fitting word, silly. Reading reviews for this title is a far more entertaining venture than actually reading said book. There are also much better ones out there than I could bother giving that much thought to, so I’ll avoid competing and address another issue all together.

What exactly is Christian Grey’s true appeal for women in their twenties?

I know that the primary audience for 50 Shades is women in their forties, but I also know a number of women my age who are reading it and swooning. So what’s the draw?

Women who’ve never been abused seem to consider Christian’s psychotic obsession with Ana appealing. He wants to protect her… by controlling every move she makes. He puts tracking devices on her phone pretty much from the moment he learns her name. Guards follow her everywhere once they begin dating. That’s insane, but whatever. Women who’ve never had someone manipulate and control them probably just don’t see this as manipulating and controlling, so they can continue reading with one hand under the covers. Protective is clearly not the only motivator here, however, or pretty much any romance novel would do. I, myself, read plenty of paranormal romance, in which the lead male character is usually some powerful alpha male, so this is hardly specific to Christian Grey.

50 Shades of Grey is erotica on a good day, plain Lady Porn on a bad one. I don’t care if there’s a picture of a tie on the cover; erotica is the nicest and most accurate description for this book. So, clearly, the sex would be a consideration of what makes Mr. Grey so perfect. However, not only is the sex redundant, unrealistic, and awkward, but the actual mechanics of it seem to be so… specific… that it’s unclear why this would appeal to such a wide demographic. I, myself, do not want someone to stick his thumb in my bloody vagina and then into my mouth. Nor do I want to be strung up like a deer and denied orgasm as punishment for disobedience. Soooo, for women in their twenties, who were probably subjected to better sex scenes than this as tweens secretly watching Sex and the City, Christian Grey’s stamina and technique probably just seems unrealistic, weird, and even inconvenient.

Even outside of the bedroom, Christian Grey is talented at everything. He’s a concert pianist, he flies gliders (didn’t know those were a thing until this book) and actual planes, has a taste for art, is multilingual, knows every martial art ever, is extraordinarily well-read and well-dressed, dances, and I think even sings. If there were a way to make it sexy, I’m pretty sure we’d have seen Christian Grey knit himself a sweater from the fur of the angora rabbits he raised from birth. However, I’m not so sure this level of skill is attractive to women in their likely competitive twenties so much as it would be daunting. If he’s better than me at everything, then what do I bring to the table? Why am I even here? That’s not sexy. That’s threatening and makes me feel insecure.

He’s protective, he’s well-hung, has the stamina of a Mack Truck, is a connoisseur of everything, but most of all, Christian Grey is unrealistically wealthy. I’m pretty sure he sells Black Market unicorn blood, because at 26-years-old, he owns Seattle and apparently most of the geographically scrambled Northwest. He has a plane, 43 cars, eleventeen houses, all the clothes ever, several salons, and oh yeah… a publishing company. Now we’re getting somewhere.

I cannot speak for every twenty-something out there, but I can speak for myself. The only thing I see in Christian Grey lies in his ability to give Anastasia everything… particularly her dream job. Anastasia graduates college with a generic degree and no basic knowledge any 21-year-old should possess. She wants to do Something With English, but she doesn’t have her own computer or E-mail address. She’s spent the last few years working in a completely unrelated position at a hardware store and has a few hundred dollars in the bank. She has no future, when along comes Christian Grey with the gift of a new car that is apparently pretty needed and tons of fancy gadgets. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t really care that much about the car and the technology. I’m an easy gal to please when it comes to physical possessions. Christian, however, doesn’t just buy her every new toy she wants (and some creepy ones she doesn’t), he buys the entire publishing company that hired her… then promotes her… and gives it to her. That is FUCKING AWESOME. I’d let a man string me up and stick anything in my ass he wanted if it meant he’d give me a library to run. I totally get it now. She graduated college with a pretend degree and no concrete plans and now she gets an entire publishing company? Keep your damned car and that British Library on iPad. I just want the dream job.

Security. That’s what I see in Christian Grey. It’s not the protectiveness, the sex, the talents, or even the luxury for me. It’s a girl with the murky future that always accompanies the end of college (particularly with no skills or specific goals) and a man who is going to give her total control in the career she most desires, with no experience at all. Later she gets a husband and kids and that’s all fine and well, but my greatest envy is a permanent position in her field. Considering my entire generation grew up swooning when an abusive Beast gives Belle a library, I am seriously doubting I’m alone here.

I had this jacket specially tailored to cover the handcuff bruises.

Ask Me About My Genitals

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A student asked if I was still a virgin today. I told him that was completely inappropriate and immediately became very active on my current online dating site via my phone, because when he asked, I thought “Practically.” I’m intensely annoyed with myself for letting a fifteen-year-old get to me, especially when my vagina seems to be their default, such as when a girl announced that I needed to get laid for asking her to turn down her music. I’ve got to stop wearing my “Ask Me About My Genitals” shirt to work.

This time of year is freaking made for couples, in the same way that summer is made for bars and single people. I tend to go through bouts of “I need a boy!” anyway, but name one holiday movie where someone is unattached and it’s awesome. It doesn’t exist. The protagonist is alone and miserable until Colin Firth or that reindeer, Clarice, shows up and all the pieces of their lives suddenly slip into place.

rudolph happyIn the previous scene, he was cutting himself.

As someone who doesn’t much watch television or movies, that’s not really my concern. Real life, however, pressures me to find someone right the fuck now. In the South, everyone my age is married with a baby on the way; and those are the late bloomers. It’s all over Facebook and Wal-Mart and every single family Christmas party that I need to pick up the pace. I can’t talk to any of the women in my family without being asked if there are any boys in my life. It was actually once recommended by my dad’s cousin that I have a one-night stand. Everyone is concerned with my sex life!

The thing is, I don’t want a boy. I mean, I do. No. I mean I don’t. A part of me really wants to date, because I feel like I am ready for another relationship. I’d like to try out sex with someone I don’t hate and who isn’t morbidly obese. I’d like to make-out on the couch like I never did at 16 and gossip about penis size with Gail from more than a hypothetical perspective. Mostly, I’d just like someone to be nice to me while I’m nice to him and we just do sweet things for each other. Forehead kisses and holding hands sound good. On the contrary, I also love my pink Christmas tree and shaving my legs when I feel like it. I enjoy going to movies alone and watching the same episode of Vampire Diaries three times in a row, because I was reading during it and not paying attention. I love my Buffy marathons and littering the living room floor with my latest craft project. I’m not sure if I have gotten enough of this single life, blast-the-audiobook-like-the-rebel-I-am phase. If I start something that really takes off, I risk giving that up.

But… none of that matters. I don’t have time for a relationship. Not right now. I have one more chance at my graduate portfolio and I work two jobs. I barely have room for funny bad dates that I can blog about, let alone an actual relationship with a good guy who places further constraints on my time. As much as I’d like to get stuck with a cute boy I love during Snowmaggedon 2013, cuddling up naked for warmth, it’s not an option. My winter storms have already been reserved for working on my portfolio and job applications. Divorce aside, this just isn’t the time in my life for romance and babies, because I decided to go to graduate school. I’ll have plenty of time for that after I finish and get my career going. In the meantime, my genitals will be fine. I just hope there are some decent guys left in six months. We age so quickly here.

Five Reasons Why I’m Secretly Not Sexy

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I’ve put on my tiniest skirt and cowgirl boots, actually used hairspray, and haven’t accidentally told this cute guy that his job is pretend and his football team sucks. I am on a roll. Regardless, I am just barely pulling off sexy and here’s why:

1. You can’t tell, but I’m dressed like a Rugrats character.
That cute little jean skirt I’m wearing? It’s a skort. That’s right, a skort: the combination skirt/shorts that are usually only found on five-year-olds who don’t want to flash their Dora panties on the jungle gym. No, I didn’t intentionally dress like a Kindergartener to go to the bar. I’m just cheap, it was $3 at Goodwill, and I don’t intend to let a strange man put his hand up my skirt anyway, so he’ll never have to know.

2. Victoria’s What?
The sexiest undergarments I own came from the Hanes store during a BOGO sale and I accidentally dyed one of them some not-a-color in the wash. I also just called my bra an “undergarment.” I work two jobs and I’m in graduate school. No matter how much I’d like to, I can’t afford to buy fancy sex clothes that no one is going to see. My cotton underwear came in a pack of six at Wal-Mart for $8 and I probably didn’t throw them away when the elastic popped. Wearing this skort, I’m likely in a $2 neon green thong, but in that tiny pink lace dress? Chances are good I’m wearing high-rises, because they smooth over my lumps better and are more comfortable than tummy tucker panties. That’s right. I said lumps. The logic here is the same. I’m not going home with a guy in a bar, so no one has to know my underwear has a faded zebra print on it and my bra is the color of dirty dishwater. Not even my socks match. You can’t tell, because of the boots, but I’m wearing one teal sock with black birds on it and one rainbow sock, because I couldn’t find their matches.

3. I have no idea what I’m doing.
At any point in the night, I’m lucky if I haven’t just blurted out “How tall are you?” because the apparent truth is “not very.” It’s not that I’m trying to be an ass. It’s just that I’ve been dating for less than a year and I’m not that subtle anyway. I’m not only completely clueless as to what I’m doing in this bar, though; I’m about as experienced in bed as I am at spelunking. I don’t even know what spelunking is if that says anything at all. Yes, I was married for four and half years, but we only had sex for three of them… and rarely. When we did, it was always the exact same thing, in the exact same order, and for a very short period of time. The last time I actually had sex was early 2010 and it was extremely unpleasant. That was almost three years ago. Holy shit, I haven’t had sex in three years… and I’ve never had good sex. Sure, I know how to please myself, but even if we get to the fourteenth or so date it would take for sexual activity to be involved, I’m not so sure I even remember what hole it goes in anymore. I can count the number of people I’ve kissed on one hand and half of those don’t even count. I wouldn’t know what to do with my bits or his bits. In general, I’ve got all the downsides of virginity and none of its untainted perks.

4. I’m kind of afraid of him. 
Gailis perpetually trying to either instill in me a gut-wrenching paranoia about men or get me to give the one-eyed maintenance man a chance so we can double date. This compels me to talk to just about everyone who approaches me while simultaneously thinking “It’s okay. I own guns.” It’s not just an issue of physical safety, though Gail might have me believe “What are you drinking?” really means “Will it cover the taste of the pills in my pocket?” If I don’t just stop speaking to this man, I have to risk actual vulnerability or one day even :gasp: trust. Even on the most basic level, that’s horrifying. So, as I cross my booted legs in front of me, it’s really to keep him from leaning in more closely. It’s also no coincidence that my body is mostly turned away from him during a dance. Nor is it natural to hold my drink by the rim with my palm over the top as I keep backing up to stand by best friend instead of this stranger. I’m not playing hard to get. I just have deep-seated emotional traumas for which I refuse to seek help.. and that is haaaawt.


Fuck, Gail. You’re so paranoid. It’s just lime seasoning.

5. He’s not getting laid anyway.
Hypothetically (because this has never happened), maybe he’s cute and didn’t open with “Hey, there. I’ve never hit a woman” (that has). He’s got a big boy job and he even made me laugh. He wants to hear about my job and doesn’t ask “So, why do you need a master’s degree for that?” He’s got real points where they count… but, for all of the aforementioned reasons and then some, I’m still not going home with him. For one, I’m in a fucking skort and my dishwater bra. It’s also been years since anyone’s seen my breast reduction scars or heard the sounds I make during sex. As a side effect of my marriage, I can’t even sleep alone without my purse next to me and regularly wake up in a panic anyway. Like I’m going to be that exposed with even the nicest stranger ever. I also used to weigh 260 pounds and it takes a lot to go from “that fat chick” to “the girl who gave me head at the cowboy bar.” I really don’t care what people do with their own bodies. It makes no difference to me whether or not your vagina has been broken in if you’re a consenting adult. I, however, am far too inexperienced and insecure because of it to be naked with another person in the room. Gail mentioned that if I went to a movie with Engineer, he’d hold my hand and I freaked the fuck out. So, it’s pretty safe to say that I am doing nothing with a man in a bar that I couldn’t tell my daddy about later.

I could probably theme this entire blog around learning to date at an age when everyone else knows what they’re doing, though I’m not really into the idea of a theme that’s any more specific than That Librarian Who Says Fuck A Lot. The fact remains, that in any given situation where a guy thinks I’m fuckable, all he’s got to do is scratch the surface. At this point, I think I should probably shoot for my social awkwardness to be considered endearing, rather than sexy.

What it’s really like being “one of the guys”…

Aside

Jay: “Now shut-up and go make me a sandwich.”
Me: suggestively “How about you both make me a sandwich.”
Ken: “Ew?”

I started this entry on my phone at a Buffalo Wild Wings table (about three months ago) with my best guy friends, who have been near and dear to me for a little over two years now. Because of my inability to filter my jokes and comments, or pick up basic conversational cues, I lack the stereotypical Sex and the City troupe of mismatched gals. However, what I lack in disease-ridden chick pals, I make up for in good ol’ boy, XBOX playing muscle. [Go ahead and assume I made a more up-to-date reference than such classic HBO.] To my left was Jay, the kind-hearted but endlessly teasing boy who taught me to shoot a gun. To my right, Chad, his lovable older brother, who let me cry on him during my divorce… at 2:00 a.m… in the freezing cold. Across from me was Ken, the unicyclist with Peter Pan syndrome who rushed over at 10:30 one night to help me with a PowerPoint. Missing, was Ward, the closest I’ll ever have to a tantrum-throwing baby brother who gave me a bag of buttons and pink yarn for my birthday this year, becuse he knows pink is my favorite color and I’m going through a crochet phase. See. You can keep your talk of unicorns, puppies, and menstrual blood (that’s what women talk about, yes?), because I have about 800 pounds of pure heart in my guys.

All of the aforementioned attributes are essentially a disclaimer, however, because here’s what it’s really like to be “one of the guys.”

Gender is No More/Boys are Disgusting
I’ve met a lot of women who say “Ugh. I can’t stand girls. I only hang out with guys.” What they often mean, though, is that they treat their female friends like crap and like to date from the same general pool of men. That’s not so much being “one of the guys” as it is being “kind of easy.” In my case, I met my guys working at the local community center before getting a job in my field. It was here, that Ken once announced:

“We need to get rid of all the girls… except for hot chicks and Belle.”
His defense for this was:
“What? You’re not a girl. You’re Belle.”

Now, at the time of this comment, I weighed about 90 pounds more than I do now.  This was before my transformation to adult, when I was still wearing a t-shirt and pigtails to weddings. But even now, significantly slimmer, wearing cute little dresses, and :gasp: eyeliner, I have the sex appeal of a floor lamp as far as these guys are concerned.


… not even the grown-up kind.

To say they don’t care what I look like would imply that they notice whether I’m in yoga pants or a prom dress. While it’s amazing that they loved me just as I was at 250 and feel the same at 160, this means the boundaries that might exist for anyone they consider female, do not apply to me. While I claim to lack any disgusting bodily functions when I’m with them, I can guaran-damn-tee you they don’t do the same. Were Ken interested in me, I’d never have watched him eat his own vomit in a cereal challenge or pull down his pants so Jay could shoot him in the bare ass with an airsoft gun. This also means I get rough-housed with in the exact same manner as a 215 pound boy. I can’t count the times I’ve been unable say where I got that bruise, exactly. The closest they will ever come to hitting on me, no matter how hot I get, is in jest. Two years ago, Ken was fooling around with an 18-year-old who was a shit-ton of crazy packed in a teeny tiny little package. Left alone in Jay’s truck one night, Ken pretended to feel me up over the leggings I wore under my skirt.

Ken: “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
Me: “Honestly, the only thing I can think about is how you have your hand on my thigh and you once had it on Rochelle’s.”
Ken: Spans his hand out and moves it back and forth over my thigh “Is this still ONE?!?”

All of their disgusting boy jokes aside, the guys who taught me the definition of “duck butter” simply cannot handle it if I mention that I am actually a girl.

Jay: “You took a massive shit in Ken’s bathroom the other night.”
Me: “No. I didn’t. Stop saying that.”
Jay: “Then what took you so long?”
Me: “I was changing my tampon!”
– complete silence fell over the table of men –
Jay: “Ew.”

You are Never Allowed to Be Mad
I think one of the main reasons I don’t get along with women is because I don’t do catty. I’m not going to scratch your eyes out with my overly manicured talons and I’ve never said “Oh, no she dit-int.”  Okay. Maybe I’m basing too much of this off YouTube skits, because I really don’t spend time with women, but my point remains valid. Gail is my best friend and when she pisses me off, I don’t respond to her texts for a bit until I calm down… and vice-versa. We both know this and we’re both cool with it. We’ll address it quietly and quickly later. “That was just a bit too much for me.” “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be hurtful.” The. End.

Because of the aforementioned catty gals, however, men are used to this silence meaning more. It’s not a chance to cool down. It’s… drumroll please… The Silent Treatment. I’ve been told that if I’m mad, I should just say so. But why? If they get that I’m mad, then it’s not necessary to have a confrontation. Clearly, he doesn’t think he’s being an ass or he’d have apologized. Clearly, I think he is or I would wouldn’t have stopped talking ten minutes ago. We’re not going to come to a compromise, so it’s just redundant and more dramatic than they’re complaining I’m being by not talking. Furthermore, complaining that I’m mad or saying “She is so mad right now. Look how much we’re pissing her off” (Jay) over and over again is not helping.

Jay: “She’s just being a girl.”

NO. I am not being a girl. You are being an asshole.

Men, however, are completely allowed to be pissed off and handle it any way they like. If that means they just go silent for a bit, that’s alright, because they brought their penises to the party. They get to be mad and I get to have a vagina.

Me: “How come you get to be mad and I get to have a vagina?”
Jay: “You don’t have a vagina.”

… and we’re back to gender.

Everything Ever is Funny for Always
Me: “Hey, over 50% of women own vibrators.”
Ken: “Do you?”
Me: “I am not answering that.”
This took place in Jay’s truck, which required his door being opened for me to exit. They refused to let me out until I not only told them I had one, but what color it was, and if it had a name. This was about a year and a half ago. To this day, I am subjected to endless Fluffy jokes… usually in public, where no one knows what they’re discussing.

As I’ve said, I swear to my guys that I don’t poop. So, one night, we had a really heavy dinner before going to Ken’s house, where they’d know exactly how long I was in the bathroom. I texted Gail:
– Eating barbeque with the boys. I am so going to have to shit later. –
For the first time ever that night, Jay stole my phone and read my messages aloud… well over a year ago. I still cannot mention barbeque sauce or restaurants, ever, without comments about how I get “the barbeque shits.”

About a year and half ago, I was driving in town and missed my turn in for the post office. In a hurry, I turned at the next place I could, which happened to be the exit to a church. No one was coming or anything, but Chad and Jay just happened to be passing by and witnessed this. To this day, “Belle always drives in exits” and that’s hilarious.

When I got my hair cut super short in March, I didn’t want to pay for another cut for awhile, so I went a little too far.
text conversation
Me: Is my hair too short?
Chad: Why? Did someone say it was?
Me: Lol. That’s not a no.
Chad: It’s only too short if you think it is.
Me: Haha. Definitely not a no.

The next day, Shay, Chad and Jay’s little sister went to the car show with us.
Shay: “Oh, you cut your hair. It’s cute.”
Me: “Thanks! Chad said I look like Justin Bieber.”
Chad: “I did not!”
For four fucking months I was called Justin Bieber.

On the way to a concert, I didn’t hear the guys talking about the gay bar we passed. In line, I had to pee.
Me: “I’m going to go use the bathroom at that Mexican restaurant.”
They let me walk (with a limp from a back injury) all the way to Little Dick’s Halfway Inn, only to pee behind the building, because they weren’t open yet and spent the rest of the night periodically mentioning “that Mexican restaurant” and giggling like little girls.

There is just nothing off limits with my guys, when it comes to humor. That word I messed up in a sentence or the time I laughed weirdly, they’re going to catch it and they’re going to make fun of me for it. That is precisely why I get along with them. Girls are too over-senstive about that stuff and I make just as many insensitive comments as they do.

Me: arguing with Jay about how many times he’d said something “No. It’s five! You can’t even count. No wonder you’re failing chemistry.”

I’m the only one who’s tried marijuana and was intensely embarrassed when they found out.
Guy we know: “Are they high or something?”
Jay: “I don’t know. Ask Belle. She’s the expert.”

Arguing with Ward about how difficult it is to find a teaching job with Alternative Certification after he changed his major… again
Ward: “You don’t know everything you know!”
Me: “I have a degree in education. I know this! Whatever, Ward. Next week you’re just going to want to be a Space Cowboy anyway!”

Me: “I don’t know what to get Gail for her birthday.”
Jay: “Get her a baby doll. Just tell her not to kill this one.”

Ken: “You’re wearing zebra striped panties? That must have taken, like, five zebras.”

Jay: “Gosh. No wonder your mom beat you.”

Chad: “Why’s your car shaking? Have you got Fluffy under the hood?”

The Things They Say
Ken: “So, I was banging this chick, you see…”
Chad: laughs, knowing Ken’s a virgin
Ken: “I was knee deep in her…”
Jay: “He was gunny sack racing her.”

Ken: “She’s thick, but cute, right?”
Jay: “Yeah.” to me “How is that an insult?”

During a viewing of Two Girls One Cup
Chad: “I didn’t know girls could shit that much.”

Ken: “Man, if she had a dick, I’d let her rape me.”

Chad: “I’m not going in. I have shit all over my shirt.”
Jay: “That’s what you get for shitting on your shirt.”
Chad: “I have ranch all over my shirt.”
Ken: “You shit ranch?”

Jay: “I need some ideas for the Senior Center.”
Ken: “Mammogram Mondays!”

Everything Is Last Minute
So, I don’t know if this is guys, or my guys, but they never plan ANYTHING. The figure that, if they have plans, they won’t be free for the family outing or to help an elderly neighbor move a bed like the loveable fucking boyscouts they are. So they just make no plans. When they do, it’s unreasonably last minute for anyone with boobs.
9:00 movie. Be at the Center in 15.
What?!? I can’t be there in 15 minutes! I’m not even cute yet! In fact, I just took a shower and look like a mangy cat.
Then I get a message when I’m 3 minutes late.
Ugh. Never mind. We’re picking you up. Hurry.
But if I’m on the dot, a good 50% of the time, they are at least 10 minutes late and say things like “Well, if Belle hadn’t taken so long…” just to be pains in my ass. And that’s IF I can get a definitive time out of them. Often, it’s
1:30-1:45
At 1:42
Never mind. We’re picking you up. Hurry.

Furthermore, none of them ever wants to be the one to decide.
I don’t know. Ask the guys.
What’d the guys say?
Have you asked the guys?
I am asking the guys RIGHT THE FUCK now! You are one of the guys!

We have, literally, sat in Ken’s car for 30 minutes dicussing where to eat, because no one wants to pick something.
Me: “Fine. Let’s do Chili’s”
Ken: “Well. I guess it’s Chili’s…”
Chad: “Since Belle just has to have Chili’s.”
Jay: “It’s always up to Belle.”

Just to be a pain in my ass.

They Aren’t Girls… Not Even a Little
At the wildlife refuge, I repeatedly had to pee in the woods, because they didn’t have to go. I swear, they each have buffalo bladders.

Me: “It’s pretty.”
Chad: “It’s not pretty. It’s a truck.”
Me: “Trucks can be pretty.”
Chad: “No. Trucks are badass.”

Me: “Look! I got my Christmas tree up!”
Jay: “That’s disgusting.”
Me: “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a hot pink Christmas tree.”
Chad: “No. He’s just jealous, because he doesn’t get to set it on fire.”

Jay: “She’s busy watching vampire porn.”
Me: “There’s not even that much sex in it. It’s just HBO.”
Jay: “Where guys have sex with women and rip their heads off.”
Me: “That is the only part you’ve even seen and I only sent it to you to freak you out.”

Me: “I get to get my hair cut tomorrow! I’m going to chop it all off and get low-lights in it.”
Chad: “Low-lights?”
Me: “That’s what they’re called when you make it darker.”
Chad: “That’s called dying your hair.”
Me: “No, it’s not. It’s called low-lights.”
Chad: “Well… congratulations?”

Jay: “What kind of car was it?”
Me: “Red.”

Me: “See a picture of my new gun?!?”
Ken: “It’s PINK.”

They are Stubborn Asses
It has been over a year that Chad and I have been arguing over whether Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter is nerdier.

Jay and I still argue over whether a Reese tree has more calories than a Big Mac, which is stupid, because I’ve freaking Googled it and he is wrong.

Jay refuses to tell his ex-girlfriend from 5 years ago that it’s over, because he doesn’t want to look like an asshole. He tells me that girls are stupid if we think that a guy is interested when he responds to our texts.

Chad is the only one who has been in a car with me while I’ve driven, but every single one of them insists I’m a terrible driver.

Ward has no idea why he hates Obama, but he will somehow still argue about it until he is blue in the face. Saying absolutely nothing.

Ken once grabbed my flip flop and threated to break it if I didn’t tell him his worst personality trait. To this day, he claims I said he was an arrogant jerk when I told him he was a little bit full of himself.

Jay once wrote a paper with the sentence “The snow was so deep and ripe for avalanche you could practically swim in it” and still insists it was brilliant and I was just nitpicking, when he asked me to proofread it.

They piss me off, embarrass me, don’t compliment my hair, and make smells that shouldn’t come from people. They also taught me to shoot a gun when they found out what my ex-husband was doing. They drove around aimlessly when I didn’t want to go home. They made sure I was okay when I drunk dialed them. They moved every peice of furniture from one upstairs apartment to another and wouldn’t take a dime for it. They came to help when my battery died in the middle of the night. They all rearranged their schedules when I was too badly hurt to request time off for the car show, so I wouldn’t miss it. They’ve been late for class to help me with a flat tire, hung curtain rods, towel racks, changed oil, and even lightbulbs. In return, I do what I can. I make them candy and pies and buy them thoughful Christmas presents. I proofread resumes and cover letters and give job references. I’ll never sit through enough shoot-em-up boy movies to repay them for what they’ve been to me, though, so I’ll just have to pass on the chick flicks, glitter lipgloss, and Teen Beat magazine (seriously, have no basis for comparison anymore.)

Ward asked if I was a “big ol’ 5”, not realizing that his Big Bang Theory reference implied he was curious about my sex drive. I had feigned offense.

I finally told my guys about the graduation delay… and Chad was a sweetie, like always. Note that this conversation began with “talk to the guys”, when I said we needed to do something soon. Eye roll.