Crawfish and Smarmy

Posted on November 26, 2012 by Belle of the Library

I have previously written about how much I suck at dating. The post “Beginning Dating… at Age 25” was all about how I date like a socially awkward stereotypical man… who’s an asshole. I’m new to this. People just don’t expect me to be. While I’ve never had a successful date (define: has a follow-up), I have managed to have some really funny disastrous experiences. I’ll share my favorite.

Gail and I decided to meet at a local bar to watch the basketball playoffs in late spring. I’d worn a cute little sundress and cowgirl boots and she’d worn not-much dress and heels. This was not some fancy bar. The air was filled with smoke and the sound of cracking pool balls, the menus were sticky, and they were playing a freaking basketball game. So we were sending completely intentional signals, as this was before she ruined our fun by getting a boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong. We were there to see the game. Thank goodness I like sports, or I’d never meet men. However, if we happened to get some free drinks out of it, then so be it.

From the beginning of the night, our efforts had proven successful. That man really didn’t need to grab my leg and apologize so profusely for bumping into me. “Yes, someone is sitting here and I don’t need you and your buddy to grab a bucket of beers and join me.” That sort of thing. Eventually, a cute Cajun man who sounded like the newest popular Pixar character came to speak to us, his friend in tow. The Cajun man offered to buy us drinks and I didn’t want him to spend much money on me, so I asked for a beer. He seemed confused (and not that bright), so Gail rolled her eyes at me and told him to get us both a Sprite with peach schnapps. The bartender delivered the drinks, so there was no concern in actually drinking them. I’d probably have done so anyway, since “Hey, it’s still the suburbs,” but that’s likely why Gail tells me I’m too stupid to go out alone. “Naive” would be the nicer term, since she fancies herself the sweet one and all.

When it came time for introductions, the bar was loud, because we were winning the game. The Cajun man told me his name. At first I didn’t hear him. I asked twice for him to repeat it, before he pantomimed spelling it out to a girl who wants to be a young adult librarian one day.

R-U-E.

“Oh! RUE! As in…” quick glance to see Gail wide-eyed and shaking her head “… Rue.”

Hellz yeah. The dress was short. He wasn’t there for the eloquence. However, I did avoid making a Hunger Games reference to a cute drunk guy in a bar. Score one for… well, Gail.

Meanwhile, Gail was being assaulted… I mean wooed… by Sales.* Sales was a chubby guy with over-gelled hair and Wal-Mart dress clothes, who’d have been cute if those things weren’t so obvious. He seemed confused as to how to appeal to women and complimented Gail’s heels way too many times for a guy claiming straight. As the night went on, we realized he was just really, really, drunk. There’s no other reason a man would say “So, you never told me where you worked” twelve times in an evening. Sales eventually earned the nickname “Smarmy”, because I use outdated language and that freaking fit.

*Men get nicknames until they matter and when I make them, they are always based on their careers, if only to prove they have them.

While Gail told Smarmy what she did for a living for the eleventeenth time, I sat back to back with her and continued talking to Rue. He was nice enough, he bought me a drink, and that’s kind of why we were at the bar. Now, I don’t do this sort of thing super often, but I’m pretty sure when asked if you have any tattoos in a bar, you’re supposed to reveal a sexy kitten just over your butt crack. I think it’s supposed to be sexy that you have a tattoo there, not the kitten picture itself. It’s probably not necessary to clarify that, as I’m not sure what would make a kitten sexy.

Rue: “So do you have any tattoos?”
Me: “Just one, on my foot. It’s an ankh.”
Rue: “A what?”
Me: “An ankh? It’s like a cross with a loop on it. It’s an Egyptian symbol for life. Do you have any?”
– At this point, he turns around and proceeds to take his shirt off. –
Rue: “I’m from Louisiana, so my buddies call me Crawfish.” he said in his poorly executed True Blood accent “See?”

See? was rhetorical, as it was impossible to miss that beneath said shirt was a full back piece of a rainbow-colored crawfish. I shit you not. I didn’t even know what a crawfish looked like until this moment in time and I must say, I would not want a picture of one on my back.

As I laughed at Crawfish Rue’s tattoo, which he luckily took to be flirting, Smarmy continued to sell himself to Gail… poorly. Greaser hair and $12 dress pants aside, I am pretty sure that this man got all of his dating skills from the Dell Computer Sales Manual. “Make sure to say the customer’s name at least three times during the transaction, so as to create the illusion of a personal relationship. Establish physical contact in a 2-1 ratio with this name.” He probably called Gail “Abigail” at least 50 times that night. Every other time he did so, he would gesture with an open palm and barely touch her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. Over and over and over again, while talking about what a great guy Crawfish Rue was. “He is the best guy you’ll ever meet.” He also repeatedly said “I know this sounds like a line, but it’s not.” Dude, it sounds like a line because you’ve worded it exactly that way fourteen times. Eventually, he decided to teach her to play pool in the most condescending Little Lady manner I ever did see, which was amusing for me, as Gail spends about 23 hours a day wearing her Plumed Feminist Hat.*

*This hat is metaphorical.

While Gail learned that the skinny end of the pool stick is supposed to hit the ball, Rue began to tell me his story.

Rue: “I’m originally from Texas and I’m moving back there tomorrow. I have a kid there.”
Me: “Oh, that’s great! You’ll get to be closer.”
Rue: “Not really. He’s a little asshole.”
Me: “Uh… how old is he?”
Rue: “Four. He’s just a little asshole. He does whatever he wants.”
Me: “Oh… well, maybe you’ll get to fix that when you’re closer.”
Rue: “Nah. I’m not allowed within a hundred feet of him.”
Me: “Oh… um… I’m sorry.”
Rue: “Yeah, you see, I spent four months in military prison. I was over in Iraq and when I came back, I found out my ex-wife had been fuckin’ around on me… so… cuz of her, I had to go to military prison for a while.”

At the risk of sound redundant: What the fucking fuck? I am pretty sure you left a substantial and enitrely relevant chunk out of that story, Crawfish Rue. Now, I am not a subtle person. It’s just not in me. I was a little tipsy and this guy just told me about his completely unprovoked stint in military prison. By this point, Gail’s pool lessons had ceased and she was back to back with me again. I turned and semi-shouted in a panic, “GAIL!”

Gail: laughing “He just called me goose.” This refered to my nicknaming Gail’s little girl Goose.”
Me: a touch hysterical and probably in a loud enough stage-whisper for Crawfish Rue to hear “Military prison!”
Gail: “He called me goose?”
Me: “Military! Prison!”
Gail: “You want to go play pool?”

It was this night, actually, that Gail and I decided we needed a “He’s creeping me out” code word. Fortunately, Smarmy and she went on another couple of dates before she never heard from him again when she didn’t put out.

Me: “How’s Sales?” she’d gotten pissy about the totally accurate and completely PG Smarmy nickname
Gail: “He’s good. He wants me to go to Boston with him.”
Me: silence “You’re kidding, right?”
Gail: “What? No. Why?”
Me: “Boston? Massachusetts?”
Gail: “No. Boston, the band.”

We recently found ourselves in a bar where an older man was caressing my shoulder far too much (define: at all). I randomly started shouting about Massachusetts and Gail fucking forgot. Eye roll.

No. We’re not lesbians.

Posted on November 25, 2012 by Belle of the Library

That name is “Abigail’Sure Thing’.” I was “Belle’Superiority Complex’.” We’re not that nice to each other. Her ringtone at the time was “Looking for Love (in all the wrong places)”.

I woke up this morning to a continuing of our text conversation from last night… and the last two years, since we both got smartphones. I realized today, that it’s been almost exactly 10 years since Gail and I became friends. She had this retainer with teeth on it and she used to click it as a nervous habit.

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 instant friends.

It, of course, wasn’t true. Neither of us was truly kissed until we were 17. We had our first boyfriends together, our abusive first marriages together, lost our babies together (hers more substantial, Grace compared to a late first/early second trimester miscarriage six months prior), went through our divorces together, learned to actually date together. She taught me to put on eyeliner and make a budget. She drove around all night pulling over so I could vomit Thanksgiving of 2010 onto the side of the road once I’d finally kicked out my ex-husband. I went to the ER several times for baby fevers. I didn’t sleep through most of my student teaching so I could hang out with her as much as she needed when she had bad Grace days. I hugged her while she cried when the Cop blew her off after she fooled around with him. I humored her when she tracked down everyone I know to ask if I was okay after she hadn’t heard from me for a day. Her baby died. Paranoia is allowed.

I’m not going to lie. I don’t believe in unconditional love. Not even for children. No matter how far out they are, everyone has their limits. And that’s okay. If Gail chopped up my dog, I wouldn’t love her anymore. But, there’s nothing she would do to make me turn away. We’re family now. My brother made the lesbian comment a few months ago. She’s been my sibiling in a lot more ways than he has. I didn’t angrily tell him that, because I don’t like confrontation. I love him, but he’s still an offensive redneck.

See. Not a thing.

We have a multitude of codewords.

I’d replicate that = There’s someone behind you who just heard you make a joke about drawing the Mona Lisa in poop.
Massachusetts = This guy is creeping me out. Let’s go.
Liquid Nitrogen Slingshot Vials = Seriously. I’m not kidding. I actually (am pregnant, was raped, let him feel me up, etc.)
Super Best Friend Emergency = I’m crying. Come over if you can.
Clean sheets = Exactly how bad my marriage was. “Hey, it’s better than clean sheets.”
Bestie Withdrawal = I’m using “bestie” ironically and want to hang out since we haven’t in three days.

Those are only used when we actually need codewords.

“Cam knows how many pies I’ve baked.” = I finally told him about the musician I’ve been sleeping with.
“I don’t know how to be a girl!” = I’m alone in a changing room, stuck in a dress.
“I’m broken.” = I just did something super disturbing, because I’m mentally unstable (cried after absent-mindedly giving my old married name)

I don’t believe in unconditional love. I also don’t believe in romantic soulmates. You’re not meant to be with one person your whole life, because of destiny. You work hard at love and being together and if that doesn’t work, there are other people with whom it could. I do believe in other soulmates, though. Those people who were destined to come into your life and make it better. I believe in the ones who were meant to make you struggle, too, but I’d call those curses. My Gramma is a soulmate for me… and so is Gail. She is my best friend/sister/mom. If I call her and scream “Why can’t she just be FUCKING NORMAL?!? Has she given NOT being crazy a try?!?! I’m doing it RIGHT THE FUCK now!”, she apologizes and asks if I want to have lunch with my other mom.

We’re not physically affectionate, for the most part. I’ve hugged her twice in the last year, both times because one of us was distraught. Instead, we rely on each other to make inappropriate jokes when we can’t handle reality.

“Ugh. No wonder you got raped. Just remember. No only means no if you mean it, not if you moan it.”

We joke about how one of us imagined the other, because our lives and minds are too parallel. We both glanced at the soldier at IHOP and immediately thought about paying for his meal, based on a reference to the iPhone PostSecret App. We didn’t even discuss it other than to exclaim “We’re thinking the exact same thing! One of us is so made up.” and fist bump.

We know we’ll be honest, if not always nice.

“How’s this look?”
“I know we live in a world of genocide and baby rape, but that is the worst thing ever.”

“Do you have any gum?”
“Yes.”
“Could you chew some?”

“Do I have a mustache? Does it look like one of my eyebrows fell down?”
“Yes.”

If she reads this, she’ll either pretend to be uncomfortable over my blogosphere declaration of undying love or she’ll go “Awwww. You love me.”

I don’t know that there’s a point to this blog, except that I’m lucky to have this weird bond, which is possibly imagined while I’m rocking in a corner and chewing on my own hair. I hear adults say they wish they had a best friend… so my life fucking rocks. We’ll just continue to avoid hugging to lessen the assumption that we’re lovers.

Update:

Winifred, the Accidental Alter-Ego

Posted on November 25, 2012 by Belle of the Library

Open with a distantly related anecdote.

When I was 12 years old, I spent one week out of the summer before the 7th grade at our local Catholic Diocese’s camp. It was six days of non-stop wholesome fun with constant supervision and I hated every minute of it. Once my parents divorced, I grew up in what I like to describe to strangers who I don’t want to make uncomfortable as “a hands off environment.” I pretty much did whatever I wanted and it sure as heck didn’t involve church on Sunday mornings. So, for six days, I was combative, moody, and uncooperative with people who were nothing but nice to me and who came from homes with 12 other children who also thought camp was the greatest thing ever. I refused to swim, explaining that I’d done the math and there were too many people in the pool for it to be sanitary, drew a picture of a burning cross during crafts, brought up the birth control thing with a bunch of 11-year-olds, and called a girl a bitch and threatened to push her out of a canoe. Yeah. I’m lucky an exorcism wasn’t involved. Surprisingly enough, I wasn’t the most difficult person in my cabin, for a few bunks down, there resided two girls with the last name Hill. They claimed they were sisters and told elaborate stories of family events where they were bestest friends for four days until one of them flipped out one night, because she was away from home for the first time and couldn’t handle it. When the camp counselors pulled her sister in to comfort her, she hysterically started screaming that they weren’t even related. I slept through the whole thing and got this story secondhand and I have no idea why I remember it.

A part of me, however, must have done so with the intention of storing the occurrence for future reference, because at 23, newly divorced with the whole world having watched my life fall apart, creating a pretend identity was an apparently irresistible subconscious desire. Having aged far past the camp stage in life, I really didn’t have the opportunity to plan out an intentional week-long charade. At the time, I worked at the local community center, where I had met some of the most supportive and reliable friends I’ll ever have. They knew all of my secrets and loved me just the same. But they knew all of my secrets. They’d received the drunken phone calls, seen me burst into tears at random, and heard about the days at a time I’d spent throwing out all of my belongings in an insane life purge. This was on top of my dear, dear sisterfriend Gail, who had been with me since we were 15 and knew all of my mommy issues and details of my marriage I won’t even tell a therapist. Though it’s beyond comforting to know that these people have seen the most fucked up parts of my soul and still want me in their lives, nothing will ever make me feel quite as raw as having known so many people were just recently worried about the massive amounts of Everclear I’d been consuming. So, when the opportunity arose for me to get a job in my field, where I could work my way up, the last thing I wanted was for these people that I would be working with in a professional capacity, to also know what I looked like inside out. And so… Winifred was born.

Oh, the times I went to the fake beach with my color-coordinated family…

To clarify, my coworkers know me by my actual name and Winifred is just the codename Gail has given my work persona to make it clear that she not only disapproves, but thinks I’m completely insane. I maintain that Winifred’s creation was unintentional. When I got the job at the library, I’d finalized my divorce months earlier and had barely gotten all of my documentation put back in my maiden name. I just didn’t feel like talking about the event that had so thoroughly broken me when I had barely begun to pick up the pieces. Luckily, as a 23-year-old graduate student, it never came up. Even at 25, no one ever asks me “Have you ever been married?” unless I’m on a date or filling out a form. I assume it doesn’t occur to people that someone with such academic tunnel vision could have had the time to fit in a failed marriage. I look quite young as well, often mistaken as a student when I substitute teach, with most guessing 21 or 22 on an average day.

In addition to my age and academic standing, I had just recently moved back to my hometown of Shetland. It was a place to lick my wounds and, as much as I hated it at 16, it is home and I’ve taken comfort in my view of the city water tower from my patio. Most of my coworkers live in the city and Shetland is an outlying wealthy suburb. Because women are catty and competitive, my elation at returning home was taken as a challenge. I couldn’t simply be happy where I was without comparing it to where my coworkers were, or so they assumed.

Finally, I come from wealthy, self-made people, who worked their asses off for everything they have. I greatly admire this and I’m proud of them for it. So, I’ve said so. Combine these factors and my coworkers see me as a spoiled and sheltered 25-year-old who’s truest hardship was her parents’ divorce, goes to lunch with daddy every week, and has everything handed to her in her wealthy little hometown. They think I’m conservative in my views, because I’ve never struggled. In actuality, it’s because my ex-husband used to try to get me to go get him food stamps when he refused to work and had already stolen all of the money in my wallet. They think my contentment with Shetland is a reflection of my being “uppity” (direct quote) when it’s just the place that welcomed me back after life kicked my ass.

One time, pre-Winifred, I shared the story of Grace, Gail’s daughter. Precious, perfect, with the lungs of an angry baby elephant, I sat by Gail’s side as she died at 8 months, 5 days, and 15 minutes. I was Aunt Belle and my heart broke as I watched Gail shatter. It was truly awful. It took me one year to share this with my coworkers. It was Gail’s heartache more than mine, and therefore the perfect tester. S compared it to losing her son’s girlfriend, which she repeatedly said was the most pain anyone could feel.She said Gail owed it to the children of the world to track down every woman her ex-husband ever dates and make sure they know he was interested in little girls. It was the first and last piece of myself I shared.

When I discovered the beginnings of Winifred’s existence, she had not yet been accepted or named. A coworker simply told me that everyone felt that I thought I was better than they are because I live in Shetland (ironic, since I started a hate website based on this town at 16.) I spent a week or two mulling this over. I’ve been through my own Hell and worked my butt off to get the things I have, but they don’t know that and give me no credit for it. I didn’t mean to lay the foundation for a new identity. I saw it two ways, though. I could A) correct this misunderstanding and give them undeserved information on my life, with which to gossip or B) run with it.

I think it was here that the issue became psychological. I have this tendency to think that there’s a point where I may as well make things worse. If there’s really no coming back from something, why not just go with it? At least it’ll make for a good story. My coworkers are never going to shake that feeling that I’m entitled and full of myself. Why bare my soul in the attempt to change that? Finally, I heard a coworker make a joke that is apparently regularly spoken at my expense: “It’s always 85 and sunny in Shetland.” My mind was immediately made up.

Once my psyche truly fissured and I fully embraced my alter ego, I began to encourage the misunderstandings. ENCOURAGE THE MISUNDERSTANDINGS. Not lie. A coworker and I argued over marriage.

Me: “I just don’t think that I ever want to give anyone that much control over my happiness.”
S: “I don’t feel like I’ve given my husband any control over my happiness.”
Me: “Yeah. Because he hasn’t taken advantage of it.”

It’s funny, because she thinks I’m talking out of my ass about things I don’t understand. She thinks I base this on my parents’ issues, at most. It’s likely she doesn’t even give me that qualifier, because I never talk about my parents’ divorce either. She just knows I have step-parents.

S: “Well. I just don’t think I’m fond enough of marriage to ever try it again, anyway.”
Me: “Yeah. Me neither.”
N: laughingly “You never tried it in the first place.”
Me: hearty laughed tinged with a little madness.

Later, I discovered that N thought I was a virgin. I don’t know why he thought this. I never said that, because there’s no way that is even a carefully laid truth.

Me: “I’m not saying yes or no either way, but I never said that.”
N: “Yes! You did! It’s not a big deal or anything.”

He thinks I’m embarrassed that I’m a virgin. I was married for four and a half years and have managed to accidentally convince a coworker that I’m pure as the driven snow. I’m assuming I mentioned that I was “inexperienced” and he concluded an exaggerated version of that. However, upon realizing this, I’d fully accepted Winifred and thought it was funny, so I encouraged it. It’s not like I owe him clarification. On another occasion, I verified that I could count on one hand the number of people I’d kissed. It’s true. It supports his assumption. It’s funny for me.

As time goes by and I tell stories of happy family moments, I purposefully skip over the tragedies with complete truth.

S: “I think the house fire was probably one of the worst days of my life.”
Me: “I can imagine. That would be awful.”

N: “Did you know women who miscarry actually blame themselves sometimes.”
Me: “I bet that would just be heartbreaking.”

S: “Well, my mother was really abusive.”
Me: “Oh. I’m sorry.”

I have a degree in education and therefore the required basic understanding of psychology. I have, indeed, done some introspection in regards to Winifred, at Gail’s prodding and insistence that this is unhealthy. I realize now, that what started as an accident has become a defense mechanism and an escape. I recently read a memoir in which the author talked about wearing a red wig to help with anxiety. That’s Winifred. I slip behind her and pretend my life is made of family dinners and apple pie. If my coworkers don’t like me, it’s because they think I’m uppity, not because I grew up in a trailer house, in my brother’s hand-me-down clothes and have whopping mommy issues. Winifred is the uppity one and I don’t have to face rejection if I don’t let anyone get to know me. When Belle fails her graduate portfolio, I get to put on the mask of Winfred, to whom everything comes easily. When I’m under attack, Winifred is the one who gives calm and professional responses, rather than getting weepy, my eventual reaction to every strong negative emotion.

Not pictured: Tears

I’ve also realized, however, that some things cannot be escaped with a fiery red wig. I can’t truly be Winifred and it hurts every time I’m forced to acknowledge this when I just want to pretend. When I’m overwhelmed by the fact that I still can’t sleep through the night without experiencing a pulsing of terror and nightmares about marriage, I break just a little, because I’ll never be the girl with the apple pie life. I am suddenly the shattered 23 year old sitting in a judge’s office alone, asking for a divorce, a little hungover. In reality, I’ve actually begun to develop some of my made up characteristics. I work hard and refuse to get angry in a confrontation, clinging to passive commentary such as “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy. I’ll pray for you.” I feel making actual changes for the better must justify the illusion.

Sometimes, it’s tempting to kill off Winifred’s character, such as when a coworker told me that I’d never be successful at marriage if I couldn’t make mashed potatoes. But I swallow the urge, because how funny is that? Yes, THAT was the gaping hole in my marriage. Mashed potatoes.

Elephants and a Crossbow

Posted on November 23, 2012 by Belle of the Library

I had a rough week. I didn’t pass the graduate portfolio, convinced myself that I’d have to join the military when I didn’t pass next time (eye roll), and was being constantly attacked by one particularly rabid and hostile family member. By the time I got to Thanksgiving dinner, I was weepy-eyed and barely able to speak without bursting into tears. I’m not particularly emotional around People Not Gail or Gramma, so it really said something about my mental state that I couldn’t function enough to keep actual tears at bay.

Every year, my family has what they call The Water Buffalo, which is a party where only the women who’ve finished high school get together and swim. The title refers to size, as many of the women are heavier and I’m not the only self-deprecating woman in the family. This year, however, I have decided they’re not buffalo. They’re elephants.

“There’s this YouTube video where a pack of elephants circles around their young and injured, attacking any threats. After the last few years, this reminds me of the women in my family. This would be a lot more flattering were the comparison not to elephants.” – A Thanksgiving Facebook post

I don’t know that my family has actually seen me cry since I was a child. So when I teared up because someone told me I wasn’t invited to Christmas dinner anymore, every single loud and blunt woman I love went full-on Mama Bear on me. They passed my phone around, reading the text messages in horror, and my Grandma (not Gramma) loudly announced that she was “sick of hearing about her* twat all the time” referring to the tendency of this person to discuss feminine issues far too openly. I made my white-haired Grandma, who once spent a half hour lecturing me on how to hold a fork, say the word “twat”, she was so enraged by my mistreatment.

*Possibly unnecessary clarification – not my Grandma’s (nor my Gramma’s) twat

Simultaneously, I was hugged and my pain was eased about my portfolio. My Grandma (not Gramma) told me she imagined I was shocked because everything comes easily to me. My aunt (dad’s cousin) who also has an MLIS told me she understood, because the directions are always so vague. My favorite actual aunt breathed a sigh of relief, because she was really busy on graduation day anyway.

The rest of the night was spent eating myself sick, discussing sales, and watching children chase each other through the house with a crossbow. I asked my cousin if being a musicisan meant he was “rolling in the pussy”. His mom (favorite aunt) was appalled and accused me of being the drunk one running her mouth this year. Neither of us took my apology seriously. I was repeatedly told that I am always welcome with this side of the family at Christmas time and promised they’d never uninvite me. The evening came to a close giggling over the bad CGI of the daddy-funded viewing of Breaking Dawn Part II with my little sister. She was horrified at my exclamation that if I ever had sex with an old man, it would be Woody Harrelson and I’d let him stick it in my ear if he wanted.

No joke. A fucking crossbow.

I realize, I truly did get something for which to be thankful yesterday. Two years ago, I was heartbroken and miserable, married to a soulless monster, watching my life crumble around me, feeling all alone. This year, I was weepy and insecure and surrounded by my loving pack of elephants, eager to protect me from the outside threat in my moment of weakness. If only I’d realized I had that support system all along, things might have gone differently. Perhaps I shouldn’t wish for that, though. Maybe I am 25, still in school, and divorced. Maybe I’m terrible at dating and still a little broken from my marriage and the South says this means I’ll die alone. Maybe no one but my family and dear friends know Belle, while everyone else knows Winifred, the persona I hide behind when I’m feeling raw. But it feels right. I’m meant to be here. I’m on the right path… and that’s more than okay.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver’s Test

Posted on November 20, 2012 by Belle of the Library

When I failed the driver’s test at 16, I cried for hours.I couldn’t even talk about it for months afterward. Two months ago, I wept because I made a 98.5% on an assignment. I felt it deserved a 100%. I was heartbroken. I was also a complete pain in the ass to anyone who would listen to my “woe is me, I”m 1.5% less than perfect” rant. So… take that and imagine my reaction when I “did not pass” my End of Program Assessment for graduate school yesterday. “Fail” is too negative a term for graduate students, which I swear have some of the most delicate selves-esteem in regards to their intelligence. Ironic huh? Following is a dramatic retelling of yesterday’s ordeal.

The committee sat with bated-breath, awaiting a presentation on the depth of my learning experience during my last two years in graduate school.

I entered and promptly presented to them… an orange.

… but it was an awesome damned orange.

That’s pretty much exactly what happened. I had the complete wrong idea of what was expected of me. My original advisor was a woman constantly being encouraged to retire. She rarely responded to e-mails and gave me a pat on the back and a thumbs up each time I presented her with what I’d accomplished for my portfolio. Then she retired without telling me and I had to acquire a new advisor the summer before presenting. My new advisor is kind and gentle… too gentle. She didn’t tell me that what I had sucked… and was a fruit. So, as I started speaking and saw the committee member’s faces, I knew I had it wrong. I was presenting an overview of what I thought would make me a good librarian, not an in-depth presentation of my learning experiences in relation to YALSA approved standards and objectives. I’m talking about how working circulation has helped me to put a smile on my face when this guy’s acting like a dick, and they’re wanting to hear about the Public Relations tactics I’ve learned in my Public Relations course. I knew I was screwed and just became more and more flustered to the point that, when asked what the purpose of a Reference Collection was, I actually said “I don’t know.” No. Fucking. Joke.

As I stood waiting while they convened, I began to think up other possible careers. I texted Gail and told her it was all over. She told me to relax, I probably did fine. I didn’t respond, knowing very well this was bad. I was going to have to change the name of my blog. “I don’t know.” What the fuck? I do, too, know! A Reference Collection houses Almanacs and Encyclopedias. I just didn’t know I would be asked that or that I’d show up to the singing competition with my prized dancing mule.

Mildred. You expected a boy, didn’t you?

I sat down as they opened the door, shocked that I was intuitive enough to recognize the body language and energy of someone who was about to announce that I had cancer and had taken a shit all over the presentation podium.

“We’re disappointed.”

My first thought was “But can you pass me anyway?”

I pretty much just heard a roar of white noise in my ears after that. I remember blaming my advisor situation and then trying to simultaneously say that I wasn’t trying to blame my advisor situation and telling them that I just didn’t understand the portfolio requirements. I truly didn’t. I’m not going to lie. There a lot of readings I didn’t do. There were times when I zoned out during lectures or participated minimally during discussions and that is why I couldn’t talk about these things at the drop of a term. Call it a curse of online learning, but you don’t actually have to know what anyone is talking about when you can just Google the term to remind yourself before responding. However, had I understood the requirements of the portfolio, I’d have brushed up. I’d have known the term and realized that when I was asked how my searching techniques now differ from when I began the program, they weren’t talking about my ability to use the word “and” in the search box. They wanted to know what I’d learned in my Knowledge Management course.

At this point, I’m pretty much just proud that I didn’t beg them to pass me or burst into tears about how “I do, too, know what a Reference Collection is! I promise! IT’S BOOKS! IT’S ALL BOOKS!” and then run out of the room crying. I kept my big girl panties on and I asked questions while three people told me how much I sucked. I made arrangements with my advisor for the 2 hour Directed Reading course that will help me focus on my revision and re-presentation of my portfolio in March. I walked to my car and called my Gramma and assured her that I was not joking, I had actually failed. I called my dad and told him that I was the slow child and I was sorry I’d disappointed him. He told me I was being ridiculous. I went out with Gail and I wallowed and made jokes about how they kicked me out of college and made me ride the short bus home. I talked about how if I fail again and I don’t get my masters degree, I’m going to have to build a rich life in the World of Warcraft, because my life here is over. She laughed and told me that at least I’m still funny. I went home and I cried. I canceled work for today (substitute teaching, which can actually be canceled the night before and no one cares) and slept restlessly. My prayers last night were along these lines.

“Thank you Lord for all you’ve given me and please help me to move forward. [tearfully] Please, please let me pass next time and give me the motivation to work for it. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for my sins. Thank you. Amen.”

In the night, my pain eased. As I tossed and turned, I’d wake up with a little less heartache, the pit in my stomach a little softer. I woke at 7:00 and knew that I could still accept a sub job, but decided I’d rather pout. Thirty minutes later, I got out of bed and grabbed my textbook for my current class. I began to read from page one, highlighting for notes. I ordered the textbook from the last class I breezed through as well. I messaged my advisor telling her the times we could meet and that I was rereading my old texts. I went grocery shopping and bought note cards and pretty pens for color-coding because I’m insane. I called my manager and secured every Wednesday off for the next semester. I explained I had two more hours I had to take, knowing full well that she’s a librarian and knew I had my presentation yesterday and failed. I put the embarrassment aside, because that is one of the worst parts. I hide behind a different persona at work to a psychologically unhealthy extent anyway (another entry for another time). Why should this be any different? I went to lunch with my dad and he reassured me I’ll pass.

I love my dad, but he doesn’t know me all that well. Gail is the person who knows me best in the world and she didn’t know if she should leave me alone last night, because she thought I might hurt myself. I’m not saying it was rational, but yes, that was a valid fear. My dad, however, felt he should begin sentences with “… and if you don’t pass…”

NO! Shut the fuck up! I WILL pass. That’s the only thing I want to hear. I’m not saying I’ll pass by fate or magic. I’ll pass because I spent the whole day reading and ordering textbooks. I’ll pass because I have six months to learn the theories of information services inside out. I’ll pass because I WILL read a minimum of two hours a day on information theories and articles about current trends in the library world. I may still be the worst driver on the planet, but I will learn this stuff to the point that I have no fucking social life beyond this blog and text messages to Gail if that is what it takes. I will not get used to failure and develop better coping mechanisms than eating an entire Old Chicago, because I won’t fail.

And in the meantime, I will slip behind my work persona, Winifred, and tell everyone I have one more class to take, consoling myself with the fact that it is not a lie. They just assume… and eventually write the blog entitled “Winifred.”

Beginning Dating… At Age 25

Posted on November 9, 2012 by Belle of the Library

Many a romantic comedy centers around a sarcastic, humorously judgemental, male character who finds something trivial wrong with every single woman he dates and breaks up with her in the shittiest way. In fact, that was the sole basis of the character Chandler for the first six seasons of Friends. Eventually, however, someone (usually a hot chick) shows them the error of their ways and wins their heart. I can only hope that, as the female embodiment of this male stereotype, that is indeed the case (not a hot chick).

Me. I’ve done a little something with my hair since then.

In an attempt to analyze this behavior, 2012 is the year I’ve recapped, because 2012 is the only year in which I’ve dated. Married at 19, to the first boy I kissed, I am exceptionally inexperienced for a 25 year old. I can, literally, count the number of people I have kissed on one hand. I don’t know how to do this. It’s not like there’s a guide that I’m not too embarrassed to read. So I just have to go with my instincts… which suck. I wasn’t kidding when I advised my best friend to break the news of her rape to her out-of-state boyfriend via snail-mail.

The barber-shop quartet was mostly a joke.

At this very moment, I should be on a date at IHOP with Engineer. (All dates are called by their job titles, perhaps because my ex-husband never had one.) Obviously, I am instead writing a blog. Sooo… what happened to Engineer? I think to understand my dating present, I must explain my dating past, (post 4.5 year marriage.)

The dates of 2012 have gone, in order, from Combat Brian to Air Traffic Controller to Bartender to Landman to Law Enforcement to Analyst to Engineer. The following are my initial sarcastic claims to what was wrong with those whom I rejected.

Combat Brian: wore silver board shorts and flip-flops (are you fucking kidding me?) and had a comb-over at age 30.

Air Traffic Controller: had oddly placed ears and texted too damned often for anyone without a vagina

Law Enforcement: was 4 foot 9 inches tall (5’6″ in actuality)

Analyst: introduced himself as ‘Doc’, because someone called him that seven years ago and nicknames are neat-o.

Each of these things truly bothered me and were my original reasons for denying a second date. Gail couldn’t believe I’d actually turn a man down because of his shorts (I could see my reflection in them, I swear) and a comb over. The entire discussions were near identical to the aforementioned Chandler’s frustration with a woman who’s head was “like a satellite dish”. Are these real and legitimate reasons for not being with someone? Am I actually a person who would refuse to see a man again because of his ears? Is that even a thing?

Thank God, himself, the answer to the above questions is no. I’m not shallow enough to stop talking to a man because he’s only a half inch taller than me if he’s a great guy. I’m not going to shoot someone down over a silly nickname. I, however, am going to only notice the annoying surface things until I’ve ranted enough, while defending myself to Gail, to get to the deeper core of what was wrong with these guys. The superficial crap was funny and I can’t deal with adult emotions, as I’ve expressed in previous blogs. Thankfully (I guess?), each man had some true flaw.

Combat Brian – told me my marriage was a bouncy castle (the actual wording was “There is no way your marriage was worse than mine.”)

Air Traffic Controller – told me I was an idiot if I bought a bicycle under $2,000 and tried to convince me there was no God… also told a story about being pissed off when he ran over a cat and it messed up his bike wheel

Bartender – was leading me on as some sort of validation of self and claimed he didn’t mean it that way

Landman – wasn’t interested, but didn’t say so until after texting me for three days after the initial date (eye roll)

Law Enforcement – had completely lost faith in people due to his title and thought there was no improvement for anyone… used my phone number to solicit some kind of workout plan several weeks later

Analyst – expressed controversial political and parenting beliefs that were the exact opposite of mine… on the first date

Engineer – keep reading

I’ve included those who’ve rejected me, as it’s only fair.

So, I’ve had rational reasons for ending all communications. They weren’t for me. I wasn’t for them. That’s okay. The issue I’m still working on, however, really is not with the men. Every first and only date has a deal breaker by definition, even if that’s just the famous “he’s just not that into you” and that’s fine. I’ve gotten fairly good at taking rejection in the last year. In fact, I’ve come to the point where a large percentage of a man’s appeal for me, lies in my appeal for him. If he’s not interested anymore, then I’m not either, because what’s more of a waste of every one’s time and emotions? I’m good at taking rejection. The issue lies in my ability to reject. These are how the following men were rejected by me.

Combat Brian – I talked myself out of a disappearing bathroom break, but randomly said “We should probably free up her table” and more or less bolted from the restaurant. He stopped at his car, clearly wanting to have that moment where you linger and chat. I hugged him and said “I’ll text you.” He never heard from me again. He may think I’m dead. In my defense, this was my first date since my divorce.

Air Traffic Controller – I talked to him for a couple of days before the incessant texting got on my nerves and I ceased responding, even after “You wanna get together again” and “Did you die?” I received a text a few weeks later when I went into Chick-fil-a that said “Want to sit with me?” He was screwing with me and was just amused to see the girl who blew him off and I awkwardly said I’d been busy with school when he asked what happened to me. He got the point.

Law Enforcement – At the time, it was the best Nah date ever. We talked. We laughed. Neither of us ever mentioned seeing each other again. I didn’t text him and he didn’t text me.. until three weeks later, explaining that he just wasn’t feeling it. Most people seem to think that was him saving face when I didn’t contact him. I think it may have been so I would be more receptive to whatever he was selling. Who knows? I thought I did okay in this one.

Analyst – I’d shaken his plush claw without cringing and we sat in Starbuck’s and talked. I grew increasingly uncomfortable and unattracted to him as the date progressed. He explained his terrible parenting ideas and told me I was doing my job wrong. I heard about his idiotic political beliefs and I was just done. Finally, breath of fresh air, I felt enough time must have passed to explain that I had to go to Saturday Mass at 5:00. As he checked his watch, I realized… it was 4:06 and the church was just down the street. I have this problem where I pretty much decide that if I can’t make something better, I may as well make it worse. So, I said “Yeah, I’ve got to go to confession, too. It was nice meeting you” and fled. It’s not an exaggeration. He wasn’t even out of his chair yet. I just wanted to be not there so badly, I didn’t even consider etiquette. Etiquette, however, would’ve involved another fluffy handshake and I’m okay with having missed that. I am not exaggerating here. The man had to have had fur on the pads of his fingers. He must have been some kind of shapeshifter. It’s much hotter in paranormal romance.*

*I am totally exaggerating, though he had very hairy hands.

I honestly hope that my skills at rejecting will improve over time. I express this not from an IHOP with Engineer however, so here is the most recent dating sample I am able to break apart and analyze most accurately.

Engineer was 25, kind of cute, had ADHD and liked to say so… a lot. He talked about how he hated bars… and music… and television… and movies… and how this made him more sophisticated than the average guy. He told about how after college, he couldn’t find an engineering job and worked as a janitor. I admire that. I work hard to support myself and believe everyone should. Then he explained that it was frustrating to do so, because he was smarter than everyone working there. (Really? He was a recent college graduate with no engineering experience of which to speak and he was smarter than all of the engineers in his home state?) Then he paused to exclaim that the bottom of the light bulb above us was shiny and he had to touch it, in case I forgot he had ADHD and liked to say so. At that point, I asked how he was able to get through school if it was such an issue and he explained that his professors allowed him to sleep through class, because if they woke him up, he’d correct all of their work and embarrass them.

I am dead fucking serious.

At the time, despite the above charm, I thought he was alright. He was upbeat, had a big boy job, saved his money, and expressed similar political values to mine. He was mostly polite. Then he shot himself in the foot… with a torpedo. I explained that my sister was interested in engineering, not because she wanted to be an engineer, but because my dad was pushing her toward it. I said my dad loved bragging rights and constantly tells people I’m 25 with a Masters degree. I was going to finish with “I don’t even have it yet”, when he interrupted me to joke “But he doesn’t say what in, right?”

In hindsight: FUCK. OFF. I have worked my ass off for my degree and he is not better than I am because his bachelor’s is in engineering and I am not spending an entire relationship arguing that. No fucking way.

The date ended soon thereafter, because I actually did have homework to do. My frustration, however, did not set in for a few days. There just weren’t many trivial complaints from Engineer, save for his annoying neck cracking and his intentional quirkiness (which Gail and I refer to as “Hamburger Phone” in a Juno reference). However, judgementally analyzing meaningless crap seems to be a pivotal part of discovering the whoppers.

Gail: imitating me “He clearly hasn’t clipped his fingernails in weeks. P.S. There was blood under them.”

That is DEAD ON from someone who knows me just that well.

Gail constantly tells me I have to give guys more of a chance if I don’t want to die alone, so I left Engineer thinking “Well, we don’t really have anything in common and he’s kind of annoying, but… eh. I’d go out with him again.”

Then I spent a few days thinking him over.

On Wednesday (first date was Sunday) I received a text message asking what I was doing. I responded and asked the same. “Hot dogs. Enough said?” was his response. That is text message word salad as far as I’m concerned, but whatever, I’d conceded to a bit of Hamburger Phone. He then began to brag about how little T.V. he watches. Originally, I’d admired that. People watch too much T.V. and I think that’s a waste. Sometimes, though, T.V. is fun and there is nothing wrong with that. Not watching it does not put you on any pedestal. The television conversation led to him asking if I’d like to watch Arrow with him every week when he does slum it with all of us mindless drones. I avoided an answer, since I’d already agreed to a second date tonight and didn’t want any further commitment yet. Then, yesterday morning, he asked if we could spend the whole day together instead. Upon receiving this message, all I could think is BACK OFF. I just fucking met you. Calm the hell down.

I explained that I was working during the day, so just the date would have to do. We were going to go see Wreck It Ralph and I’d dreaded it from the time I said yes, but couldn’t pinpoint why. Everything seemed too small. Then I began the over-analysis I am so known for and I realized the true issues. We have nothing in common. At all. He hates everything and I don’t. The fact that I like the occasional comic book movie is NOT foundation enough for a relationship. It’d be like Leonard and Penny, only he’s not nice and I’m not hot and this isn’t prime time, so it doesn’t work AT ALL. That’s reason enough to end it here without taking into account his whopping superiority complex and the fact that he is annoying as fuck. Best case scenario, I date him for a few weeks before flipping out one night and yelling “You hate EVERYTHING but yourself” or declare “For someone with ADHD, you are ironically singularly focused on telling me about it 37 times a day.” So I’m going to skip that.

As I’ve explained, I have plenty of grounds for cutting ties with Engineer. But I’ve yet to master how to do it. Last night he texted and asked if I still wanted to see the movie since it was so short. I responded saying I’d prefer to do it another night, because of my homework. I haven’t heard from him since. A part of me hopes that I get the chance to say “I’m sorry. I just don’t think we have anything in common. I’d rather not.” Another part of me hopes to avoid that opportunity in case I don’t take it and just stop responding to him as I have every other man I’ve turned down and desperately clings to the fantasy that this is just the end of it. I am quickly learning, however, that no one can EVER end things smoothly. I’m really quite comfortable with the stereotypical male Not Calling that women hate. If he doesn’t call, I know he’s not interested. What’s wrong with that? It’s far better than receiving an “I’m just not feeling it” speech and absolutely better than giving one. I imagine, on some level, I will always date like a sitcom man. In fact, I dread the day I actually have to break up with someone. I’m a little afraid it’ll be on a cake.

The 10 Best Things About Not Being in a Bad Relationship

Posted on October 26, 2012 by Belle of the Library

Married: 19
Hypothesized that he had no soul: 20
Divorced: 23

Yup. I’m just that stubborn.

The hot pink Christmas tree outranks everything else.

Sometimes you find yourself alone and bleeding a lot, because you decided that you should hold the onion while slicing it to save the time you’d have spent getting the cutting board. Other times you have to call maintenance to change a danged light bulb because you can’t get the fixture down. Rarely, you bolt from a Starbuck’s explaining that you’re late for 5:00 Mass, ignoring the fact that it’s 4:06 and you’re a half mile from the church, because that date would’ve gone so much better had he just not spoken. Despite these cliché chick flick opening scenes, though, being single is really fucking awesome in a way that can only be understood when you’ve been really fucking miserably attached. I don’t mean in a free-to-get-VD way, as we’ve all seen from Carrie Bradshaw and company, but rather the little things no one ever mentions, such as…

1. Your money isn’t just your money, rather your everything is your everything.
If you want to blow your next paycheck on a crossbow or a Fossil purse, you can. There’s no missing $20 from your wallet or unexplained charges on your card. No one ate all of your corndogs or pawned your video camera. You’re not being recommended Star Trek XXXII on Netflix because someone’s been five-starring shit you hate. If you don’t have any clean dishes, it’s because you haven’t done them. You get to go to whomever’s house you want on Christmas Eve, because it’s your family. The bathroom is pink and brown because you fucking like it.

2. You entertain yourself however you like.
When I was 12 years old, I watched Roswell on repeat and I can do that all over again today. If I want to have a Vampire Diaries marathon, I can. I don’t even have to go to bed at a specific time or turn down the volume. If I want to listen to an audio book, I don’t need headphones because I’m the only one who likes it. I don’t have to listen to a video game when I’m trying to read. If I want complete silence while I crochet for seven hours… done.

3. Bad dates are sometimes really funny.
Dating is often the scariest part for the divorcees I’ve spoken to, particularly those who married young and never really tried it in the first place. Here in the Midwest, that’s a LOT of divorcees and I was no different. I’m not going to lie, here. Dating can be disastrous and that’s really the only assessment I have since my divorce was finalized. Frankly though, and with no exaggeration, short of date-rape (maybe even not) any bad date would be preferable to some of the harder days of my marriage. Attitude is really key here. At first, I found bad dates disheartening and called my best friend in a panic each time because “I’m going to die alone!” Now I just call giggling because the guy introduced himself as “Doc”, told me I was wrong about my job, and immediately stated his controversial political beliefs. Even the most awkward situation is a reminder that I am here, not two years ago and this is guaranteed to be a funny story later. If the bad dates are that good, the good ones are going to be even better.

4. You know it got done.
Sure, I have to have my best guy pal change my oil, but I know, without a doubt, that the oil got changed. I’m referring to the oil in the car that once had it’s engine replaced because my ex-husband insisted he’d changed it, even after the mechanic produced the original Suzuki filter that was on when the vehicle was purchased over nine months earlier. I have internetaccess to write this, because I paid my cable bill. If someone knocked on my door tomorrow morning, no part of me would fear eviction, because I paid the rent. There is a freezer full of food, because I went grocery shopping. Doing things yourself is another of the scariest parts of a divorce, especially the things you’ve never done, like filing your taxes. However, even if you do it wrong and burn the Hamburger Helper because you got yelled at whenever you cooked before, you’re taking care of yourself and your life all on your own. Never again will I feel like the only reason I’m with someone is because I’m afraid I can’t be without them. Never again will I wonder when the dog ate last, because I’ve been working two jobs all week. I will rely on me.

5. Compromise isn’t a thing.
I understand that even a healthy relationship may one day involve me sitting through a baseball game without complaint, though this is preferable only to counting sand. My point, though, is that being single rocks. If I want to watch Santa Clause Conquers the Martians, The Worst Witch, and Logan’s Run, while eating Tootie Frooties and sweet potato fries for dinner, no one gets veto rights. The movie on the big screen sucks and your significant other is sitting beside you. You’re not sure if he’s enjoying it or not, but you don’t complain just in case. You either a) finish the movie and find he loved it and now you have to listen to the recap or b) he hated it too and neither of you will ever get those two hours back. The movie sucks and your purse is the only thing sitting beside you? You leave, grab dinner and a drink on the way home, and then later do your nails in your underwear. If you hate comic book movies, you never watch them. If you want to stay out all night, you do. There’s no checking in or making two trips when getting take-out because he hates sushi. You take the job despite the distance, have your friends over at 2:00 a.m., and you paint the kitchen table red because you fucking feel like it. No one gets any say.

6. You don’t have to defend anyone.
Anyone who’s ever been in a dark relationship knows what it feels like to assure family that he’s really trying to get a job, he’ll pay them back soon, or he didn’t start that fire. Eventually the reassurances turn to lies and half-truths and then to avoidance altogether. You don’t want to share the truth, because then they’ll hate your partner, when there are still hopes of fixing the festering wound that is your relationship or you wouldn’t be there. But now that awkward one-on-one with the judge is over and you neverhave to speak another kind word toward the bastard again. You can refuse to discuss him or you can share all the details. Hell, you can exaggerate if you want. Who cares? They’re your family and have (hopefully) been on your side the whole time. There are no more excuses to be made. You can finally be completely honest with the people you love and no longer feel like you have to hide from them. If you’re in the city and realize you’re driving past your aunt’s house, you can stop by without cringing at the dreaded job question, because you only have to answer for you.

7. Masturbation
Not once have I ever rolled over before finishing because I “have a headache” and gone to sleep. I’ve never turned myself down despite the fact that it’s my birthday. It’s not offensive that I’m the only one who ever does any of the work. Enough said.

8. You’re not faking it.
This isn’t a sex comment, but a life generalization. From the smile on my face at Wal-Mart, to my Facebook statuses, to Christmas dinner, I don’t have to pretend I’m happy. I don’t have to force myself to spend time with someone I hate, because doing otherwise would be admitting that it’s long over. I don’t have to lie to myself and say it’ll get better when I haven’t been able to picture that future in years. I don’t have to reassure myself that he’ll get a job and I must’ve just lost my grandma’s bracelet. I am exactlyas ecstatic about life as I appear in social media and I don’t have to pretend otherwise to anyone ever.

9. You learn what you like to do.
Now that you’re on your own and you’ve rid yourself of that pesky compromise crap, you get to spend your time trying new things. You may like them and you may hate them, but you get to do whateveryou want. Nothing rids a girl of that victim feeling quite like shooting a gun. It truly is the closest you will ever come to having a penis without surgery. Now there’s no one to say you can’t learn. If you want to see a show, they will sell you a single ticket. Not one person will look your way and think “Why is she alone?” They’re just as self-absorbed as all humans and when they do notice, they do not care. So now’s the time to take that free fencing lesson, try out for community theater, or sign up for a pottery class. There’s no one to disapprove or complain about the expense of time or money and you’re not busy sitting through a movie the person next to you may or may not also hate.

10. There’s a future… and it doesn’t suck.
There was a time in my life where I would turn to my best friend and defend my marriage with “You get different things from different people. I trust and love you and my grandma. I just need him to work.” That was the bright version of my future. He would work and keep the job and I wouldn’t trust, love, or rely on him ever. I would stay, because I made a commitment, but that was it. Now I see a blur of accomplishment, trust, love, and fun. I see a family if I’m not too broken to give it another try. I actually have hope for the future. More importantly, though, I know that if this is it, if this is the most happiness I’ll ever find, it is infinitely more spectacular than anything I ever felt in my four years of marriage, so I’m okay with that.

As I’ve said, these things seem negligible to anyone who hasn’t had them taken away. The joy of getting them back and the gratitude you have when you wake up and know you can take care of yourself, though… it almost makes all the pain and suffering worth it. Almost.

I was a 23-year-old divorcée.

Posted on September 12, 2012 by Belle of the Library

The right idea…

In the South, 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 South, 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. Chad 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 Chad, 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 South 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.

Silence is golden… when you say “masturbation” to your new boss.

Posted on September 11, 2012 by Belle of the Library

I think as a general rule, most people can agree that the world would be a better place if we all acknowledged our faults and wrongdoings and politely and sincerely apologized. There should, however, be a mutual agreement between human beings not to apologize for some things, because the awkwardness of doing so makes everything worse.

Sunday was my 25th birthday. My choice of celebratory activities was crafting and over-analyzing 90s teen movies in my living room with my best friend. Because I’m badass. After polishing off a pizza together, I desperately wanted a piece of my birthday cookie that my grandmother gave me. My small birthday cookie bought from the Nestle place at the mall, cooked with magic and love and iced with unicorn blood (which is delicious). With anyone else, I’d have waited or tearfully sacrificed a piece of cookie as opposed to being rude and eating it in front of them without offering some. Gail, though, knows what color my vibrator is, because she was with me when I bought it. I just spoke the words “While you’re pooping, read my blog” to her. Normal manners do not apply. So I cut myself a slice of cookie and plopped back down with my yarn. Halfway through eating said cookie, though, Gail asked what it was. I felt guilty when I explained and continued to feel guilty as I ate. Finally, I apologized, because said guilt was ruining my cookie.

Me: “I’m sorry I didn’t offer you any of my cookie. I just really don’t want to share it.”

Gail: laughing “That’s okay, but you probably shouldn’t say that to people.”

This is a recurring problem for me and I’m only just learning to let it go, because…

“I’m sorry I said ‘you’re welcome’, when you didn’t say ‘thank you’. It wasn’t pointed or anything. I just said it out of habit. Not that I”m trying to… um… have a great day!”

… doesn’t make things better. At best, explaining…

“I’m sorry I didn’t say hi before and now it’s been too long and it’s awkward to say hi, but I don’t want to seem rude, so HI!”

… is endearing. Just make sure you say that final “HI!” way to loudly. Scream at people. It’s adorable.

More than once, I have apologized on my way out of the video store for not saying thank you, while explaining that I understand it’s irrelevant three minutes later, but I’d rather be bumbling than rude. People tend to just look confused. Confusion, however, is relatively harmless. Thankfully, these small uncomfortable moments have been my lessons in holding the apology, because sometimes, discomfort is not the worst addition to the situation. Occasionally, if you plan really well, you can make an unprofessional comment or situation even more out of line.

For example, yesterday, when I passed my manager a stack of books, I did not apologize for unintentionally brushing her boob. I almost did, but clamped my mouth shut before the words escaped. Today, when the same manager explained that the Family Talk section in the library was a collection of books on awkward subjects, such as having two daddies, I didn’t stop myself before making a comment about teaching your child about masturbation. It was sort of a joke, but I immediately rolled my eyes at myself for making that comment to a superior. I, however, did not apologize, though I wondered if I should. I am slowly, but surely, learning that sometimes, acknowledging that what you’ve done is stupid, validates said stupidity. Not to mention, calls further attention to the M word or accidental caress. Both of these are best ignored. Worse, in my case, instead of a normal adult sentence, I get flustered and stumble over what should just be “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.” I seem to think being more detailed somehow helps. It does not.

“I’m sorry I said masturbation just then. That was inappropriate, since you’re my manager. Though, I suppose it would have been inappropriate regardless of your status. Come to think of it, masturbation is a perfectly natural… um.. yesterday… I didn’t mean to honk your boob.”

Sometimes, silence truly is golden.

“What are you reading?”

Posted on September 9, 2012 by Belle of the Library

“What are you reading?”

As a future librarian, this is the one question I, ironically, detest above all others. The fact that this is generally asked while I’m reading, yanking me from my imaginary world for an impromptu quiz, is a valid enough cause for the internal growl that meets this inquiry. However, it is not my primary motivation.

I’m a graduate student working two jobs. I read plenty for school and refuse to pay for cable television. As far as my understanding goes, all television is now comprised of sexy M&M dances and Liquid Plumber ads that make you horny. It just doesn’t hold my attention. So, when it’s time to settle down and relax, I read… the literary equivalent of Jersey Shore. As a general rule, I try to keep at least one classic novel on my Kindle. If I sense someone is going to rudely pry, I’ll open my copy of Little Women and claim to be engrossed in the tales of Amy, Beth, Jo, and the one that wasn’t interesting enough to remember. Sure, I could just claim I’m reading The Great Gatsby, but I take issue with lying. I’m terrible at it, probably because of this discomfort. Carefully negotiated truths and omissions, however, are not lies.

My mouth isn’t the only place I’m salivating…

No. Today, after reading chapter upon chapter on Children’s Literature and Collection Development, I want to read something that will slowly rot my brain, countering all that intellectual growth. For the same reason many women read Nicholas Sparks, I read… wait for it…

paranormal romance.

Yes, indeed. When I’m lost in my Kindle, I am likely reading about sexy winged men or hot vampires. Screw Fifty Shades of Grey. I want to read about controlling men who turn into dogs. I’m not making this crap up. I loved Beauty and the Beast when I was little. Sexy werewolf novels are apparently just the grown up application. Remember when you were five and you loved magic and witches, secretly wished you were Tabitha from Bewitched and spent obscene amounts of time staring at items in hopes they’d fly across the room Matilda-style? Yeah, that’s apparently still a thing amongst adult women and it’s manifested in paranormal romance. Only, you’re fighting the telekinesis and losing control until some hot telekinetic man comes and helps you get it under wraps. I’m not quoting any actual plot here, but I’m not exaggerating either. I’m floored that this is even a genre and I read it, myself.

While I’m just now realizing that there is this huge following and demographic for such storylines, I’m also realizing that many of us wisely lie about it. It’s one thing to read a PG romance where everyone has cancer, supremely mild daddy issues, and there are terrifying amounts of geese. It’s not deep either, but the cover art on that is a picture of a rowboat. The cover art on The Black Dagger Brotherhood series is a half naked man sucking a woman’s neck. How does one explain that to their coworkers? While I have had a customer assure me that she’s only interested in the plot and doesn’t intend to use it for masturbation, I didn’t believe her. I washed my hands after talking to her. Furthermore, as a graduate student and library worker, people expect me to have a better literary range than Eternal Hunter and The Mating. Web 2.0 for Library Professionals, however, isn’t it. I need to spend my downtime, the time most people spend absorbing some popular T.V. show I can’t actually name because I refuse to try new things in the television world after the aforementioned Liquid Plumber advertisement, reading more mainstream fiction that is just as much pretend as werewolf porn. I should do this solely so I can make myself sound as though I have any right to this Master’s degree I’m earning.

No, really… lots of plot.

In addition, I tell no one about my Good Reads presence, fully aware that my reading list is made up of memoirs, young adult fiction, and warlock smut. It’s never impressive, because I feel I get my real growth from my classroom reading and my brain hurts once I’ve done so. My point here is that reading material doesn’t reflect intelligence. I’m no less smart because my pretend stories involve sexy magic. It’s just entertainment. But I’m not going on that rant with a coworker. This is one of those situations where I have the uncontrollable urge to respond to the question with something entirely out of character and inappropriate. The sort of thing I could easily deny saying, because WHO SAYS THAT?!?

“What are you reading?”

“Why’s your mom so horny all of the time? Mind your own fucking business!”

They won’t ask again.

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

No. We’re not lesbians.

Elephants and a Crossbow

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver’s Test

The 10 Best Things About Not Being in a Bad Relationship

I was a 23-year-old divorcée.

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