The Week of 1004 Dates: Insurance Salesman

Posted on August 29, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Fine. I’m lying. It was more like three… almost. The reason for such outlandish exaggeration, however, is that three dates in one week is only one less than the total amount of dates I’ve been on this year. This was mostly because, after I failed… ahem… excuse me; I mean “did not pass” my graduate portfolio back in November, I went full-on Miss Havisham and sequestered myself until May.

Pictured: Typical graduate student

I set the goals of passing my portfolio, getting my degree, and accepting a Librarian postion. Then… I would date. So, despite my online presence in profile format, it was not until June, that I actually met anyone… after I had been offered a job. Even then, I wasn’t super eager to take on the dating world, since the free dating sites involve far too much weeding and, frankly, I kind of hate dating. I already told you about how shocked my GP was at my startling lack of a sex life and how that led to my match.com membership, but I must give credit where credit is due when it comes to my sudden motivation, to, you know… try.

While there are some outstanding disaster stories in the world of online dating, and really just dating in general, there are success stories. I haven’t actually had any and the bad stories are just so funny that I can’t keep them to myself, but make no mistake; I don’t specifically hate online dating. Actually, I think it’s awesome to be able to let someone know, upfront, that I’m a divorced, practicing Catholic Librarian with somewhat conservative political views and a love for dogs that jeopardizes my own safety.

“It’s a PUPPY!!!!!!”

I love the reverse, too. I enjoy knowing before I spend time with a guy, that he’s single, has a career, his own place, and a functioning relationship with his family. When you meet a nice guy in a bar, it could take up to a half hour of pleasantries to find out he’s not quite divorced. Hell, it could take a few dates, as it did with Gail and the guy who lied about his name. Torturing herself after receiving a call from his crying wife, she called me, knowing I’d tell her what she needed to hear and then make her laugh with offensive jokes.

Me: “Please. You had no idea and you only made-out with him a little. It’s not like you fucked him… surprisingly.”
Gail: “Bitch…. Ugh!!!! I just feel so awful… motherfucker!!!!”
Me: “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘husband.'”

See. Crazy people exist in the real world. The difference is, that guy’s dating profile/Craigslist ad, might be completely open about the fact that he’s married, because someone might just take him up on it and save him the trouble of lying. That’s the real perk of online dating for me. The facts are listed and no one has to talk about it.

Maybe that’s the reason for all of the success stories I’ve read on blogs and received in the comments from people who understood that my Freshly Pressed post … and then I died alone: My latest online dating pet peeves was not a spew of hatred for men online or online dating, but humorous venting. One success story in particular struck a cord, though. For awhile now, I’ve been reading the blog of a 28-year-old Canadian woman who’s really just thrown herself into the dating world. She’s had bad dates, good dates, hilarious dates, and heartbreak, but she’s kept at it. Just last week she announced that she met a guy she really liked. They may not get married and have lots of babies or anything, but it is a success story and her determination was inspiring. I started to think about how I’m going to be 26 in a little over a week. I’m okay with being single right now, but at 28 (in the Midwest that’s every one else’s 31), I think I’d be pretty disappointed. So why wait? Why not throw myself into the dating world right now and see what happens? This led to… The Week of 1004 (::cough:: three… almost… :::cough:::) Dates. I’ll remind you that I call all men by their job title, not because I’m a gold digger, but because I like knowing they have one.

Date 1 – Saturday – Insurance Salesman

Encouraged by the aforementioned Jane at Single, Not Hopeless, I decided to be a little less picky about height. Sure, I’d love a towering guy with broad shoulders…

… oh let’s not bother with the description. Him. I’d love him, but that’s not realistic and it’s a little unreasonable since I’m a whopping 5’5.5″/5’6″, myself. My profile hadn’t been too unfair, listing 5’10” as a minimum height, but we are talking minimum here. So, I changed it to 5’8″, which means I can still wear heels without dwarfing him and I’m a girl who likes her heels. So, when Insurance Salesman messaged me, I was cool with the 5’8″ height. He looked pretty cute in his photos and he was personable in his e-mails and texts. We arranged to have coffee after I got off work on Saturday.

Oh. Em. Jingles. This was the bad date from sitcoms, y’all. For starters, I had texted Insurance Salesman about going to Starbuck’s, after he e-mailed “So when do you want to get coffee?”, though we hadn’t even mentioned meeting. He said he wanted “real coffee.” I said Starbuck’s was fine with me, but we could go somewhere different instead. He responded with…

cool beans

… and gave me an intersection. Well, there is a coffee shop called Cool Beans on one of the streets he mentioned, but it was on a different cross street. I texted and told him I was on my way, but was confused by the address and he said we’d agreed to Starbuck’s. He had been using the expression “cool beans,” not naming a coffee shop. I was a little irked, because I’d told him I was on my way to Cool Beans, which was probably less than a few miles away and he’d previously said he didn’t mind driving any distance, so I could choose where I liked. I felt like he should’ve offered to do Cool Beans instead, since he wanted “real coffee” anyway, because that would’ve been the chivalrous thing to do. I let it go, though, because it was a small thing and he thought we’d agreed to Starbuck’s. Then I couldn’t find the Starbuck’s, because I’m a ‘burbs girl and we were meeting in the city. I got there about five minutes late and, though he’d been texting me with directions, he wasn’t even there yet. He said he had been waiting in a parking lot nearby… weird and probably a lie, since he was just late and totally could’ve gone to Cool Beans. Again, though, whatever. These would be stupid reasons not to give him a chance.

I have never met anyone online who did not look like his picture. This guy had either Photoshopped his pictures or he was the most photogenic person alive. Honestly, it’s likely the pictures were from several years ago. I think he was honest about his age (28) and just didn’t realize that he no longer looked like that. For one, he was not 5’8″. I’m starting to think that 5’8″ doesn’t exist, because no one who says they’re 5’8″ is ever actually 5’8″. He also had about 30 more pounds on him and far less hair than his pictures showed… and he was sweating… a lot. It’s August and I understand that. The guy was nervous. Okay. But his clothes were also visibly dirty, sort of like they’d been worn the previous day. I stood, shook his hand and introduced myself. In closer proximity, I realized he also kind of smelled. He introduced himself and then dropped my hand and turned around and walked away.

Huh?

I wasn’t even sure what he was doing at first, because he hadn’t commented. When I realized he was walking across the store to the counter, I followed. He ordered and just waited.

Okaaaay. Am I ordering or is he done and going to pay for only his order?

IS: “You want anything?”

After we sat down and started talking, he told me that he’d spent the day recovering from his hangover after staying up drinking with his friends all Friday night. He had some kind of nervous tick and kept squinting… constantly. However, that didn’t hide his painfully obvious physical assessment of me as he looked me up and down.

I asked what Insurance Salesman thought of his job and he told me it was boring and he talks to assholes all day. My profile specifically says I want to be with someone who enjoys their career. He doesn’t even like his and went on to talk about how it didn’t matter, because he makes so much money. Then… he started swearing. You read my blogs. You know I swear. I’m not particularly offended by it… when I’m familiar with someone. I didn’t even know this guy and he kept saying “shit” and “fuck” loudly in a Starbuck’s. It was awkward and embarrassing, but I kept trying to talk to him. Soon, the topic of T.V. shows came up.

Okay, okay. I know that “Team Shane” is not a popular Walking Dead standpoint. I’m not saying it is. I have such a strong tendency to sympathize with villains that I once told Gaily she’d love Game of Thrones, because the Kaleesi is a badass heroine. Her response was to ask if I was sure she was a heroine, because I don’t have a strong history of siding with the intended protagonist, bringing up the time I defended Cruella DeVille for doing her part to combat over-breeding. So… when I expressed my viewpoint that Shane was the stronger character in Walking Dead, I didn’t really expect agreement. I also didn’t expect downright anger.

Me: “I just felt like they sort of had him go bad overnight. It seemed like they just got tired of the love triangle and decided to make him the villain.”
IS: “NO. It was obvious that he was the bad guy when he was looking through the scope at his friend!”
Me: “Um… not really. He was upset that his new family was being taken from him. He didn’t kill him.”
IS: “NO.You knew he was thinking it! You knew he wanted to!”

Duuuude, it’s fiction and this is a date. Are you seriously getting pissed at me over my defense of a fictional character in a show about the fucking zombie apocalypse?!?! You don’t know anything about these people, because they aren’t real! Also, I’m sorry, but the world is overrun with folks who are eating each other. It’s survival of the fittest, yo, and I would’ve let that guy get eaten so I could save the kid, too. Hell, I would’ve left the little girl behind after two friggin’ days. Ain’t no place for bleeding hearts.

When we’d brought up The Walking Dead, I’d told Insurance Salesman how frustrated I was when one of my students told me about a character dying in the season I hadn’t seen.

IS: “Well, next season…”
Me: “Well, don’t tell me.”
IS: “No, but it hasn’t even happened yet.”

Then he went on to ruin The Walking Dead for me, because he read about a main actor leaving. Double ewe tea eff, dude?!?! I just told you not to tell me! After that, he’d bring up movies and I’d tell him I hadn’t seen them, like with This Is 40 and he would ruin the entire fucking story for me! I’d tell him not to and he’d just say…

IS: “No, but…”

Stop talking! By this point, I was more or less done and trying to figure out a polite way to leave. Then, Insurance Salesman mentioned Firefly and I told him it was a shame it got canceled. Then, he started getting pissed again.

IS: “Well, Fox fucking ruined Firefly. It was all their fucking fault!”
::The lunatic shouted in a Starbuck’s”
Me: ::confused by and totally over his rage:: “How’s that?”
IS: “They aired it during fucking football season and it kept getting rescheduled. People were like ‘There’s this awesome fucking show on… sometimes’, so no one watched it and they had to fucking cancel it.”

It was not long before I declared that I had to get home to my dog. We’d been talking for less than 30 minutes and I assumed it was obvious that I was uninterested as Insurance Salesman walked me to the car.

IS: “So, um… I’d like to… I’d like to um.. I’d like to… you know… take you out to dinner sometime… or like… maybe watch a show together.”
Yeah. I totally want you to scream at me over another T.V. show. My panties are already wet.
Me: “Yeah. Sure. Text me.”
What the fuck?!? Don’t encourage him if you’ve no intention of seeing him again, Belle!!!!

I called Gail and my Gramma after the date and declared…

“I’m going to die alone!”

Gail’s response was to give him a second date, because she got a much abridged version. Gramma’s response was…

“Well, you don’t need to be goin’ out with a man with a dirty mouth like that!”

Insurance Salesman never did text me. It appears his only redeeming quality was the ability to take the hint.

I initially planned to write this as one blog, but I’m seeing two more dates is going to be a novel. This has just been upgraded to a series. Stay tuned.

Pinterest, I’d like a word.

Posted on August 22, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Two years, y’all. That’s how long I held out on Pinterest. Two years free of the social pressure to somehow turn a stack of old notebooks and card stock into Barbie’s Dreamhouse, the materialism of IWANTTHOSEBOOTS!!!, the insanity of IWANTALLTHEPUPPIES!, and the addiction of tabbing link after link after link and organizing them into perfectly alphabetized and labeled boards while fretting over the fact that you can’t organize them by the Dewey Decimal System!!!!! Ahem… maybe that last one is just me.

Two glorious pin free years. That’s my guesstimate anyway. According to Wikipedia, August 16, 2011 was when Pinterest hit Time Magazine.* Since this is the Midwest and we just discovered Blu Ray and stopped wearing ties as belts, I’d say it’s fair to assume that’s when it hit mainstream Tumbleweed, USA… and I held out… until Jane.*

When we were in the ninth grade, Jane and I were walking down the hallway with our friend Nathan. With no prior planning and no warning, I turned to Jane and screamed in a horrified voice “ABORTION?!?!?! HOW COULD YOU?!?!?” As she stared at me, mouth gaping and eyes full of bleeding bunnies, Nathan implemented his own improv, screaming “THAT WAS MY BABY, TOO!” The teachers in the hallway eyeballed us, I assume trying to decide whether we were kidding or needed a group visit to the counselor, as Jane’s head began to pulse. Ten years. It took her ten years to plot her revenge… and she did it with Pinterest. Kudos, Jane. Kudos.

Jane

The ploy was innocent enough, when I received the following text the other day.

Jane: Do you have a Pinterest?
Me: Nope. I hate Pinterest.
Jane: Why?!?!
Me: I don’t like the social implications and none of the crafts ever work.
Jane: False. Like 90% of them work if you follow the directions.
Me: Gail and I tried that writing on dishes thing. That DID NOT work. Honestly, though, I’ll probably get one soon since I’m not allowed to Facebook at work.

I’m a crafter y’all. I actually feel fortunate that I busted a bucket of purple paint in my storage closet two years ago, because it was on that day that I made peace with the fact that I’m not getting my deposit back. That makes the wax on the carpet, the gold paint on the counter, the blue paint on the kitchen tile, the hammer indentations on the patio, and that time the dog attacked the bathroom doorframe far less stressful. I am also, however, not all that coordinated. The last thing I need is an addiction to a website that encourages me to buy a heat gun (only $20!). I once cut my forehead with my own fork. Just last week, I gouged a piece out of my shin when I ran into the watering can on my patio. I LIVE ALONE! I’m the only one who could’ve left the watering can there! Also, I can barely keep the dog and myself alive. Why the hell do I have a watering can? Speaking of which, I realized last night that I…. well, I might have forgotten about the hot glue gun… three days ago. It’s been plugged in and hot ever since. In my defense, my apartment didn’t burn down and the last time I wasn’t living alone, my ex-husband did burn the house down. I’m still in the plus column. Anyway, not only does Pinterest literally encourage me to play with fire, it truly is terribly addictive… and we’ve been over my obsessive personality and projects.

And, oh yeah…

Stop encouraging me to act like a crazy person!!!!

I once tried to explain to Gail how organized I wished my kids’ rooms could one day be, intentionally exaggerating.

Me: “It is going to be perfectly clear where things go. For example, the Legos go in this box, the Lincoln Logs in this one, and the Mega Bloks in this one. There is no “building toys” box. You know, like have a place for the white Barbies and a place for the black Barbies and…”
Gail:
Me: “Wait… that’s not what I meant.”

I’m a Librarian, folks. I majored in organization. That’s not even an embellishment. I took a class titled Organization of Information and Knowledge Resources. We studied different ways to organize shit. That’s a syllabus quote. Gaily is the only person I can stand in my kitchen, because she knows where the red plates go. My dishes are organized by type and color!!!! She also knows that the DVDs are organized by format then alphabetically. She had to listen to me fret over whether or not I should put the Breaking Dawn parts 1 and 2 Blu Rays with the Blu Rays or the other Twilight Saga DVDs. Just a few weeks ago, I spent an entire day organizing my yarn by color.

I used zip ties to connect those baskets to medium-sized eye hooks that I screwed into the studs. I am so not getting that deposit back.

Keep in mind, I came up with this shit on my own, long before I even had a Pinterest. Two weeks ago, I organized all of my writing utensils by type and color. I have a bucket for the permanent markers, one for the highlighters, one for the colored pens, and one for the black and blue pens because I’m crazy. I do not need pictures like this fueling me:

Where can I get that board?!?!?

No one knows what words mean.

Word: easy

There are entire websites dedicated to Pinterest fails. I think the problem arises when people with basic skills in a craft, give tips to people with NO skills. For example…

“A beginner can do this.”

“Easy hairstyles…”

“It’s so easy!”

Word: recipe
I’ve seen people sharing recipes on Facebook, after finding them on Pinterest. I may not actually be capable of cooking many things (unless you count salting Easy Mac), but I did get my bachelor’s degree in Family and Consumer Sciences, or home-ec as everyone knows it, so I can say the following for certain: adding cream cheese to the directions on the back of the box is not a recipe!

Word: repurpose
There are some really cool repurposed items on Pinterest, usually furniture.

Both of those fit the definition of:

RE·PUR·POSE
/rēˈpərpəs/
Verb
Adapt for use in a different purpose

Even if that crib still totally looks like a crib, if it’s being used as a writing desk now, it’s been repurposed.

These keys haven’t been repurposed. They’re still keys. They’ve just been painted.

This dresser is still being used for storage. There’s just a T.V. on it now.

This t-shirt isn’t being repurposed. It’s just old.

The words they’re looking for are:

RE·FUR·BISH
/riˈfərbiSH/
Verb
Renovate and redecorate (something, esp. a building).

and…

RE·CY·CLE
/rēˈsīkəl/
Veb
1. Convert (waste) into reusable material.
2. Return (material) to a previous stage in a cyclic process.

Oh, the judgy.

You know how Gaily’s head explodes if you mention that men and women are different or dare suggest they have any varying skills or capabilities? Well, if you’ve been following my blog long, you know I have my own rage-inducing button and when I searched for “divorce” on Pinterest, it was pressed, as it was preceding the writing of Toasters, Marriage, and the Good Ol’ Days, Divorce is not an option… you know… until it is, and my personal favorite Your ONLY marriage? Why didn’t I think of that?

Oh, em jingles. Aren’t you the blessed martyr for never wondering where your grandma’s jewelry went or waking up cuddling a .357 like it was a fucking teddy bear? Also, what exactly qualifies The Fresh Prince of Bel Air to give marital advice?!?!?! One of the leading causes of divorce is financial strife and I’m pretty sure the man’s bank account looks like the vault of Scrooge McDuck.

Divorce is not an option until it fucking is and you don’t know anyone else’s pain, bitch.

How’s about you pin them apples? How’s about you pin a picture of my baby beagle’s blood-soaked paws when I came home from vacation and my ex-husband had him tied to the wall in a puddle of his own waste without food or water and he tried to dig through the fucking floor?!?!?! Also, um, while your mouth’s flapping open, could you do me a favor and suck my big fat furry dick?!?!

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I WISH I had married Lord Voldemort. I did’t get a divorce. I got a fucking exorcism and don’t you dare talk down to me about that fact after four days of wedding planning.

Presenting…. MY FIRST UPLOADED PIN!

Feel free to follow me, Belle Roquemore, under the email address belleofthelibrary@gmail.com. http://pinterest.com/belleroquemore/

I’ll be busy hammering nails into a wooden plank for string art in the meantime.

Fucking Jane.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinterest#History

“It’s just like that episode of My Little Pony!”

Posted on August 19, 2013 by Belle of the Library

As a teen, I could talk until I was blue in the face about my favorite book series, Fearless. Gaia was born without the ability to feel fear, so her CIA agent father trained her to kick ass since she wouldn’t have the common sense to not confront the super villains of the streets of NYC.

I was so much worse about Roswell, watching the same episode every morning before school all week. Max, the brooding teenage alien saves the life of small town girl, Liz, and all hell breaks loose in the form of FBI car chases and alien teen pregnancies.

At 20, there was no better way to escape that toxic marriage (shhhh… don’t say divorce) than by immersing myself in a world of sparkly vampire teens who hadn’t made the biggest mistake of their lives by marrying sociopaths before they were legally able to buy alcohol. For realz, I read those books like eight times.

Gaily bought an NRA membership for me in support of gun rights. They sent me a smushed hat in the mail. I have more sexual chemistry with that hat than these two had.

These titles sound so much worse when described, but I didn’t write them. No, my fiction always got me one-on-ones with the creative writing teacher. It’s not like I actually made a preacher kill his daughter with a shot-gun for engaging in premarital sex. Jeez. Calm down.

If you think I’ve forgotten talking your ear off about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Gail, you’re wrong. Five foot nothing Sarah Michelle Gellar saves the world from power hungry high school geeks and giant snakes, flanked by her outcast sidekicks and badass Librarian mentor. That’s right. Librarians: We get shit done. No, I didn’t forget. It’s just still awesome.

Don’t think I won’t.

So, you’re seeing a trend here, right? I’m an obsessive person. I never grew out of that phase, because it wasn’t a phase. I’d like to say I control it better, but I’d be lying. Honestly, I credit this personality trait with having my master’s degree at 25 and losing 100 pounds in a year. I get something in my head and I won’t quit, be it a graduate degree or deciding to make all of my Christmas presents by hand. A couple of months ago, I decided I’d make custom photo albums for all of the pictures I’ve been taking since my life really started after my divorce in 2010. I am very much of the Mellenial generation, y’all. I sleep with my phone next to me. I carry my Kindle in my purse at all times. I bought my Gramma a Nook and taught her to download library books from home. Translation: I take a shit ton of pictures. Some are frame-worthy, some were taken to embarrass Gaily the day you could totally see her two granny bras under her spaghetti strap dress, some are screen caps of Facebook posts that I send to Gail so we can be catty. There’s a lot to sift through, but I finished two whole years worth of albums in one week.

This is me on a project:

“Great. I got a full forty minutes… and I had time to build that rocking horse. “

Additionally, when I get on these tangents, failure is not an option. I’m pretty sure I can blame my daddy for that one, after he sternly asked the ten-year-old

“Now, why is that A so low? You need to get that 93 up, before it drops down to a B.”

On the one hand, thanks for the 4.0, Dad. On the other, Gaily would like to punch you in the head for the time I called her crying because I got a 98.5% on that project…. less than a year ago.

For this reason, when I set a new goal, instead of sharing my enthusiasm, Gail’s response usually goes something like this…

Me: “So, now that I’m a Librarian, after I get full time and do that whole boy thing, I’d like to publish a book one day.”
Gail: “Motherfucking damn it! You’re gonna call me at 28 crying hysterically” ::begins hyperbolic impression of me freaking out:: “‘… and I’m not even published! My life is over, because I’m too stupid to get published and now I have to join the Air Force!!!!'”
Me: “Okay. One: I can’t join the Air Force after my 27th birthday and I was only talking about it if I failed my graduate portfolio, because I couldn’t do anything else…”
Gail: “You have a bachelor’s degree in education! You could teach!”
Me: “AHEM! Two: This is a long-term goal. It’s after I get full time and maybe even get married again. I don’t even have an age attached to this. It’s just one day in the possibly distant future.”
Gail: “Uh huh. I’m sure.”

Gaily’s impression of 28-year-old Belle:

Soooooo, it is with this… determination… that I took on a new project this week: genealogy.

As a Librarian, my job is research. People call and ask questions like “Did James Dean have one wife or two? Who was the mother of his children? What was his highest grossing film?” or “My neighbor is selling his condo, but the price he’s given me is really high. Can you tell me how much it’s worth?” I’m not kidding. Obscure research is my gig, yo. Soooo, between customers, we’re encouraged to surf the Internet, as long is we stay off Facebook. Since the library has free access to Ancestry.com and two of my coworkers are really into genealogy, I figured “why not?” When I told my dad about some things I found, he was really excited… like oddly so for a conversation that didn’t include the words “ammo” or “holster.”

So, I decided to look further into things that night at work. I figured, if I could get enough information on Grandma Kay’s family, then I might be able to form a Christmas present out of it. My daddy may be a blue collar guy, but he’s a hard working one and when it comes to gifts, if he wants it, he can pretty much buy it himself. If he can’t, I sure as hell can’t. It was beyond sweet the day he wore his college dad shirt, just for me, when it had clearly not be been worn in the year since I’d given it to him. Even better, he pretended he didn’t even realize he was wearing it. Still, I’m always trying to find something I can give him that he’d actually like.

Me: “Well, I can show you how to look this stuff up.”
Dad: “Now, why would I wanna do that, when you can do it for me?”

So, with nothing to go on but my great grandpa’s name, I spent my shift tracing my ancestry, with the help of another Librarian. I found a lot, too. Despite wanting my Christmas present to be a surprise, I decided I’d call my Grandma Kay and ask for some names to assist me. She’s a night owl, so I knew she’d be up. That was when she told me that my great great grandfather’s name was indeed Clayton, as I’d thought, but his middle name was Harold… not Preston. I’d traced the wrong family back to the 1700’s and had nothing on my own. I’d also already told my grandma that I found a lot for her and felt terrible about the prospect of disappointing her after she’d been so excited, not to mention, idiotic for making the mistake in the first place. Even the small piece of information that my dad had been so thrilled about was false. So, after I hung up with my grandma, at around 11:00, I signed up for the ancestry.com free international trial. I figured I could match at least what I thought I had found.

Look! I found a picture of great great great grandpa!

Um….

Though the names my grandma had given me were misspelled and she wasn’t even sure of the relations, I found a wealth of information, this time verifiable with U.S. Census documents. I was even able to trace one branch back to the year 1660 in France. It was probably about 1:00 in the morning by this point, but I decided to keep going with another branch, so I could say I’d actually found more.

That was when the last name Barron showed up and the leads kept coming, all verifiable with Census documents. You see, the way family trees work is that you trace back until the information runs out, because the common folk had no reason to record their families. Apparently, however, the last name Barron was used, because my great X 8 grandfather was an Irish baron, or the lowest class of British royalty, so they did keep records. At this point, it was just names and dates, but I kept recording them until about 4:30 a.m. I was in the 10th century when I finally went to bed, still not finished, exclaiming to the dog “Whatev. They’ll still be dead in the morning.” I woke the next morning and sent my dad the following text.

Clayton is the descendant of a baron, or the lowest class of British royalty and the names and dates go back to the year 10,000. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass that was to research and record?!?!?!

Having had about 5 hours of sleep, I got up and continued to research while drinking coffee… and was not paying attention to the amount.

It was about the time I started roaring at the dog and praising God that my downstairs neighbor moved and could not hear my stomping, that I realized I probably could’ve done without the second pot of coffee.

It was also at this point when I sent Gail the following text…

Me: I’m a descendant of low British royalty. It’s just like that episode of My Little Pony!
Gail: …? I didn’t watch My Little Pony, your highness.
Me: Capitalize that, peasant.

This also led to a text argument with Jane over whether or not it was fair to claim she and Gaily had no childhood for not having seen My Little Pony, including the following:

Jane: I never had any interest in ponies. I wanted a whole horse.
Me: Ponies are not HALF a horse. Geez, I’m glad you aren’t a vet.
Jane: Ponies aren’t horses. They’re ponies. They have a different name for a reason. I wanted a horse. They kinda are half of a horse. They’re bitchy too.
Me: No. They’re colorful and they have special powers. You’d know this if you weren’t raised in a Nazi boot camp.

So, not only has my tunnel vision focused my genealogy efforts for one thousand years, it’s also stimulated intellectual conversation and quality pet time.

Win. Win.

“I’m not lying about how many people I’ve been with…”: A Speculum and an Epiphany

Posted on August 9, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I don’t actually have a gynecologist. I’m not having sex, so why bother when my general practitioner will perform the yearly exam? Well, Wednesday was my appointment with said doctor and it went a little something like this…

Doc: “Are you married or single?”
Me: “I’m divorced. I’ve been divorced for two and a half years.”
Doc: “Do you have a new sexual partner?”
Me: “No.”
Doc: ::pause:: “Well, when was the last time you had sex?”
Me: “When I was married.”
Doc: ::raised eyebrows::
Me: “Like three years ago?”
Don’t say it, Belle. Don’t say it.
Doc: ::raised eyebrows:: “Well, if you’ve been abstinent for three years, there’s really no need to run a test for human papillomavirus. Typically, if you’ve had three normal tests and you haven’t been sexually active, the chances of you contracting it are almost none.”
Don’t say it, Belle.
Me: “Well, you can run it if you like. It’s all unpleasant, so it doesn’t really matter to me.”
Now shut-up. Just stop talking.
Me: “I’m not lying about how many people I’ve been with…”

You just had to keep talking. If she didn’t think you were lying before, she sure as shit does now.

Me: “I mean, I’d tell you either way.”
That’s right. Keep talking. That’ll make it better.

Doc was neither rude nor unprofessional. It was just clear that she didn’t believe me. I’m not even offended by the idea. I’ve read articles about the percentage of people who lie to their doctors. Maybe that’s why I’m not getting laid. The one-night-stand thing has just never been for me, in part because I used to be fat. I’ve just recently grown accustomed to being with myself naked, let alone anyone else. I think as the exam wore on, though, the doctor began to realize this, as she babbled to take my mind off the breast exam. As I nodded and “hmmed” and answered questions about work, I couldn’t help but think…

I wonder how many times her assistant has heard the story about her new pool. I wonder how many vaginas her assistant has seen. Is it just, like, no big deal anymore? Why would anyone want this job? This is disgusting and I’m not the one knee-deep in vag on a daily basis. Wow. I haven’t had sex in a really long time. How embarrassing would it be to get turned on right now? How is this not over yet?!?! At what point should I be concerned that she’s just enjoying this?!?!

I suppose my discomfort convinced Doc that I was, indeed, pure as the only slightly yellowed snow, because she began to talk about how I hadn’t missed anything in my celibate years. She told me about how she’ll have patients in their forties and fifties who hooked up with some young guy at a bar and then they come in confused at all that gonorrhea, because they didn’t have to worry about those sorts of things when they were younger. I think she felt bad about doubting me as she sang the praises of not fucking.

Sitting on a bench is also nice.

Regardless, the whole visit got me thinking about how I need to get out there more and date. I’m just so sick of the free dating sites. Student is not a profession. Fill out the fucking profile. Why would you post that picture? You look like a fart. I hate that word and poop humor, but that is just the only way to describe how sloppy and gross you look in that photo. Take it down. While you’re at it, lose the negativity in your profile, quite lecturing me, and spell out the word “you.” I haven’t even been taking prospects seriously, because of these frustrations, so I deleted my OKCupid and PoF accounts days ago. What’s left, though? My church doesn’t really do social events and when they do, they’re family-oriented. My two total female friends are attached, so barhopping is out. I hate bars, so barhopping is out. Guys in bars are only looking for sex and I can barely touch myself, so barhopping is out. I go to the gym to work out and so do the men there. All those things people used to do to meet, like taking pottery classes or going bowling, those things are now occupied by couples who met online. How I Met Your Mother shows people living in the city and going out and meeting members of the opposite sex in person, but that’s not what the dating world actually looks like. It looks like a single girl sneaking to the bathroom of a Starbucks to send her best friend a reassurance that she’s not in pieces.

Ted’s famous Two Minute Date…

Ted takes Stella on a super romantic date… concentrated.

Belle’s famous Two Minute Date…

– He just asked me to kiss his fake leg. I am not even kidding. I’m sneaking out the fire exit. Pray it doesn’t set off the alarm. Text in 10 to make sure I’m alive. –

Okay. That hasn’t actually happened… yet. The Meet Cute is dead, though. I’m not going to turn around in the 300s at work and bump into a cute psychologist. Wanna know why? He already has a girlfriend that he met online.

So that’s the story of how the spreading of my legs led to a match.com membership that will (hopefully) eventually lead to further spreading of my legs.

Friendly advice: Google match.com coupons before signing up. I saved over $25.

“I just have to powder my nose… again.”

Posted on August 8, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I fancy myself a fairly responsible person. I don’t spend money that I don’t have. I don’t drink too much. I’m paying back my student loans. I finished graduate school with a 3.67 GPA… and was disappointed. The dog is still alive… because he won’t shut the fuck up when I turn the faucet on and he doesn’t have water. The last time Gaily and I did something phenomenally stupid with a motor vehicle, we were like 18… wait… 23. Anyway… the bills get paid and my socks usually match if they’re visible. That’s pretty good for most adults, let alone a member of my stereotypically over-coddled Peter Pan Syndromed Millenial generation tearfully clutching their participation trophies while crying about their inability to find a job with that Art History degree. I’m not doing too shabby… with one exception:

I cannot be trusted with my own health and medications.

When I was 14, I had just convinced my mother to take me to the dermatologist to have the fifth mole removed from my face. The process started, because my mother caught me drawing black dots on actresses faces to see if they were still beautiful and trying to remove moles with Biore pore strips. I was devastated when neither turned out as I’d hoped and begged to have mine removed. Finally, my face was mole free… mostly. A small freckle-like mole remained at the very corner of my mouth, making it constantly appear as though I had food there. So, rather than schedule another doctor’s appointment and go through all that trouble again… I iced the mole up and removed it myself with some nail clippers. I was an occasional cutter at the time. What was a little more pain? Fortunately, my hands-off mom believed me when I said the sore was a fever blister… though I’ve never had a fever blister in my life. Whatev. I was mole free. It wasn’t the last time I used that tactic either.

You’d think that would be the height of my stupidity, but at 18, I was just soooo sick of having been numbed with 250 daily milligrams of anti-depressants for five years that, one day, I just decided to… stop taking them.

Yeah… um… don’t do that.

About a year and a half ago, I was just getting off the crazy diet kick that enabled me to lose 70 pounds in about nine months. I was known to (frequently) declare the following:

“I will meet this month’s weight loss goal if it means I have to cut off a fucking foot!”

It saves 200 Weight Watcher’s points!

Despite my occasional spells of unconsciousness brought on by excessive workouts, I don’t really count those nine months as an example of my irresponsibility with my own health. My BMI used to be 42. Most charts don’t even go that high. They stop at like 40 and then there are just pictures of various large zoo animals like elephants and whales. I needed to do something drastic and what I chose was extensive workouts coupled with 1200 calorie per day limitations. Some doctors would call it extreme… but some wouldn’t. Staying at my old weight would have done far more damage than the measures I took to lose it. However, last spring, I decided that with all that weight lost, I would take up running. I’ve compared myself to Tinkerbell more than once, in that I have the ability to feel only one extreme emotion at a time. I am either paranoid and research-driven beyond reason…

“I don’t know which one to pick! What the hell does ‘Sheer Twilight’ even smell like?!?! Why can’t they just say fucking lavender! Help me, Gail!!!!”

… or I’m the most impulsive person alive.

“Oh em gee! I have an idea! Let’s get tattoos!”

Yeah… we both have tattoos now. Funnily enough, I also bought the exact same shampoo I always buy.

So… when I decided to take up running, instead of my uber-rational self taking over with hours of research, it was my impulsive self that just turned the treadmill onto high. That. Doesn’t. Work. Apparently there’s some kind of technique to running that doesn’t royally fuck up one’s back. There are books on it. It’s a far more research-worthy topic than shampoo. After a few weeks of immobilizing pain, I saw a doctor… and his recommended physical therapist… and took some Lortab that did nothing for me. The night of The Hunger Games midnight release, the guys planned to get to the theater at 9:00. The movie wouldn’t be over until about 2:30 in the morning. I had no faith that I could remain seated in one position for that period of time. I called the doctor in tears, because the Lortab wasn’t working and he prescribed me something else. To this day, I cannot remember what that something else was, so I’m just gonna go with…

…the blood of a centaur.

At this point, I was so sleep-deprived and in such physical pain that I was beginning to understand why people would choose euthanasia. I’m not exaggerating this time. I was legitimately thinking that, if I had to live with that kind of pain for the rest of my life, I would kill myself. It was that bad. Soooo, just to get through the movie and finally ease the pain, I decided that on top of the blood of a centaur, I’d go ahead and take those Lortab that weren’t working anyway. Just for good measure, I’d throw in a few more drops of centaur blood, as well. Naturally, by the time the movie started I was Across the Universe high.

I still had a prominent limp, I just didn’t care. I could not sit up straight. I spent the entire movie laying on Chad’s shoulder. Fortunately, Gail and I had bought tickets to see the movie again a few days later, because I had not absorbed one single moment of Katniss’s great adventure. When the movie ended, I must say, I was feeling pretty nauseous.

Pictured: not a balanced meal.

Ward had driven Chad and I, since Jay and Chad’s little sisters had come along and Ward was excited about his new car. We were just driving into Shetland when I demanded:

Me: “Ward, pull over.”
Ward: “Seriously?”
Me: “No, I’m kididng. Yes, seriously!”

That’s right. No amount of urgency voids sarcasm. Then I vomited in the parking lot of The Dollar Tree.

As the back pain persisted, I tried a number of remedies, one being a type of Icy Hot cream on my back. So, there I was, drying my hair naked while the Icy Hot dried. Not wanting the smell to seep into my clothes, I decided to help it along and aimed the blow dryer in that direction.

In my defense, when I read the directions after I lit my back on fire, they only said not to use a heating pad with the cream. No one mentioned a blow dryer. I should sue.

In time, the back pain did subside. Every now and then, I get twinges, but I’m doing alright, with the help of a chiropractor. In February, though, I tracked in snow bringing the dog inside after his walk. I didn’t realize it and on my way out, I slipped. In an attempt to avoid hitting my head on the stair, I jerked it forward… screwing up my neck. I think my problem is with delayed gratification. This is ironic, considering I spent seven years in college to be a Librarian. The only thing I can figure, is that I am a pussy. I can’t handle pain… that isn’t self-inflicted? Anyway, when I wrenched my neck and was reminded of the night my back hurt so much that I couldn’t make dinner and just sat on the couch hungry and crying, I decided to just nip this neck pain in the butt and immediately made an appointment with a doctor and one with a chiropractor. The doctor was strictly for the pain meds… which I promptly doubled… and woke up 16 hours later.

Fortunately, I don’t take medication very often. I sometimes take a prenatal vitamin and an iron supplement, the latter of which I was unaware of a certain side effect until my general practitioner pointed it out. She did this after I took a handful of laxatives when I had company coming.

powdering my nose
“No, no. You make yourself at home. I just have to powder my nose… again.”

… and then I died alone: My latest online dating pet peeves.

Posted on August 1, 2013 by Belle of the Library

181

I started my very first Librarian job this week, so I’ve been less focused on dating. Here was the (somewhat hierarchical) list I created back when I wrote Online Dating: Holy S#!+, I Don’t Have Time for This in March.

Portfolio

Graduation

Career

Boys

I still have nightmares about failing my graduate portfolio, even after a semester of nothing but studying and rewarding myself with “reading for fun” breaks. Regardless, my presentation was met with congratulations and passed with flying colors. I almost missed my graduation ceremony when I face-planted into the grass in my rush, because I was running late. I, however, still walked across that stage (wheezing, since I’m asthmatic) and received that pretty empty maroon diploma holder. I called Gaily the night of my grandpa’s funeral weeping the following…

“My grandpa’s dead and everyone’s sad and I’m never going to be a Librarian!”

… into her voicemail. The next day I got a panicked text asking if I was alright. Four days later, I got the call from Human Resources inquiring about the last position for which I’d interviewed. I had been quite frustrated with the lack of “thanks, but no thanks” E-mail. I’m pretty sure my Gramma is still hard of hearing after I screeched “I’m a librarian!!!!!” in her ear.

So here I am: boys. I did just start my job, so I’m a little overwhelmed, but I’ve definitely been half-assing any online dating efforts. Fortunately for me, I’m not the only one and that also gives me blog material. Here are my latest online dating pet peeves.

Take a Hint.
I try really hard not to be bitchy when I’m dating online, which is ironic, because I totally fail at that when I’m dating in actuality. The thing is, when we’re awkwardly walking to my car, I can’t just block his screen name and be on my way. I have to actually, you know, interact with a man in whom I’m not interested… and I’m terrible at it.

That’s some of the beauty of online dating. If I read a guy’s profile and he’s just not for me, for whatever reason, I just don’t respond. No big deal. He gets it… usually. Every now and then, I’ll get someone who sends a second or a third message and I usually just block them. So that’s what I did when I got the third or fourth message from the guy who’s profile opened with “I LIVE WITH MY PARENTS!!!!!” There was no explanation. He wasn’t getting his life together after his divorce. He was able-bodied and worked full time. He wasn’t taking care of someone disabled. He was just one of the characters from Step Brothers, only less funny… and that’s fine for him and his family if they’re cool with it. I’m not dating him, though… ever. A few weeks after I blocked him, I got this message from his new profile:

Him: Remember me?
Me: Yeah. I blocked you.
Him: Why?
Me: “College educated or passionate about learning, have your life and career together and you’re happy, but want to add to it.” That’s a direct quote from my profile. You live with your parents at 28 and have no intention of ever leaving. You’re not for me. Don’t message me again, please.”

What?!? He asked.

Can’t we just all agree that the initial lack of response is the most polite way to say “nah”?

Less is more.
This is not your blog, yo. If I’m in a reading mood, I’m… you know… reading. Tell me how you pay your bills, what you do for fun, and how close you are with your family. Then stop typing. This rule still applies once we’ve started messaging each other. I was talking to a nurse, at one time, and the conversation was going alright. We’d traded a few messages when he sent me this:

I almost could not get that to screen cap and those are all him. The basic gist of that message is a lot of useless information, but some other key phrases were “So far what do I think about you?” “Answers to my own questions.” “It looks like the last paragraph got cut off. Here it is, may not be word for word.”

Dude, give me a chance to ask about you and Plenty of Fish cut you off for being weird!

The best part was his in depth description of his last relationship and the reason it failed. Apparently, his girlfriend of one year had been cheated on in her two previous relationships and it damaged her ability to grow and trust in future relationships. When he asked her to see a therapist about “her wall”, she said she would and then blew him off.

Don’t worry, pal. She’s just confused at how to work that lamp in your apartment. You know, the one made of human skin.

“But I’m wearing my best suit!”

I have not even met you!
Recently, I was messaging a guy I felt was a bit young for me (24), but this is the Midwest and Catholics are few and far between. Message number two from him included the intensely off topic “So did you get an annulment for your divorce?”

Wha???

I addressed the rest of the message and curtly replied that I wasn’t married in the church the first time. The next message included “What happened in your divorce if you don’t mind me asking?”

Duuuude. I don’t know your name. You cannot ask a stranger to regale you with stories of that time their ex-husband burned the house to the ground with all the pets inside! I know that’s not always the case for divorce. Even I want a brief explanation to make sure it’s not “Eh. She put on like 17 pounds. For realz.” I also don’t ask until we’ve been talking awhile and it comes up. That’s not a fucking opener! I responded with:

“I do mind. That’s a very personal question and I don’t recommend you ask it so soon if you speak to divorcees in the future. I feel like it’s too big of an issue for you to keep messaging. Best of luck, though.”

My profile also expresses my interest in guns, something boys around these parts like. Every now and then, I’ll get:

“Wanna go shooting?”

Do I want to meet up with an armed stranger and $2000 worth of guns? Um… no. Actually. I need to go. I think I… left my house on fire.

Then… there are the penises. There are men on dating sites who open with something vulgar. I once had someone include the word “pussy” in his opening line. I did not accept his offer. Then there are men who just casually bring up their junk. I had been texting one guy briefly (less than three hours) when he asked what I was looking for in a relationship. I gave him an honest answer about needing someone with a sense of humor, but who has their life together. I returned the question and got “Someone sweet, funny, intellectual, naughty, responsible and clever.”

Ummmm….

Do you think I missed that one? Double ewe tea eff, dude?

Another:

“Nice pictures! You look incredibly beautiful! I’m Michael, recently single, confident, educated, clean, honest, well endowed, lots of fun! Did you do anything fun this weekend?”

Ummmm….

Do you think I missed that one? Double ewe tea eff, dude?

I’ve also gotten the opposite, self-deprecating comments.

“I am not a very experienced lover or relationship holder.”

At least the other guys were trying to sell themselves. This reminds me of that time when I sold generic Warheads in high school with the pitch “You want to buy any of these? They taste like crap, but they made my friend’s tongue bleed.”

Sold every single one.

This is your introduction. Make it count.
Oilfieldtrash is not an appropriate screen name. Neither is anything with the number “69”. That is my very first impression of you, followed closely by scrolling down to see what you do for a living. I’m not being a snob, here. I don’t care if you make shit as a teacher. I care that you care about your career and that you have one. That being said, don’t put “I work” or “ask me” or “does it matter?” Also, actually spell shit out. Don’t tell me I look “cute n sweet”, you lazyass. Certainly don’t open with:

Him: You caught my eye. You look so cute and innocent.
Him: You look so cute and innocent too.
Me: You said that already. It was creepy then, too.

I got a message from one guy, prompting me to view his profile. He wasn’t unattractive, but didn’t have a profession listed and his entire first few paragraphs were about how none of this mattered, because women are all too shallow to get past looks.

Me: I feel like I should respond, based on your profile. You’re not unattractive, but I’m not interested because you refuse to list your profession and your profile is incredibly negative. You should revamp it to be more positive or delete the whole thing.
Him: Don’t judge me based on a rant. Get to know me.
Him: I’m a lube tech, by the way.

On what the hell am I supposed to judge you?!?!? This is the only impression I have!!!

Don’t be a bag of dicks.

Him: Do you believe being divorced at 25 bodes well for future dates with you? You’re the information theorist; enlighten me please. Librarians are my choice for dates…they strike me as demure ladies in the streets but utter freaks in the sheets. True?
Me: You’re an incredibly offensive person, you live in Arkansas and you’re 102. Those things don’t bode well for YOU.

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I start my Librarian job on Monday. I bought cute new dresses for said job. I get my car back soon and can stop driving my dad’s monster truck. I got to hang out with Gail, Niki, and Malik this week. Things have been pretty great in many ways. In another way, though, it’s been a rough couple of weeks…

I keep a very clean living space and live in a fairly nice apartment complex, in the sense that they’re well-kept and the management stays on top of things. Both of those facts are important to remember when I mention the roach problem that sprouted up and has been aggressively treated over the last 30 days. Essentially, the lady downstairs and to the left shouldn’t be living alone and her home care stopped coming, because she told them to fuck off. Management is on top of it and now she has an aide coming several times a week, along with a housekeeper. She should still be evicted in my opinion, because it’s not safe for her, but no one wants to make that call. Whatev, so long as the bugs are eradicated. They’ve been spraying weekly, along with laying poisons and baits.

Another important thing to remember, however, is that I am an obsessive person, often to an unhealthy extent. I saw maybe 5-10 bugs in a week long period, if not longer… and freaked the fuck out.

After spraying a cabinet of clean dishes with Raid, I texted Niki in a panic. We’d actually just had one of our crochet days. I collect people with weird jobs, you see, and Niki used to be an Orkin man. I asked if she’d come spray and she made some suggestions for purchases and promised to be over the next day. I spent twenty dollars on bug supplies for my two bedroom apartment. I half-ass nothing. The next morning, I saw and immediately killed a bug in the bathroom, burst into tears, and refused to open any more cabinets without being poised to attack.

Clearing and cleaning the cabinets was a stressful venture. I’m pretty sure I threw out at least $10 worth of food that was absolutely fine, convinced it was contaminated, because it had once been opened, even though it was now sealed. I didn’t see any more bugs before Niki showed. She spent about 45 minutes going through my apartment and spraying everything and strategically placing baits and traps.

Me: “I know I already asked, but how long until they’re completely gone? A month tops?”

Me: “So… um… I know I’m being a pussy, but could you maybe go through my dresser and see if you find any bugs?”

I have awesome friends, because she not only answered my repeated questions about how long it would take, but went through my unfolded laundry as well while I refused to be in the same room, because the thought of bugs was severely stressing me out. I had even spent the morning hiding in my bedroom looking at new apartments on Craigslist.

I cannot afford to move! Any place I can afford is going to have a much bigger roach problem!!!

Even the best of friends come with a catch, though. With Gaily, it’s the government paranoia and demands that I stop singing about killing the president to freak her out because they might be listening.

Gail.

With Malik, it’s the on-the-wagon/off-the-wagon wavering. One month “it’s just a little meth” and the next he’s clean and “not gay anymore.”

Malik

With Niki, it’s that she was a friggin’ Orkin man. Do you know what kind of stomach it takes to be the Orkin man? Answer: the kind of stomach that doesn’t think twice about sharing horror stories about being the Orkin man. So, after Niki would assure me that the bugs would be gone in a month, she’d say things like…

Niki: “They eat everything. I once knew a woman who’d had her eyebrows eaten.”
Me: ::in horror:: “How is that even possible?!?!”
Niki: “There were so many roaches in her house that she had to just have been crawled on all night long.”
Me: “So, they’ll be gone in a month, right?”

Niki: “Now, if you ever get bed bugs, then move immediately.”
Me: “Wait. Do I have bed bugs?!?!”
Niki: “I doubt it, but I can check.”

Niki: “…then the trailer next door caught fire and they all ran over to hers.”

Niki

So, while my wonderful crochet-buddy-bug-warrior worked to eradicate the problem, she’s also the one who gave me the suggestion to Google image search “roach infestation.” Yeah. Don’t do that. I don’t feel so bad about asking over and over and over again about the bugs, since these stories were told as Niki shook out my clean clothes.

Fortunately, Niki’s efforts and the fact that my downstairs neighbor has stopped stirring things up during her move, have helped immensely. The only bugs I’ve really seen are dead ones and I’m hoping one of these nights I can even sleep again. Perhaps, some day soon, I’ll take all of the raw pasta out of my fridge and cook in my kitchen again. The apartment management is still spraying in addition to Niki’s much more impressive efforts. There’s so much poison in this place, I’m surprised I’m still living. On that note…

While the problem has improved exponentially, I did see one bug last night before I went to bed. I’m pretty sure it was an ant, but I promptly sprayed a quarter can of Raid in the room and exhaustedly went back to bed. Today, I got to have the best chat with Poison Control.

Me: “Hi. Um… I have a weird question. It’s not really an emergency or anything, but last night I was spraying Raid in my bedroom and was half asleep, so I didn’t think about washing my hands before I went to bed.”
PC: “Yes?”
Me: “Well, um… I suck my thumb and didn’t realize I still had Raid on my hands until my mouth started to burn and then go numb. I got up and washed my hands and rinsed my mouth, but now there are sores in it.”

This was followed with a beat of silence, in which I can only assume the Poison Control specialist thought…

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

When he spoke, he was perfectly polite and basically told me that it wasn’t surprising that my mouth is shredded, but I’m not gonna die. He told me gargling with salt water couldn’t hurt. In the meantime, I suppose I should look on the bright side: the bugs I’m seeing are dead and I’m not… yet.

How much do I NOT want to be a princess?

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Thiiiiis much.

Every little girl wants to be a princess… or, in my case, an Olsen twin. I also wanted to be Belle, though, since she had talking dishes and furniture. I was so disappointed when they all turned into humans in the end. True story. Despite everything I’m about to say, honestly, I’d still totally let Beast inflict emotional abuse and trauma on me for that kickass library. I’m tellin’ ya, Anastasia Steele did that all wrong.

Fuck your iPad, Christian Grey. Chain it up and fuck it with a pool stick.

For Halloween, playtime, birthdays, a Tuesday, we all went as princesses, because as Americans, we were raised to view a monarchy as magical and, perhaps, even mythical. My surprise when I discovered princesses really existed was almost as profound as when I discovered little people did. What?!?! They existed alongside witches and fairies!!!! It was a perfectly rational conclusion!!!!

Blame him.

Eventually, however, we grow up and rewatch all of those movies and, if we’re lucky enough to have been born in the right decade, we watch a woman our own age live out her own princess fantasy… and we realize (if we over-analyze always)… it sucks.

For the most part, I think the idea that little girls get any truly negative messages from Disney is horseshit. However, even as a child I thought it sucked ass that poor Jasmine wasn’t even allowed to choose her own husband. I also wondered why she wanted a liar and a thief, but who am I to talk about that one, amiright?!?

Hmmm… maybe Disney did cause my divorce.

When I was nine years old, I got my second indication that princess wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. It was in the form of a roar of discussion and debate on the death of Princess Diana and how her prince had her murdered… or didn’t. Who knows? Either way, she died way too young and wasn’t brought back by True Love’s Kiss. The princess gig was sounding less and less appealing.

As a teen, I went back and watched all of those other Disney movies about how Cinderella marries a man she barely knows; Ariel has to go from being an awesomefuckingmermaid to a boring ol’ human just for her prince; Snow White has to friggin’ die to be with hers; Belle has to develop Stockholm Syndrome to be with hers. What the fuck?!?! Being a princess sounds horrible!!!!!

Today, I am 25 and there’s Kate Middleton, a completely un-animated “Princess.” I’ve met a lot of women who love to follow the “fairytale romance” of Prince William and a commoner. It’s just “soooo romantic!” Well, for starters “commoner” my butt. Maybe her great-grandparents were cloth merchants and miners, but the Middletons founded their £30 million company in 1987, when their eldest daughter was six years old. I admire hard workers who carved out their own place in society, rather than just taking what the taxpayers hand them, so frankly, the Middletons are the bomb. Those folks started out as friggin’ flight attendants and now their mail order party supply business is worth so many U.S. dollars that I can’t find a currency calculator to tell me how much that even is. My point, though, is that their daughter was not a “commoner” in any sense beyond her lack of royal blood. She was poised and privileged for the majority of her life and could hardly relate to your average middle-class American woman watching the royal wedding at 3:00 in the morning, raw cookie dough in hand. After all, she did go to the same college as the future KING.

Now she was a true commoner.

So yes, technically Catherine Middleton had no royal blood, but were there a whole lot of other options? Marriage between cousins is sort of frowned upon these days, yo. Fun fact: it wasn’t when Queen Elizabeth II married her third cousin in 1947. Regardless of the recent lack of inbreeding, here are the reasons I don’t even kind of want to be the Duchess of Cambridge.

Prince William
I’m divorced and jaded. Having admitted that, I honestly just don’t buy the whole “… and they lived happily ever after” fed to us, about this couple, by the media. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think this is some kind of set-up or scheme. I just don’t think that this couple would even have been able to truly fall in love with all that was at stake. We’re talking about dating the future King of England, y’all. Kate’s an intelligent gal, so there is no way she missed that her future late mother-in-law (did I get that right?) was “tested for virginity.” No one gave a fig if Prince Charles was pure as the driven snow. They just didn’t want him sullied by Diana’s rotting womb in fucking 1981.

Okay, officially channeling Gail. Anyway, that’s a lot of pressure. Even if Kate and William truly did fall in love, can you even imagine the trust exercises involved in that relationship? Normal people fall back and hope their future spouse catches them at the marriage retreat. William had to hope Kate didn’t go to the media about how big his tinkle was and Kate had to hope he eventually got over his tendency not to let her get too long of a look at his tinkle. No wonder they dated for eight years. I hope they are in love, now. I genuinely do. I just think there’s a good chance that they were just really good friends and William felt Kate was the only trustworthy “candidate” (see above animation); that Kate felt a responsibility or obligation to her good and loved friend (romantic or not) and her country. I hope it’s the former, but I wouldn’t want to be Kate on the off-chance that it’s the latter. Additionally, Prince William was so damned handsome when he was younger. I remember thinking how cute he was when I was a little girl and lamenting that he was six years older, because that’s why we wouldn’t work.

Oh, my…

These days, he’s still six years older, but…

Oh… my.

… now he looks like a Family Guy skit.

The Eyes
There is a whatkatewore.com. That sight fucking exists. That is how much people give a shit what this woman does. In addition to opinions on her bedroom traffic and clothing choices, there are articles on Kate’s pregnancy, diet, and even her topless sunbathing. Photos are included in that last one. I, a Southern American Librarian have seen the future Queen Consort’s boobs. That’s royalty. Within hours of pushing a human being from her much-speculated vag, a hair dresser showed up to get a tired new mom photo ready. That’s royalty. Ariel combed her hair with a fucking fork and Kate Middleton isn’t allowed a ponytail?

You lied to me, Disney!!!!!! Mickey Mouse will die aflame and screaming!!!!

The Parenting
Let’s just ignore the sexism inherent in the birth of an heir. Okay. Let’s not.

Would the fountain have been pink? Would it? Yes, yes, I’m channeling Gaily again. Men and women are different and have different strengths and should be valued for those. Clearly, however, their ability to run a country isn’t one of them. Before writing this article, I could not have told you Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh’s name with a gun to my head. Again, Southern American Librarian here. I’m on another continent and I’m not in politics, but I could probably still tell you we were on our second Queen Elizabeth… because she’s Queen and the ruler of that country. Would we have seen such enthusiasm for a female heir, though? I mean, there’s absolutely no way to tell at this point, because the next royal child will be fourth in line and quite unlikely to ever run the country, so the enthusiasm will be lessened regardless of gender. While I know a future queen would be celebrated, I can’t bring myself to believe it would be with the same exhilaration. Everyone wanted a boy. I’m not sure I’d want to raise my child in such a traditionally sexist family. I’d like to note, however, that Queen Elizabeth II has been making strides in this, having declared in January that all children of the eldest son (not just his eldest son) be granted the title of Royal Highness.

The fountain was indeed blue, however, so we’ve welcomed Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge into the world. What if Kate wanted to name him Michael, after her father? I’m not talking about giving the kid an American suburb name. “Introducing King Brantlee!” I’m talking about a biblical, respected name. Maybe she wouldn’t even try to use it as a first name, but rather a second middle. Psh. Let’s just name the kid Prince George Alexander Michael Louis of Cambridge. Who the fuck is going to make fun of the future King of England, anyway? Oh. Right. She wouldn’t get to do that. Ever. She did not even get to name her own baby.

So, she’s raising Prince George the future King of England. When I was in Kindergarten, I was going to be a pilot, because they could fly. Then I was going to be an Olsen twin… then a veterinarian… then an actress… then a lawyer… then a witch… then a psychiatrist… then a marine biologist… then a nurse… then a pharmacist… then a home-ec teacher… then a nurse… then an English teacher… then a home-ec teacher.. then a librarian. If I wanted to change my mind tomorrow and go to medical school, I could do that. Prince George, however, gets to be King. That’s it. Of course, the British Military is always an option, like his father chose. Prince Harry was in the military, also, but was pulled from the front lines in the Afghan War, because people found out about it. If Prince George decides he wants to be a psychologist, a math teacher, a veterinarian, anything other than King of England, tough shit. At best, he may get 77 days on the front lines. I want to tell my babies that they can be anything they want to be, as long as they’ve the aptitude, ability, and drive (participation trophies are for pussies). I don’t want to raise them without choice. That sucks.

The Lack of Choice
Not only is the future of Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge (last name Mountbatten-Windsor… maybe) set in stone, so is that of Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. Kate Middleton is just as educated as her royal husband. Starting in late 2006, she was an accessory buyer for a clothing company, also working part-time for her parents’ company as a cataloger, photographer, webpage designer, and marketing officer. The article just says “until January 2011.” You know what happened in April 2011? Kate became a wife. That’s all. Ten years earlier, she had such dreams of a career as to attend a college fit for a King and take a position as a buyer. She took the job in November of 2006 and quit in January of 2011.That’s four years in a career for a woman who wanted a career. She doesn’t get to be Duchess and buyer, though. Now, she just gets to wear pretty clothes and dress up her little Prince. I’m not saying that can’t be satisfying. I’m saying that it sucks that the woman doesn’t have a choice anymore. Unless she wants to create a scandal the likes of Diana’s and Charles’s divorce, Kate will continue her life as the future Queen Consort and Royal Baby Maker, with charity work as the only reasonable option for outside fulfillment. She will behave and she will look pretty while doing so. Fuck that. I went to school to help people one-on-one. I want to be a librarian. I would rather have the option of being a middle-class librarian and a wife and a mom one day than to ever be “Princess.”

Really. I‘d rather be a badass librarian.

Wikipedia is technically just as valid as most sources.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Philip,_Duke_of_Edinburgh

http://www.eonline.com/news/235464/will-kate-middleton-have-to-prove-she-s-a-virgin

Kate Middleton: How She’s Maintained A Healthy Pregnancy

http://www.thefrisky.com/photos/kate-middleton-topless-photos/kate-middleton-topless-closer-04/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catherine,_Duchess_of_Cambridge

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Harry_of_Wales

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_William,_Duke_of_Cambridge

http://www.royal.gov.uk/thecurrentroyalfamily/theroyalfamilyname/overview.aspx

A Letter to My Downstairs Neighbor

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Dear… fuck…do I seriously not even know your name?!?!

I’m sorry about the late-night vacuuming. I cleaned all day, because pest control was coming, and because I saw a bug that I’m pretty sure had a kitten in its mouth.

It was like Kafka fanfic.

That somehow led to rearranging all of my furniture, so I didn’t have time to vacuum before work. I could’ve done it in the morning, but I have this thing where I stay up all night for no reason mixing my Sons of Anarchy marathon with a 7th Heaven marathon and theorizing that all of those girls Matt brought home, whom we never saw again, were thrown into a pit and set on fire.

I’m kidding. I’m sure he gave them a choice: fire or knife?

I tried to be quick about the vacuuming, particularly in the bedrooms, as they are directly above yours. Incidentally, remember when I asked if you could hear my dog bark? You responded with “Around midnight, sometimes… that or you’ll be cleaning or something.” What did you mean by “or something?” Did you mean you could hear me masturbating? Please say no… even if you’re lying. You didn’t really stutter over the words, but it’s gotten me a little paranoid and besides, I promise the thumping, at least, was from jumping around with the dog. I wasn’t really allowed to clarify. I’m rather surprised I didn’t, actually, since my brain tends to disconnect from my mouth on occasion. Speaking of which, I would like to sincerely apologize for referring to my previous neighbor’s child’s father as her “baby daddy” the first time I met you. I was not aware you were single with kids. I don’t like judge you for having children. She was just obnoxious and I was being catty and… well, yeah, there’s no fixing that. Oops. Also, that huge crash around midnight, right above your bedroom, was not like some kind of Olympic masturbation move.

I must have just kicked it coming down.
(Fun fact: contortion sex is a thing. SAFE SEARCH)

The TV seriously fell off the dresser by magic or something. I don’t even know how it happened. As a matter of fact, I’m still marveling that I was not seriously injured, in which case you would’ve heard screaming… but not in ecstasy.

Overall, I’d like to think I’m about as good a neighbor as I am a tenant. Sure, maybe I won’t be getting my security deposit back, due to the Diet Coke stain on the stairway wall, purple paint in the storage closet, the gold paint on the kitchen counters, the blue paint on the tile, and the wax on the hallway carpet, but I never pay my rent late. I pick up after the dog. I don’t know your name, because I mind my own business. It works, right?

P.S.
If you can hear me, know that I don’t have some kind of sexual disorder or addiction.
It’s just that I haven’t had sex in a really long time.

Sincerely,
Belle

I’m a Librarian, B^+<#@$!!!

Posted on July 18, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Four years ago, I had just found out that I was pregnant and that my ex-husband was lying about having a job… again. I was morbidly obese, starting my senior year of college, about to do my student teaching, and paying the bills through… well, prayer. I was petrified.

Today…

I am a fucking Librarian!!!!!!!

Suck my dick statistics, because I left the bastard and…

I. Did. It.

I followed through on all of my dreams and got that Bachelor’s degree and then that Master’s degree and now the job! My divorce didn’t lower my station in life. It opened up a universe of possibilities and opportunity.

Women who divorced between 2010 and 2011 were more likely to receive public assistance than men who divorced during this time, with rates being 23% and 15%, respectively.
Of women who divorced between 2010 and 2011, 27% reported a household income of less than $25,000.
Children of divorced parents are twice as likely to drop out of high school and less likely to attend college.
While men are financially better off than women after a divorce, they are more likely to suffer more emotionally.

I’m sorry. What was that? I can’t hear you over the sound of my I’m a Librarian, BITCHES!!! dance coupled with my ROAR OF AWESOME!!!!

A little bit o’ this…

… and a little bit o’…

.. and some nce, nce, nce.
Finally, some…

Yeah. They don’t let me dance at stuff.

Today, I talked the ear off the lady at the gym who asked why Librarians need a Master’s degree. Yesterday, I bought myself these… because I am just that cool.

Sometimes, divorce is not a failure. It is the righting of a path. I wasn’t meant to be the miserable wife of a sociopath. I was meant to be right here.

Gail: “The divorce was not the mistake. The marriage was the mistake. The divorce was just what was required to correct that mistake.”

I’m not advising you to leave your husband because he won’t try that new thing in bed or he won’t put his fucking shoes away. If there’s something to salvage, fight for it. If you’re fantasizing about a life where he dies, through no fault of your own, because you’ll finally be free… if the marriage is truly awful and he or she is a truly poisonous person… there is a better life out there. No matter how scary it feels to go in search of it, it is so very worth it.

“It’s a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.” – John Steinbeck

Yeah. I looked that up.
http://divorce.lovetoknow.com/Divorce_Statistics

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: Humor

The Week of 1004 Dates: Insurance Salesman

“It’s just like that episode of My Little Pony!”

“I’m not lying about how many people I’ve been with…”: A Speculum and an Epiphany

“I just have to powder my nose… again.”

… and then I died alone: My latest online dating pet peeves.

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

How much do I NOT want to be a princess?

I’m a Librarian, B^+<#@$!!!

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