Category Archives: Relationships

The Worst Online Dating Approaches Ever

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

*I do not actually possess a big furry dick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The following conversation actually happened with one of these guys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not over her. Period.

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

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

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

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

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

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

because it really means

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

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

Finally… there’s:

Visa Card Guy

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

First Date

not serious for her………..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five Reasons Why I’m Secretly Not Sexy

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Aside

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

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

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

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

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

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


… not even the grown-up kind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jay: “She’s just being a girl.”

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

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

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

… and we’re back to gender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to be a pain in my ass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beginning Dating… At Age 25

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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

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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.

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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.