Getting My Tattoo Removed

Posted on June 29, 2016 by Belle of the Library

At 24 years old, I sat in a Sonic drive-through with Gail.

Gail: “What do you wanna do?”
Me: “Let’s get tattoos!”

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Now, perhaps, if I’d actually had a tattoo in mind, this wouldn’t have been such an inevitably regrettable decision. I am not anti-tattoo. My first was not my last. I also have my Gramma’s signature of her first name, which is my middle name and hopefully one day my daughter’s middle name, on my left foot. I will genuinely cherish that tattoo for all time, particularly when she’s gone, though she still insists that she’ll live forever. At 24, though, I had just divorced my ex-husband, lost 90 pounds, was dating again, nearing graduation for my master’s degree, and felt like I’d gotten my whole life back. I wanted to commemorate that, so when put on the spot, I chose something that spoke of life to me. The fact that it was a Logan’s Run reference was just an added bonus.

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Today, I look at this tattoo and you know what I see? I see a girl who needed to start her life over and all the reasons why. I see a 260 pound 22-year-old fantasizing that her psychotic husband will kill himself. I see two part-time jobs substitute teaching and cleaning gym equipment with a bachelor’s degree. I see myself driving around with all of my valuables in my trunk, because the man I live with will pawn them. I see a 24-year-old who desperately wants to distance herself from the most terrifying years of her life, by getting a tattoo that symbolizes their end.

You know what, though? I did get my whole life back. I got to be young and reasonably fit. I got to go to bars with my friends and giggle through bad date stories. I finished my master’s degree and built a career. I fell in love. I’m going to get married and have babies and buy a home and it’s just going to be… my life. I don’t need a reminder that I ever had another one. I’d love to say that I came to this conclusion, gradually, over the last four years, and in a way, I did. However, I also went home from the tattoo parlor, looked at my cliché white girl ankh, and Googled how much it would cost to remove it. Maybe a part of me knew, even then, that this symbol wouldn’t be relevant for the rest of my life. Knowing removal would be costly and painful, of course, I tried to rationalize. This was my Gail tattoo. This was something crazy and impulsive we did together. Had I just gotten something silly and fun, like an elephant or a flower, then sure, it would be. But, as Jake and I have become more serious, I can’t deny that this is a reminder of a time in my life that it hurts to remember. Those years still cause me nightmares and I think about them every time I look at this tattoo. I just… don’t want it anymore. I also know that, when it comes to removal, it’s now or never. If I still have this tattoo when I get married or especially when I have kids, it’s not going to be a financial priority. So, a couple of months ago, I bit the bullet and scheduled my first consultation.

Speaking of time and finances, do you have any idea how long it takes to get a tattoo removed or how much it costs? Perhaps I shouldn’t have built my expectations for this procedure on a season of How I Met Your Mother, but I felt like it was a two to three month process, of 10 sessions. No. In fact, there must be eight weeks between each laser removal session and patients are advised to expect 10 sessions. So, in a year and a half, I can hope to see a mostly clear-skinned foot. That’s right. Results cannot be guaranteed, so the decision must be made to pay the price and hope for the best. That price, at the only clinic in the city, is $35 per square inch, with a $50 minimum. Because my tattoo is thankfully small, that makes it $50 per session. I’m no mathematician, but even I can figure that it’s going to cost more than $500 to get this tiny little ankh off my foot. So, how much does it hurt?

Thiiiiiiis much.

The first picture is of the scorch marks from the laser. The second is of the blistering that happened later. I did a little bit of research online, about how much the procedure hurts, trying to get an idea of whether or not it would even be bearable, before investing money. The comparisons ranged from “popping like a rubber band” to “small droplets of hot grease hitting your skin.” In my personal experience, the latter was dead on. Fortunately, I have a great technician, who will stop and let me take a break. The first session took me three goes, the second only two.

Does it hurt more than getting the tattoo? Yes, but it’s a much quicker process. Because my tattoo was so small, it would’ve taken, literally, about 30 seconds to do the whole thing, had I not needed breaks. Getting the tattoo took about five minutes and was also quite painful. Personally, I’d rather the extreme pain of removal for 30 seconds than the substantial pain of application for 10 times that. That being said, were this tattoo any bigger, I’m not sure I’d bother, partly for the price and partly for the pain.

As it stands, now, I’ve been through two tattoo removal sessions and I deem it bearable… but only just. I’m cheap, though, so even if it did get more painful, I’d be completing the process, because I’ve already invested $100. Fortunately, it’s supposed to get less painful, but pretty much always be awful. I keep having nightmares that I have larger and uglier tattoos to remove. Will this one be worth the time, pain, and expense? For me, yes. My advice overall, is simply not to accompany a divorce with at tattoo.

My heart belongs to a guy whose job is kind of up in the air.

Posted on June 3, 2016 by Belle of the Library

Me: “I got your anniversary present.”
Jake: “Oh yeah?”
Me: “Yeah. It’s a t-shirt that says ‘My heart belongs to a librarian.’ I got a matching one that says ‘My heart belongs to a guy whose job is kind of up in the air.’”

I once refused to date anyone who worked in oil. I also refused to date anyone under 6′ tall, losing his hair, and who didn’t like cats, but the oil thing was actually pretty reasonable. You see, growing up, my dad worked for the electric company; which meant that during storm season, he was gone.

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I remember how stressed out my mom always was during those months. She worked full time as a nurse and the same weather that called my dad out, called her out. She was never the disciplinarian or very organized, so it was overwhelming for her to be left on five acres with two kids. It sucked for my brother and I, too. If we had a spring recital, my dad probably wasn’t going to make it. When he was home, he was either sleeping because he was so exhausted or screaming at us because he was so exhausted and we were too little to contain our excitement that dad was home. I don’t want that and when I was dating, I wasn’t willing to purse a relationship that would lead to that.

For those of you who didn’t spend your free time hanging out at oil rigs in high school, I’ll sum the industry up for you. The highs are high and the lows are low. So, as an adult, I’ve gotten to see family and friends spend wildly for years, only to turn around and try to sell their fifty thousand dollar cars, when things take a turn. The only people who succeed in oil, are those who acknowledge both extremes and prepare. Those guys do exist… but they’re usually over 40 and saw the results of the last downturn.

When Jake came along, his online profile said that he was a Fluid Engineer and this wasn’t what he planned to do for the rest of his life. He had a degree and a job and apparently aspirations for more. He didn’t judge me for only being a half time librarian, at the time, so I figured it was only fair to give him a shot. Obviously, I’m glad I did.

Me: “I love you.”
Jake: “I love you, too.”
Me: “You’re everything I need and want… only shorter.”

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While I’m thrilled with all that is Jake, there’s much to be desired in all that is Jake’s career. His schedule has been wonky for months, meaning that sometimes I think we’ll get to see each other daily this week, only for him to leave the next morning and return five days later. When we do see each other, it’s not uncommon to watch one twenty-minute Netflix show and go to bed. A couple of weeks ago, I finally broached the subject.

Me: “What’s the goal here? This sucks, but if it’s leading you to a career you want, fine. I support you, but what do you want?”
Jake: “I guess… I guess I just wanted to work hard for a few years, while I’m young, save a lot of money and then be able to do what I want with my life, without having to worry about whether or not it will support me and my family.”

He went on to tell me that he enjoys teaching people who want to learn, but he knows there’s no money in that. He’d like to save the money he’d need to live debt free, purchasing his first home outright. Though he’s been demoted from Fluid Engineer to truck driver and now to solids control, which is just manual labor, he wants to see if oil picks back up by the end of the year, as the higher ups have said it will. If not, he’s willing to get out and pursue something different… which is good because he’s working 12 hours days and ends them far too exhausted to enjoy life. One night, as we cuddled in bed at 9:30, because he had to leave my place at 4:00 in the morning, he kissed my shoulder and told me…

Jake: “I promise this won’t last past the end of the year. I know it sucks, but I won’t be making terrible money.”
Me: “I don’t care how much money you make. I don’t want to be alone all the time, when we’re married.”
Jake: “You won’t be.”
Me: “What if oil goes back up, you get the office job you’ve always wanted, and you’re home every night, then it falls again? We’ll have small children and I’m not telling them daddy won’t be at their birthday parties.”
Jake: “Those guys are different, babe. I’ve planned financially and I won’t get myself in the same place they are, having to keep up with all of their debt. If that happens, I’ll be able to to get out.”
Me: “Good. If I had to choose between you being home every night at $40,000 a year, or being two weeks on and two weeks off at $200,000, I’d choose the former. I don’t need $80 manicures and designer handbags. I need you. I’d rather you go to the kids’ recitals with me than drive them alone in a Lexus.”

The next morning, Jake woke at 3:30 and drove an hour to Kingston, to do 12 hours of manual labor on a rig. I remember being married to a man who fabricated jobs and reading the Facebook posts of women complaining that their husbands work too hard. Oh, how I’d have given anything for that problem. Today, knowing that when I get home, Jake will be there, likely with just enough energy for conversation, I can do one of the things I love most. I can say that I was right. It’s a great problem to have a man who carefully plans for the future. It’s a great problem to have a man who works too hard to ensure his financial security. It’s a great problem to have a man who’s not above doing manual labor, despite his degree. So, I’ll keep my end of the bargain and be supportive. One day, I’ll forgo the new car for the one with 40,000 miles on it. I’ll save the expensive massages for late term pregnancy. I’ll continue to paint my own nails. In turn, I’m confident Jake will keep his end of the bargain and be there when we’re married with children, because he’s never let me down.

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He thought I was joking.

Normal: I Never Thought I Would Be Here

Posted on May 19, 2016 by Belle of the Library

In a country where divorce has become an inevitability, it’s no surprise that, as a society, we’re pretty damned reluctant to admit how much it screws us all up. As a divorcee, with divorced parents, I’m not throwing stones, here. My childhood, though, like that of half of North America, is split into two points: before the divorce and after the divorce.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I have no illusions that my life would have been improved by my parents staying together. Those two… it was like if Archie Bunker of All in the Family had married Annie Wilkes from Stephen King’s Misery. Sure, there were times when they were good together… or more accurately good separately, but zetus lapetus, all I remember after age seven was hate and insanity. The most obnoxious thread in any divorce discussion is the erroneous claim that these marriages shouldn’t have ended. Had my parents not been allowed to part, I’d have been orphaned in a murder/suicide by age twelve. I’m not really exaggerating. Despite divorce sometimes being the best option, however, that doesn’t mean those involved aren’t damaged from it.

3ed6673b748b2e9208e960af20a81dec I literally cannot watch this movie, because she reminds me of my mother.

Before my parents divorced, I was… normal, for lack of a better word. I was ornery and a bit bossier than the other kids in my class, but I didn’t get in a lot of trouble at school or home. I never wore the cutest clothes or the most complicated hairstyles, but I was dressed in clean and matching outfits and I fit in with the other kids, well enough. Then, everything changed and I was too young to understand why. The other kids didn’t like me, because no one was making sure I was bathing or brushing my teeth. I was putting on weight, so I grew defensive and mean. I got in trouble constantly, because I acted out in class, wishing more than anything that I could be the petite teacher’s pet or the cute blonde girl who was good at sports. I was the smelly, chubby kid, who was always sitting out at recess for one reason or another. Of course, at age eight, I didn’t understand that this was the direct result of my parents’ distraction during their divorce. I thought something was wrong with me.

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I get it, y’all. I don’t hold a grudge for any of this. If anyone understands the consequences of choosing the wrong person, it’s me. My parents tried… mostly… sometimes? Regardless, I still had my Gramma, food in the fridge, and plenty of material wants provided by said Gramma. I’m not typing this while weeping over Sarah McLachlan’s Angel (or I wasn’t until I got the craving to listen to that song… fucking emotions). What I didn’t have, however, what affected me most deeply, was the sense of normalcy I enjoyed for the first seven years of my life. I’m not being dramatic when I tell you that I never got that sense of belonging back, even after the dust settled.

I started showering, wearing deodorant, brushing my hair… but those formative years of being outcast and bullied, set a precedent. If I wasn’t going to fit in, it would be because I chose exclusion. I eventually made friends, many of whom were equally defensive, and gained a sense of inclusion from the refusal to conform, but it wasn’t the same as feeling truly accepted, even if my friends or those looking in saw no difference. With a still unstable home life, it’s no surprise that I clung to a true outcast, mistaking him for a kindred spirit, instead of a man who was being rejected for having no good in him. I married him at 19 and I have never felt more alone. If being chubby and unwashed and bad at sports made me feel excluded at age 10, being morbidly obese and plain and married to a sociopath at age 20 made me feel like Will Smith in I am Legend. Like, literally, I had the dog. That’s it.

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Y’all, I never thought I would be here. After Gail’s and my shockingly similar divorces, I was pretty convinced that all of the “happy” people were… lying. I don’t mean that in some catty way, mocking the Facebook statuses and family newsletters, so much as I mean that I never witnessed true happiness. I assumed the people complaining about their relationships on Facebook were being tacky and the ones who weren’t just knew better than to air their dirty laundry in public. I didn’t want everyone to be miserable, but of course they were.

Then… I lost 90 pounds, graduated with my master’s degree, started my career, and life was good. Things were really working out. I was headed in the right direction. I had great friends and coworkers. I felt like I actually fit into society, for the first time in nearly 20 years. Sure, I hadn’t met a good man, but… how many of those were really out there? Why would they want me with all my mouthiness and baggage? Still, I prayed. I asked God to help me to get over myself so I’d see a good man when I found one. I asked for a man of strong character to love me and take care of me and let me love and take care of him. I prayed for someone who would bring out the best in me and for whom I could do the same. I wanted a good father for my children and even bargained, promising it would be okay if I couldn’t get a full time job, if I could just get him; because more than anything, I still yearned for the traditional family unit comprised of a husband, wife, and kids… “normal.” I knew many women who were fulfilled and happy without these, but I would never be one of them. I followed up said prayers with bad date after bad date, often crying to Gail about how it was “never going to happen,” while making self-actualized blog posts about why people wouldn’t want to date me… and along came Jake.

Just shy of one year ago, I headed out on what would undoubtedly be just another funny blog post. Instead, I met a guy who more or less looked like his picture, opened the door for me, paid for an actual date, laughed at my jokes (even the unintentionally offensive ones), and was charismatic and fun. I left to take my Gramma a birthday present and told her it wasn’t love at first sight, but I liked him, he seemed to like me, and I’d go on a second date if I ever heard from him again.

One year later, I make no exaggeration when I say that Jake is everything I never knew I needed and wanted. He’s responsible, independent, adventurous, funny, intelligent, unbearably obstinate, considerate, attentive, generous, affectionate, impossible to offend, driven, hardworking, charismatic, rational, even-tempered, and good to his core. He both tells me and shows me that he loves me. He makes me strive to be a better person, while encouraging my passions and relationships. He gives me a sense of stability I never knew I was missing. He has strong, healthy friendships with good people and so much love for his own family, that I know that being with him will never make me feel excluded, isolated, or worst of all damned. I still don’t believe in soulmates, but I do believe in answered prayers. Is it sappy to say all this? Does this completely defy all of my claims that emotions belong with the last Horcrux and feelings are for the inside? Sure. But sometimes that’s what gratitude looks like.

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Shout-Out to the Children of the Mentally Ill

Posted on May 8, 2016 by Belle of the Library

I’m an active Facebook user. I love seeing people grow up and be happy. That’s why, even though I knew I’d regret it, I still thumbed through all of the photos of my friends with their moms. The sentiments were all the same. She’s their best friend, their major source of support, and an amazing grandma. She’s seen them through everything and taught them everything they needed to know about life.

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Naturally, there were no shout-outs to the children of the mentally ill.

When I was nine, I found out I needed to wear deodorant when my dad snapped that I stank, assuming my mother had had that talk with me. I opened my first training bra in front of my family on Christmas, from an aunt who was trying to send my mother a hint. I came home crying, one day in middle school, because the other kids said I had a mustache. I mostly gave up on makeup in eighth grade, because I didn’t really know how to apply it and had no one to show me. My mother didn’t teach me any of the things I needed to know as a teenager and certainly not as an adult, considering she left me to live with her boyfriend two hours away, during my senior year.

I wish I could only feel anger. I know that’s not healthy, but I think it might be more bearable than this deep-set ache I’m feeling these days as I remember the good times we did have. Even though absent-minded about things like making sure there were tampons in the house, that I was wearing the right cup size, and keeping the electricity on… even when she was filling my head with lies about my dad molesting me and dosing me with 250 mg of Welbutrin so I wouldn’t leave her abuse… there were good times with her. In my mother’s addled mind, we were only ever the Gilmore Girls, laughing over B movies and eating raw cookie dough. The mind of the mentally ill cannot be deciphered, so I don’t know how she rationalizes all of those other things, if she even acknowledges them. All I know is that she’s sitting at home on Mother’s Day, wondering what happened, why her babies don’t love her, while I’m sitting at home desperately missing the woman who hid the Easter eggs twenty times, because I had so much fun searching for them.

To this day, my big, tough, redneck dad still tears up talking about the mistakes he made. I’m the one who assures him it’s all good. There’s nothing to be done about it, not a DeLorean in sight, and we can go from here. I’ve tried that so many times with my mother and it’s ended the exact same way each and every time as I hysterically weep into the phone to either Gail or my Gramma that I wish Kitty Forman was my mom.

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The last time I initiated contact with my mother was two years ago. I say initiated, because she’s taken to showing up at my work, claiming there’s something physically wrong with her, deliberately speaking in stilted sentences and walking slowly. She’s told me herself the doctors can’t find anything and I’ve watched her become animated and drop the act as she gets engaged in conversation. My grandpa was our pediatrician and although he loved my mother, he thought she was making us sick, long before such things were used as plot twists in horror movies and Law and Order episodes. Today, either she or her husband is doing the same and I just can’t be a part of it. She refuses to get mental help and I refuse to entertain her insanity. I’m at a point in my life where I have to choose, and I choose me and my future family. So, today, as all the normal folks purchase flowers, take their mothers to lunch and movies, I think of all the future moments for which I won’t have a mom.

My mother won’t be there to help me choose a wedding dress, argue about how I have to have flowers, or even meet Jake, because I can’t invite her to the wedding. She’s burned too many bridges and too many people are uncomfortable around her, myself included. She won’t be able to guide me through my first pregnancy or answer questions about how to get the baby to stop crying. She’ll never take a three generations photograph on Mother’s Day, with me and my daughter. I won’t even have anyone to walk me through basic aging, like grey hair and menopause. I have so many good people in my life, including many who mother me, like Gail, my Gramma, Laura, Karol, my step-mom Lena, my Grandma Kay, and most certainly a mother-in-law one day. I’ll never have my mom, though… just a shell who resembles her less and less… and that hurts more than her absence. I suppose that’s just how it goes for the children of the mentally ill and you all have my sympathy.

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Things I Will Not Do as an Adult, Wife, and Mother

Posted on May 2, 2016 by Belle of the Library

Gail’s engaged, y’all.

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I know, I know. After she’d lived with Terry for three and a half years, we’d all pretty much lost hope, but there it is: my best friend is getting married. Some people do buy the cow.

While some of the most pertinent to me, Gail’s pending nuptials are hardly the only big life news being announced. It seems anyone who isn’t planning a first wedding is subtly reclaiming their maiden name. What can I say? We’ve got a lot of twenty-something divorcees, here in the South. The rest are planning babies… possibly numbers two and three. We’re growing up. My Facebook feed is no longer flooded with beer pong photos and 4/20 shout-outs, not even college graduation pictures and new job announcements. Even the engagement announcements are usually for the aforementioned divorcees or some of mine and Jake’s younger friends. Today, it’s all babies and mortgages… and that’s awesome. Truly.

Everyone I know is complaining about getting older, but I would so much rather be 28 and where I am than 22 and where I was. Life is good and I aim to keep it that way, which is why I’m baffled at why so many of my peers are doing such awful things they don’t want to do. I’m sure many who read this will chuckle with a patronizing “Oh, you’ll see, when it’s your turn,” just as my parent acquaintances who hear me say my kids won’t have cell phones chuckle with the same comment, while wondering why their own children are such lazy assholes. I don’t care, because there are pins and posts all over Pinterest and Facebook that make both adulthood and parenthood sound awful and exhausting. Adults today are screwing themselves and if Future Belle reads this list and shakes her head, I hope she’ll at least consider the reminder of the things she once swore were neither healthy nor beneficial to anyone involved. Such as…

Having an Elaborate Wedding
Y’all, when Gail told me about her upcoming wedding, I immediately started hyperventilating about my own. It wasn’t because I expect Jake to propose soon, but because if ever and whenever he does, at this point, I know I’ll say yes. My stars, does it sound wonderful to actually be married to such a genuinely good man… but the part where we get married? I’ll pass. Is passing an option?

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Jake loves weddings, so it’s really not. Yes, I found the one man who thinks weddings are so hunky dory that he’s been in like ten of them. That’s not even an exaggerative Belle-isim. I frequently joke that his online dating headline was “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” For Jake, a boy, a wedding is an awesome party where he and his best friends dress to the nines and enjoy free food and booze. Not until he got himself a researcher for a girlfriend did Jake know that the average cost of a wedding is $26,444.* When I look at pictures of other people’s weddings, the obvious expense stresses me out. It’s a party, y’all. It just happens to be one where I’m expected to spend $200 on engagement photos, $900 on invitations, $1,500 on flowers and decorations, and $700 on wedding favors.*

You know what my wedding favors are going to be? Free food and booze. That’s it. I’m not paying hundreds of dollars to have flash drives or plastic stadium cups or even cutesy Hershey bars made that no one will remember. That also means no programs, or rustic wooden backdrops, or burlap… ugggggh, the fucking burlap…, or twinkle lights, or mason jar chandeliers, or lace tablecloths. I’m not spending the first hour of my reception taking photos that look like I’m cutting a cake, even though I’m not really cutting a cake, and another 30 minutes personally thanking each person for coming. My perfect wedding plans involve butcher paper, crayons, and Sam’s Club cupcakes and if Jake will let me get away with it, that’s what I’ll do. I want to have fun and I want to do it on the cheap. I’m not missing my own wedding, because Pinterest told me I’d forever regret not taking a photo where Jake and I spell out L-O-V-E with our hands while laughing in a field of blue bonnets. I’m also not going into debt for a party. I. Will. Not.

Altering or Defending My Choices About Adulthood/Mommyhood
Jake and I talk about money more than I would imagine most married people do. I think it’s great that he’s so opposed to any and all debt, but this means that we would likely not buy a house until my student loans are cleared, in which case we’d buy outright. Now, as heartbreaking as a future without Jake sounds, I have always maintained a Belle Goes Solo version, as well. In this, I still wait until my loans have been cleared, because only at that point can I afford both a mortgage and a new roof. In short, with or without Jake, I will not be a homeowner until I am at least 36 years old.

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For some reason, in the South, owning a home is the pinnacle of adulthood, regardless of whether or not you can afford it. I’ve been told numerous times that renting is “wasting money,” but until you’re paying on the principle, “owning” is exactly the same, except for the part where you replace your own roof. While Solo Belle likely wouldn’t have any other choice than to take a mortgage, Jake and I wouldn’t be “wasting” any money renting that we wouldn’t be paying in interest and upkeep. For us, buying outright is the most desirable option. That wasn’t the case for Gail and Catherine, who are both thrilled to have recently bought homes the traditional way and more power to them. I’m not going to defend my choice not to buy before I’m ready, though, to anyone with whom I wouldn’t discuss any other financial matters. Nor will I defend my choice not to roll the existing loan on my used car into the price of a new one, which I might add is terrible advice, Dad. While we’re at it, I’m also not defending the aforementioned student loans, because it’s my money that I dedicated to build my career.

It amazes me that people will ask a near stranger about their finances, but this pales in comparison to the audacity it takes to ask a woman about her Mommyhood choices. My birth plan is to be high as a kite. I’m going to vaccinate. I will never breastfeed. In regards to my birth plan, anything and everything involving my vagina is and will remain private. I’ve had friends criticize me for my breastfeeding decision, though, and I don’t have children. I had a reduction at fifteen and can’t breastfeed, but it’s bizarre to me that I’m supposed to explain this to a nosy woman in the grocery store who tells me “breast is best.” I swear on the sorcerer’s stone that if anyone ever says that to me, I will at the very least respond with “so is minding your own business.” I’ve heard women complain that a stranger scolded them for not having shoes on their baby in a carrier, in July. I’ve listened to friends complain that a lady at the gas station mocked them for extended rear-facing.

I didn’t say a word when Jake and I had hibachi for dinner the other day with a four-year-old who spent the entire time loudly laughing at a tablet, even though I thought it was unimaginably rude to ignore the chef’s show and disturb the other diners. It’s not my business or my problem that you’re raising a disrespectful little shit, just as it’s none of yours that my child will have horrible detachment issues, night terrors, a desire to harm small animals, or whatever it is that people think results from formula feeding. Why are we, as capable adults, answering to these rude and nosy people?!?!

Spending More Time and Money on My Children’s Happiness than Mine
Oh em jingles have parents today made the whole gig harder. I admit, I’m not a parent, but that means I can be entirely objective when I ask: why are you people exhausting yourselves over your Pinterest orders?!?! Y’all can’t just wrap presents as a couple, while eating cookies, on Christmas Eve. You have to spend the month of December coming up with increasingly complex and elaborate Elf on the Shelf scenes. You can’t just take everyone’s favorite fruit snacks to pre-k. You have to stay up all night making strawberries that look like lady bugs, because heaven forbid your children eat anything non-organic. You can’t buy the one time use Halloween costume at Wal-Mart. You have to spend $120 on Etsy, so your daughter can look more like Elsa than the 47 other Elsas at the church carnival. I don’t know about you guys, but my skating rink birthday parties, where someone else made the cake and did the cleaning, made for great memories. Your children don’t need tiered cakes to make them happy, or at least they didn’t until you started convincing them that tiered cakes were for anything other than weddings.

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I understand that some people genuinely love making cutesy snacks or complicated costumes or designing unique family t-shirts for the Disney trip. I, myself, will be the parent who plans elaborate birthday parties, because I love birthdays. I struggle with the idea that anyone genuinely enjoys being expected to do all of these things. Maybe it really does fill you with joy to buy your seven-year-old that pair of $120 basketball shoes or give your 12-year-old the Uggs she so desperately wants. I’m not saying that I’m never going to do nice things for my children or enjoy making them happy. I’m saying that I’m not going to spend all of my time and all of my financial resources satisfying their every whim. I’m not neglecting my marriage or my retirement fund for my children, with the exception of some life-threatening illness. I’m not going to scratch my head over why my sex life is nonexistent as I, once again, lie in a bed with all three of my children between my husband and I. I’m not buying the newest game system, planning a trip to Disney World, and paying for brand new fencing equipment for my beginner fencer.

By today’s standards, maybe it makes me selfish to say it, but building a happy marriage and strong financial future will come before my children. If we took a family vacation one year and only have the means for one big trip the next year, the kids can have a fun-filled week with grandma and grandpa, while mom and dad remember why they got married. Given the choice between a good night’s sleep and my child having the most convincing costume for Dress as Your Hero day, I choose sleep. I also choose $80 worth of groceries over $80 worth of costume supplies.

It’s wonderful that our society cares so much about children, but we’re all so fucking miserable, because we’ve been told we’re supposed to stop caring about ourselves. I’ll tell you from experience though, that having mentally and financially stable parents who loved each other would’ve trumped the MacBook every day of the week.

Citations

http://www.costofwedding.com/

Being Out of Communion with the Church

Posted on April 8, 2016 by Belle of the Library

On a scale of one to ten, with one being the guy who checks the box because his great grandma dragged him to Mass every Sunday until he was eleven and ten being a nun, I am a relatively devoted Catholic, landing at about a six. To define more clearly, I go to church every Sunday and confession at least twice a year. I’ve never blatantly sinned, only to declare that all was well the next day, because I asked for forgiveness with no intention of changing my ways. I try not to say God’s name in vain. I pray and give thanks. I aim to be honest and good. I’m not perfect, but I don’t knowingly break Catholic teachings… or I didn’t, until now.

Jake and I are having sex. I’ve told you that, without too much detail. It wasn’t a slip up and I didn’t get caught up in the moment. I didn’t change some kind of vow I’d made, because my feelings surprised me. No. In fact, I made a conscious decision, long before I met Jake, that I wasn’t going to wait until I was married to have sex: a mortal sin, that requires absolution from a priest, through confession, for one to be considered in communion with the Catholic Church and receive the Eucharist.

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All you non-Catholics are either scratching your heads or rolling your eyes, but as Christ granted the apostles the ability to absolve mortal sins, so goes the way of the Catholic Church with priests. Furthermore, despite all the jokes to the contrary, if the confessor does not genuinely intend to avoid further sin, true absolution cannot be received. That’s the deal for Catholics. It’s non-negotiable and this is my faith.

Having been divorced young, I’ve heard a dozen stories about why others’ marriages ended and a sad number of them directly related to sex. A high school friend’s ex-husband had a general, but whopping porn addiction; another acquaintance waited until she was married to have sex, only to find out her new husband wasn’t interested in the slightest; Gaily’s ex-husband was just into really weird stuff; in addition to numerous other issues, even my own former marriage suffered from my ex-husband’s complete lack of interest, because sex is exercise. Of course, a healthy marriage goes far beyond the physical, and each of the above had other severe issues, but there are so many variables that can make or break that relationship, that I just couldn’t bring myself to promise not to explore any and all that I could before making a lifelong commitment, again.

At 23 years old, I sat crying in a judge’s office and I did make a vow. I vowed that the next time, I’d make an educated decision on my partner and over time, I came to decide that this included sex. I’d often read an online dating profile that elaborated (usually far too much) on sexual preference. One man declared himself a dominant, while others revealed that they’d like to act out rape fantasies, and most would simply admit to their appetites and how often they’d like to engage. I consider myself pretty open-minded sexually. There’s not a lot that I think Jake would suggest, that I wouldn’t try. However, if his suggestion was that we only have sex, missionary style, twice a month, I’d object. I’m young and healthy and have the sexual appetite and sense of adventure to match. I don’t want to be with someone who feels guilty at trying new things or lacks interest in that connection. I also don’t want to be with someone who can’t enjoy it without props and gimmicks. I just want to be with someone sexually normal and I’ve known for some time that I could never discover what that meant to either of us, while clothed.

In a lot of ways, the decision has come down to with which sin I could most comfortably live. My previous marriage was never acknowledged by the Catholic Church, but my next one most certainly will be. I won’t get off so easy if I find myself divorced again, because unless you receive an annulment, you are still married. Any relationship pursued, beyond this point, is adultery, so getting a divorce (and living as such) despite the Church’s teachings, is a mortal sin… and one I can never rectify. With Jake, I can once again be in communion with the Catholic Church on the day our marriage is blessed, typically one year after having a non-Catholic wedding. That may be a couple of years away, but if we waited until marriage to have sex, only to realize that some element of our sex lives would lead to divorce, I’d be out of the Church’s graces for good. I know there are a dozen other factors that could lead to divorce, but we’ve explored those as well. Jake knows my financial views and priorities and I know his. We’ve discussed parenting styles and religion. Why wouldn’t we explore a fundamental aspect of marriage, like sex, as thoroughly as we could?

I’m rationalizing. I know I am, just as I rationalize using birth control, because I’m already breaking one cardinal rule and can’t imagine being pregnant and feeling so alone again. According to the Church, my priest, my fellow practicing Catholics, my reasons don’t matter. I don’t know better than God and I am truly remorseful for the weakness and pride behind my decision. I am not criticizing the Church. I love the Catholic Church and I understand and agree with their rules, even this one. God does not negotiate. I just can’t bring myself to risk the pain I felt, sitting in that judge’s office. It far outweighed the pain I feel sitting in the pew, as everyone else partakes in Communion… and I’m sorry for that, as well.

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Why My Boyfriend Will Never Live with Me

Posted on April 2, 2016 by Belle of the Library

As I mentioned in my post Why My Boyfriend Will Never Be at Christmas, being in a serious relationship involves answering to a lot of people. Yeah, yeah, I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my life choices and all that feminist mumbo jumbo, but that’s a wee bit easier said than done when you’ve got a family as nosy and opinionated as mine.

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The troublesome thing about a large family, spanning several generations, is that they can’t seem to actually agree on any of these opinions, no matter what decibel they happen to reach in their attempts. As a result, I’ve heard every argument for and against living together before marriage and can address each of them accordingly, to explain why it’s not happening for Jake and me.

This is our last chance to live alone.

It’s no secret that Jake and I are discussing marriage.

Jake: “If I’m going like, bare bones, I could maybe keep it down to four.”
Me: “Oh my gosh, you are such a diva. I’m dating Kate Middleton.”
Jake: “I have a lot of friends! I have to include Aaron, Jason, Craig, and James.”
Me: “I assumed Aaron and Jason, but you don’t even like Craig and I’ve never even heard you mention James.”
Jake: “I like Craig… sort of… but I have to have my brother in my wedding and you have too heard me mention James.”
Me: “Fine. Bare bones it, then, because I may have 12 female friends, but I do not have 12 female friends who can handle being bridesmaids together. You get four groomsmen.”

It may be mostly hypothetical still, but all the same, we’re not shy about planning our lives together.

Jake: “My sister was herding cattle at eight months pregnant.”
Me: “I am gonna love hearing that story when I’m eight months pregnant.”

Jake and I have been together for ten wonderful months and things are progressing at a steady and healthy pace. I love him. He’s a good man. He’s responsible, yet fun. He’s never let me down. He’ll be a great husband and a great father. Laura’s contributed a slightly abnormal amount to my private Pinterest wedding board, after jumping into rustic wedding planning minutes after meeting Jake, who did not bat an eye. Things are good and it’s quite likely that marriage is happening… so I’m gonna enjoy this shit while it lasts.

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I have a hard time leaving Jake each time we see each other. I get all weepy-eyed, because women are all little bitches as they get older and I wish I could fast forward to a time when I get to see him every day. Then, I reenter my own life and remember that there are a lot of really great and unique aspects to living alone, that no matter how hard they try, cohabitating couples cannot honestly say they still get to enjoy in the same way I do.

A couple of months ago, I got some great news. My apartment complex has changed its pet policy and I get to get a kitten! I have wanted a black cat for years, y’all. Jake, however, has not been subtle in his dislike of cats. He also realizes that, in absence of any allergies, irrational fears, or some kind of pet hoarding situation, it really wouldn’t be fair for him to dictate whether or not I could add a feline to the household. We’ve agreed that this is my decision and one with which he can live, but that if we’re sharing a home, new pets take unanimous agreement… and that’s never happening with future cats. When Jake and I marry, we’ll have to agree both on new pets and their names. Right now, though, I get to get a little black kitten and name him Thackery Binx and that’s awesome.

It’s not just the commitment of new pets, that Jake and I will have to agree on once we live together. We’ll have to unite on essentially every decorative issue, because Jake has an opinion on everything. This past weekend, we ended up in a furniture shop together and I’m pleased to say, we were able to find a lot of middle ground on the household décor… which is great, because we hugely disagree on the seasonal décor. That’s right, folks; the hot pink Christmas tree likely only has the one year left. It’s probably my last chance to decorate like it’s Babes in Toyland, because Christmas 2017 will be full of faux snow covered greenery and live Christmas trees. It’ll be beautiful, sure, and not only because it’ll be ours, but it’ll never again be mine. I am facing my last Girl Christmas in my Girl Apartment and that’s a little bittersweet.

Even household and seasonal décor are somewhat weightier issues, than the day to day things Jake and I will both be giving up to join our lives one day. As of now, if Jake wants to go on a video game binge and spend four days beating the latest Halo or Fallout game, he can do so. If I want to bomb the living room with fabric squares and straight pin landmines, I’m the only person around to complain about the blood. Jake can watch plotless boy movie after plotless boy movie at his place, because I’m having a Roswell marathon at mine. Sure, we can do these things when we live together… in moderation. When you live alone, you don’t have to moderate anything, from hobbies to meals (who wants sweet potato fries and breakfast sausage for dinner?!?!) to midnight dance marathons with the dog. I can have girls’ nights in or out and play the same song on repeat and drunkenly rant about Titanic and there’s no one around to be annoyed… except my downstairs neighbors, but that’s a different issue. Why would I give all that up for any reason but the true commitment that is marriage?

It’s a commitment all it’s own, while still not being a valid test of marriage.

I hear all the time that living together is a true test of being married to someone, without all that pesky entrapment. I call shenanigans, specifically on that last bit. You’re putting your name on utility contracts and a lease with someone, or worse, not putting your name on someone else’s utility contracts and lease, trusting that they’re going to step up financially and not kick you out or get you evicted… without the feelings of love and commitment that are singular to marriage. You both want to maintain a way out, just in case you’re not ready for marriage… but you’re going to share finances. Oh, you’re not going to share finances and you’ll just split it down the middle? Well, then, that’s specifically not a test of marriage, in my case. Jake and I have talked about money, a lot. One of the many reasons we don’t want to live together is because when we share financial responsibilities, we want to do so with the model we’ll use in a marriage, which is full inclusion and disclosure. Right now, if Jake wants to buy a new handgun on a whim, or if I want to buy a new Kindle on the installment plan offered, we do so without permission or even necessarily discussion. Keeping our finances separate while sharing bills, though, sounds like a great way to muddy the waters and set bad habits for the relationship we want to share as husband and wife.

I know, I know, people aren’t just talking about money when they declare living together to be the ultimate test. I’ve heard it dozens of times: “You don’t truly know a person until you live with them.” Why? Why can’t two adults be completely and totally honest with one another, about who they are and what they want in life? Jake and I aren’t 19-year-olds intent on convincing one another that we have no bad habits or gross bodily functions. We won’t live together before marriage, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t spent large blocks of time together. Jake knows I use a menstrual cup and I’ve watched him stir his whiskey and Coke with his own toothbrush. Humans are gross and we’re fully aware.

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People are often referencing bad habits, here, and my response is the same. Jake and I have been completely honest with each other. I know he’s stubborn as an ox with a vendetta and that he won’t throw his shirts away, no matter how many holes are in them. He knows I suck my thumb and find any excuse not to wear pants, even if it means getting “ready for bed” at 6:00. Sure, we both do some inconsiderate things separately, as seen in my absolute refusal to fold laundry and his insistence on leaving his boots and weights in the floor for me to trip over and die at night. That doesn’t mean we’d be so inconsiderate together and if we slip up, so what? We’ll work through it. Bad habits shouldn’t be a deal breaker in what you’re thinking might be a lifelong relationship, if you’re even relatively respectful people. The things that matter, like his follow-through, my ability to control my emotions when I’m upset, his work ethic and determination to provide, my need to contribute to my own well-being… those things aren’t negotiable, nor are they only realized when you move in together. If Jake is always willing to bring home a paycheck, I think I can get over the fact that he fills the bathroom soap dispenser with one part Dawn and two parts water.

There’s an intimacy in living together.

I don’t believe that people who don’t live together don’t truly know each other, at least not to the extent that they won’t be able to stomach one another long-term. I admit, though, that until we’ve lived together, Jake and I won’t necessarily understand every facet of our personalities. I’ve never hidden my mommy issues from Jake. On the contrary, I’ve been very open and matter-of-fact, both about why we don’t talk and how the whole thing makes me feel. It’s unlikely, however, that he’ll realize how truly devastating the whole thing can be for me, until he’s my shoulder to cry on on a more consistent basis.

Similarly, I’ve only seen Jake genuinely angry one or two times. It’s enough that I know he’s not irrational or aggressive in this state, but not enough to know how to comfort him or take his mind off things. We both know the things we need to know about one another to promise forever. We don’t know each other with the familiarity of an old married couple… and that’s wonderful. I love that Jake and I will be able to share, only with each other, the intimacy of day to day married life. Yeah, yeah, there was that one time I was married, but that was so fucking miserable that it never even resembled what I’m referencing.

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There are always going to be things you haven’t experienced together and that’s part of the gamble of marriage. Sure, you can cite “what if you can’t stand the way he pees with the bathroom door open?” as a reason to live together first, but you could also ask “what if you hate the way he tells your son that boys don’t cry?” Does that mean we should all raise children together before saying our vows, just in case? There are no guarantees, says this divorcee, so why shouldn’t we save the truly precious moments for marriage?

It’s cheaper and the social stigma is gone.

I admit, I’ve been Googling reasons to live together before marriage, so I could choose the ones I’ve heard most frequently and find the most ridiculous. These were, by far, the worst.

It’s cheaper? Really? I’m not going to make a lifelong commitment based on the idea that I’ll now have someone to split the electric bill with me. Perhaps this is so deeply irrational to me, because Jake and I live in the middle of the country. I pay $545 for my two bedroom, two bathroom apartment, with washer and dryer hookups and I make just under $50,000 a year. Sure, moving in with Jake and splitting the bills would ease some of my financial burden, but it’s not that big of a burden. If it were, getting a roommate would have the same benefit without the weird pretend commitment that comes with living together. On that note…

I’m aware that the stigma toward cohabitating is gone. That’s great. It’s no one else’s business what people decide on this matter. I know a lot of people feel like moving in together is a step on the way to marriage and they’re excited to enter a new stage of their relationship. More power to them/I wish them the best/[insert disclaimer here] because I do not care about other people’s choices that effect only them. For me, though, if Jake asked me to move in with him, my response would be “Wow! He wants all of the perks of marriage with none of the risk or responsibility! Swoon!”

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The societal stigma may be gone. In fact, it may lean in the opposite direction, these days. That doesn’t mean that I’m ever going to be comfortable with Jake and I living together before marriage. That’s okay, because it’s not a one-size-fits-all situation and I don’t owe anyone an explanation for why my boyfriend and I will never live together… but I’ll continue to give it, because telling people to mind their own fucking business tends to ruin the pool party, even in my family.

The Romantic Weekend that had Nothing to Do with Valentine’s Day

Posted on February 26, 2016 by Belle of the Library

Jake and I both find Valentine’s Day to be kind of lame. I’m pretty sure Jake has never celebrated it. In fact, the only way I have, in the last several years, is by going to dinner with Gail to reminisce over the infant daughter she lost on February 13, 2010, just weeks before I would’ve had the baby I miscarried. It’s not just a greeting card holiday for me. It’s actually a pretty sensitive time of year, one when I’m quite prone to tears. As timing would have it, though, it was on February 12 that I received my third and final Gardasil shot. After eight months, Jake and I would finally be able to have sex without voiding the $600 I spent to vaccinate myself against his sluttier days. So, more in spite of the faux holiday than because of it, I scheduled five days off, from the 12th through the 16th… and Jake decided to plan a ski trip.

Y’all, recently I’ve admitted that my relationship with Jake is pretty old school. He pays and opens doors. I make him peanut brittle and chat with his mom in the kitchen, while he goes quail hunting on the family ranch. It would never work for Gail, Laura, or Catherine and to each their own. I just love that Jake’s… the boy. I don’t care if that makes me June Cleaver, Samantha Stephens, or Charlotte York. I’m not living my life to make a statement for the modern woman and I’m not real fond of the modern man.

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Specifically, I loathe the tendency modern men have to refuse to make any plans. Every woman knows the conversation.

“What do you wanna do?”
“I don’t care. What do you wanna do?”
“Whatever you wanna do.”

I wanna watch as your testicles descend and you make a fucking decision. That’s what I wanna do.

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I come up with plenty of fun ideas. I just don’t want to be the only one doing so. The catch of course, is that when you insist the man make the plan, you have to go with it… entirely. You can’t veto this aspect or that aspect, so my only caveat was that Jake check to make sure our hotel was not on the bed bug registry. With my having no more real information that that, on Friday morning, after I got my shot, we were off!

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The moment we left, Jake declared that we wouldn’t be stopping at all for several hours… and promptly relented every time I had to go to the bathroom. The drive was relaxed as we debated politics, talked about work, gossiped about our friends. Any silences we had were easy and comfortable, despite the fact that Jake doesn’t really listen to music when he drives. Jake humored me as I took photos of everything and told me tales of his previous ski trips, encouraging me not to get too frustrated if I didn’t pick it up quickly. He thought he was being encouraging, anyway. In actuality, he was just insisting over and over again that I’d likely suck at skiing and therefore hate it, continually citing his friend’s wife who got so frustrated that she insisted on walking down the mountain alone. I assured him I’d try and that I was looking forward to it, but was worried that the sport, in general, would cause me back pain.

It was evening when we arrived in Ruidoso, luckily still light out, so we could see the snow on the mountains and find a place to eat. We’d each had a pretty rough week at work, mine having actually involved a hysterical phone call to Jake the night before…

Me: “Could you please pack the pink travel bottles I left at your place?”
Jake: “Yeah. Sure. Are you crying?”
Me: “NO. I just have something in both my eyes!”
Jake: “So, that’s a yes.”

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I told you it’s a weepy time of year for me.

Jake works in the oilfield and he’d just embarked on a trip that cost right around a thousand dollars. He had his own job worries after driving all day and coming off the night shift. By the time we’d eaten and gotten back to the hotel room, we were both exhausted and fell asleep around 8:30, like the party animals we are.

I woke numerous times in the night, unable to sleep because my left shoulder and the left side of my neck were painfully tight and my arm was throbbing from where I’d gotten my shot. As I’m writing this, I’m realizing how many times I got hurt over the weekend and it’s just… not surprising at all.

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The next morning, it finally happened. Yes, yes. I doubled the number of men with whom I’ve had sex… more than that if you want to get into discussion as to what counts as a man… and sex. Not to go into unpleasant amounts of detail, I’ll just say that Jake and I definitely click, sexually. Gail was right and we just continued doing the same things we’ve been doing, only without stopping this time. I barely even worried about what to do with my arms. It was just the perfect amount of comfortably awkward, messy, and emotional. I wouldn’t change a thing.

We spent Saturday procuring skis, ski pants for me (only $45!), and browsing the stores on main street. Jake bought me a souvenir t-shirt and it was the best Valentine’s Day gift I’ll ever get, because that wasn’t his intention at all. He just likes to do sweet things for me. There was only one small theater in town and it looked like it would have folding chairs in the auditoriums, but we decided to see Deadpool anyway.Though we loved it, we agreed we’d never let our children watch it as we made our way back to the hotel room. Jake suggested we get a cab that evening, so we could drink freely and have a ride back to the hotel. Naturally, from that point forward, everything went wrong.

The cab driver drove us the three miles or so into town, dropping us off at a restaurant we’d both wanted to try. We decided to see some more of the shops while they were still open, making the approximately one mile trip down main street, despite the new boots I was wearing. We headed back, as it started to get cold, and Jake gave me his jacket to wear over mine, since I was in a dress. When we finally made it to our first choice restaurant, we realized they were only filling reservations. In good spirits, we headed to our second choice… which had permanently closed without removing the sign. We made our way to our third choice as my legs began to freeze and my feet thankfully started to go numb.

Finally, we made it to an open restaurant… where the food was meh, the service was terrible, and the company was wonderful. We drank and laughed and I told Jake how my Gramma had hinted that he’d be proposing.

Me: “I assured her that would be terrible, since I’ve told you verbatim that sooner than a year is too soon.”

When he came back from the bathroom, Jake teased that he’d had to catch the waiter and make sure he didn’t put the ring in my dessert. At around 8:30, he went to call the cab driver… who would not answer. At 9:00, after hearing from more than one waitress that the cab company was made up of “assholes,” our only option had become pretty clear. We would be walking back to the hotel, more than three miles away, after having walked two miles already… in the cold, with me wearing new boots and a dress, and completely drunk. Fortunately, Jake was relatively sober, because he quite literally had to drag me that entire three miles.

I’d like some credit for the fact that, for the most part, I didn’t complain. I drunkenly rambled some pretty offensive musings. I laughed about how much walking three miles in brand new heeled boots sucked. I made several dramatic declarations of my pain.

Me: “Okay. So, if I lay on the ground right now, you’re just gonna say logical things about how I’m getting my dress dirty and you’ll insist I get up and start walking. We’ll argue for awhile and then I’ll finally get up. You’ll be annoyed and I’ll be cold and it will just be twenty minutes gone that could’ve gotten us twenty minutes further, won’t it?”
Jake: “Yes. That sounds pretty accurate.”
Me: “Could we do it anyway?”
Jake: “No.”

Me: “MY BOOTS ARE RUINED!”
Jake: “Your boots are not ruined.”
Me: “THEY ARE TOO, BECAUSE THEY’RE FILLED WITH MY BLOOD!”

Me: “JUST LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE!”
Jake: “Keep walking.”

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Towards the end, my feet were hurting so badly, I did start to cry. I was drunk. My shoulder still hurt from the night before and my arm was still sore from that stupid shot. It was 40 degrees. Regardless, Jake pulled me along beside him, refusing to let me rest or take off my shoes and walk barefoot. Not once did he get angry with me. Not once did I blame him for his brilliant cab idea. Finally, we got back to the room and I was able to take off my boots and survey the damage done to my feet. I’m telling you, I looked like a victim of ancient Asian foot binding. It was horrible and we were getting up to go skiing first thing in the morning. Thank God for small favors, though, because the walk in the cold had sobered me up enough that I didn’t have to worry too much about being hungover. It’d be terrible to ski with a headache.

After trying on skis Saturday afternoon, I’d very seriously explained to Jake that he had to stop teasing me for not knowing things he considered common ski knowledge. On this one topic, I didn’t want him to joke with me, because it was making me feel stupid. He apologized and agreed… as he did when we got to the resort and I told him he had to stop telling me how frustrated I was going to be in an hour, because it was ruining my fun.

Overall, skiing was great. Jake was an endlessly patient instructor, never insisting I do something when I told him I was scared or uncomfortable. I realized that the falling, that is so much a part of skiing, didn’t affect my back at all. Bending down to tighten and loosen my skis, however, was a different story, so Jake did this for me approximately 20 times throughout the day. He encouraged me and waited for me and never grew impatient, despite the fact that he can ski a black and I was barely doing the bunny slopes. It was great, but after a couple of hours, I needed a break for my blistered feet, so we ate lunch and I slept with my head on a picnic table while Jake skied some more difficult runs. After an hour or so, Jake came back, convinced I could do the easiest green, so we headed up the mountain.

The day was quite warm, but as the sun set, it was growing colder, particularly higher up the mountain. What I didn’t know was that this meant snow would turn to ice. What Jake didn’t know was that I was serious when I said the lift got off on too high of a slope. Not having much choice, I went for it… gained too much speed and threw my legs out to the side to intentionally fall… and smashed my head into the slope.

I’d hit my head so hard my cap and glasses flew off and my eyes felt like they were swelling. I buried my face in the snow and gripped the back of my skull as I heard Jake telling the guy manning the lift that he thought I’d hit my head. I started to cry and Jake rolled me over, insisting I look at him.

Most of the women I know cherish memories of receiving flowers and jewelry. For me, it’s the little things, like the time I was mostly asleep on Jake’s chest and I felt him pull my glasses off and kiss me on the top of the head. All things considered in the expense of the trip, the gravity of it being our first time, or the notion that it was a “romantic Valentine’s Day getaway,” the most profound moment of that weekend, was when I reflexively turned into Jake’s chest after I hit my head on the ice and he wrapped his arms around me. I don’t even remember what he said to steer me to the side of the slope, but I remember how good it felt as he held me in the snow and I cupped my head and cried from pain and fear, while trying to decide how badly hurt I was. For about 10 minutes, we sat there, until I determined I was okay to ski down. He never rushed me or told me to shake it off. We didn’t speak at all, except when Jake assured a woman that I was okay. I am pretty sure I fell in love with him all over again, on the side of that mountain.

Had I not hit my head, I think the run would’ve been alright. As it was, my eyes were pulsing and I just wanted to lay down in the cold snow to soothe the pain, but I had to get down the mountain. Jake skied directly by my side, the entire time, including when we came to a slope that was both steep and slanted toward a drop off full of trees.

Jake: “I’ll ski to your left and if you start getting too close, I won’t let you fall.”

Now, uninjured, I am pretty sure I would not have been able to complete this run, straight through. Injured, though, I made it less than halfway down this particular path before shouting that I didn’t want to do it anymore, throwing my legs out to the side, and knocking both Jake and myself down. Uninjured, I might have shakily declared I would just walk until it got a little easier. Injured and scared, I panicked and started crying uncontrollably and gripping my head. All the while, I kept flashing to Jake’s story of his friend’s wife, fearing he’d see my freakout in the same light a year from now. I apologized over and over, crying, as Jake told me that it was okay, we didn’t have to hurry, and that I could just sit down for a minute and decide what I wanted to do. Ultimately, I did decide to walk until things got easier, as Jake skied at the same pace I plodded. When I could, I put the skis back on and gave it another shot. Jake was ready to head back to the truck when we got down the mountain. I insisted he go ski a blue or something before we left.

Jake: “I don’t want to leave you hurt.”
Me: “I’ll be fine. Have fun and I’ll hang out at the picnic tables.”
Jake: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Yes. It’s fine. Go.”
Jake: “Well, if you’re sure…”

It’s beyond me why any woman would play this game if she didn’t actually want the guy to go ski. I meant it. I wasn’t angry. I wanted Jake to enjoy a last run before we left, particularly since it didn’t seem likely we’d be back the next day. I thought about asking the first aid center if they’d lend me a cot for a bit, but then I realized what an asshat Jake would look like in that scenario and spent the next 45 minutes perusing the ski shop. We headed down the mountain and Jake made no attempt to make me feel bad for not wanting to ski the next day. I made no attempt to blame him for insisting I could do the run on which I got hurt. We went back to the hotel, showered, changed and made jokes about calling a cab for a ride into town for dinner.

We spent the next day lounging in the hotel room. We watched movies and went in search of an affordable wooden bear souvenir, made with a chainsaw, an apparent staple of Ruidoso. It was the perfect souvenir, as Jake spent the entire trip quoting his best friend Aaron in a silly voice “Ruidoso, home of the wooden bears.” We talked and laughed and I tried not to complain too badly about my still very sore shoulder, feet, and head.

Me: “How old were you when you had your first beer?”
Jake: “Fifteen.”
Me: “What brand was it?”
Jake: ::confused:: “Budweiser.”
Me: “Where were you?”
Jake: ::still confused:: “Camping.”
Me: ::laughing::
Jake: “What?”
Me: “You remember drinking your first beer better than you remember losing your virginity.”
Jake: ::laughing:: “That was a mean trick!”

The next morning, we had our last continental breakfast of sausage and fresh made waffles. We headed out early, since we’d lose an hour on the way back. I knew everyone else would be sad to see the vacation end, but I was just devastated that I’d have to go from spending every day with Jake, back to our usual schedule of once every two weeks. We’d connected so much over the weekend, not just physically, that I couldn’t imagine not waking up to him every day. I’m glad we’re taking our time. This is how you figure out if you want to be with someone forever. I still can’t help but wish we could fast forward to the point when we’re ready for that, though.

Sex. It’s just a blog post about sex.

Posted on February 11, 2016 by Belle of the Library

Jake and I have been dating for exactly eight months. Despite this fact and our many sleepovers, we have not had sex. It’s not that I’m a prude… okay it’s not just that I’m a prude. It’s precautionary. Jake probably has a pretty average sexual history for a 31-year old guy. I’ve insisted he never tell me his number, explaining in a somewhat stereotypically irrational woman way that if his number is three, every time he introduces me to someone, I’m going to wonder “Is she one of The Three?!?!” If his number is 33, then I can only assume that he’s had sex with all of them. It’s not a source of contention in our relationship, though. Quite the contrary, we regularly joke about it.

Me: “Does it bother you, when I tell you what I like?”
Jake: “No. Not at all. I’m glad you let me know… unlike all the other women I’ve been with.”
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Me: “ALL the other women you’ve been with!”
Me: jackie-stoned-laugh
Me: “There’s a conveyer belt next to your bed!”
Me: cracking-myself-up
Me: “It’s like a WHO CONCERT in your room!”
Me: ellen

As you can see, I’m not particularly bothered by the number of women Jake has seen naked. I just don’t want the details. I also don’t want anything else, which is why I started the Gardasil vaccine course six months ago from this Friday. If you’re unfamiliar with Gardasil, the basic gist is that after three shots, given over a minimum six month period, both men and women are protected against HPV, which is the cause of cervical cancer and cannot be reliably tested for or treated. Gardasil is generally given at ages 11-13, before people become sexually active. In fact, the FDA has decided that the average American has had so much sex by their 26th birthday, that they’re no longer worth even attempting to protect.

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With the vaccine being so new, I never got it, assuming that was Future Belle’s Problem. Then I met Jake. Luckily, I was able to find a physician who would approve Gardasil for off label use, so that eventually, Jake and I could have sex. Honestly, it was sort of a relief, at the time. I mean, as inexperienced as I am, the idea of sex with Jake was a bit daunting. That could just be Future Belle’s Problem, too.

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Y’all. I don’t remember how to sex!

It’s not that I’m not looking forward to sex with Jake. If anything, the last eight months have left me certain that we’re not only sexually compatible, but also truly in love and I’m glad for that. It’s just… I’m 28 years old and I’ve only had sex with one person… five years ago. Five years ago, I was morbidly obese and so was he. There are only so many positions that are even possible for elephants. For realz, y’all, we were very large people. Most of the time, my ex-husband didn’t even want to have sex, because as Gail puts it “sex is like a super fun workout massage.” I got turned down nine times out of ten, which killed my self-confidence. When we did do anything, it was always the exact same: one of three positions, under five minutes, and I was not… prioritized. So what’s not to look forward to, amiright?!?! Sure… except for the fact that I barely remember where the penis goes. I read a lot of romance novels and when I think about the logistics of certain sexual positions, I literally cannot figure out what’s happening. Where does the girl’s leg go and how can that be comfortable? Wouldn’t that hurt your back after a few minutes? How do you get any leverage doing that? Wouldn’t the table tip? What do I do with my arms?!?!

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Why didn’t I have more sex and refine my skillz while I could?!? My friends either tell me I’m overthinking it and it will come naturally (which is entirely useless advice, because I want diagrams, complete with angle measurements, damn it), or they join me in my own self-mockery.

Laura: “You only lose your virginity once.”
Me: tumblr_mmd67t6hli1qdg9dlo1_500

Me: “What if I’m bad at it?”
Jake: ::rolling his eyes:: “You’re not going to be bad at it.”

Well… no help there, either. I watched some porn for tips a few months ago. I’m pretty sure it was the worst idea I’ve ever had, because I know I don’t look like that. Naturally, I’m convinced that every woman Jake’s ever been with was a size 2 and wore Victoria’s Secret wings. I even tried to buy sexy underwear.

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It did not go well. In fact, after I bought a couple of pretty (but sensible) bras and panties, I checked my credit card statement, panicked, and returned everything, because I’m paying out of pocket for birth control and the Gardasil shot this month.

Responsibility: 5
Sex Appeal: -5

So, here I am… with the same old undies and no idea what I’m doing. I suppose my awkward delivery of the wrong words has brought the boys to the yard so far…

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… perhaps Laura is right and I could self-medicate, though perhaps Xanax is a little extreme.

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Really, though, the man’s seen me sobbing because a zombie ate a goat in The Walking Dead. He’s wiped my tears when I’ve gotten drunk and weepy. He’s heard me attempt and fail at dirty talk. Could I really embarrass myself that badly?

It’s just… if you’ve never been on a roller coaster, it doesn’t matter if your first, or even your second, only has the one loopty loop. It’s gonna be a good time. But if you’re a… roller coaster aficionado, it’s possible you’d be disappointed or even bored by just the one loopty loop, especially if you waited eight months to get in the park. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY ARMS, LET ALONE HOW TO LOOPTY LOOP!

newgirlsex

Visiting the Family Ranch

Posted on February 8, 2016 by Belle of the Library

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That sounds so made up.

Last Friday, I drove straight from work to spend the weekend with Jake, in Wellston. Lately, my grandma has been dubbed Beagle Sitter, so I didn’t have to go home to get Jude and the other supervisory librarian was comfortable with my leaving an hour early, to make up for a previous late day. Still, Wellston is an hour from Shetland and an hour and a half from the Northside Library, so it was quite the trek and I was glad I’d be getting nearly three days with Jake for my efforts, since I’d arranged to work the evening shift on Monday. I was both hungry and tired when I arrived in Wellston, as was Jake, after working nights on the rig for a week. Neither of us objected to going to bed early, knowing that we’d be attending Jake’s nieces’ basketball games, first thing in the morning.

Y’all, we have officially entered new territory. I am no longer being introduced. I’m being included. This was not a meet and greet, but a family event.

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Having previously met everyone, I wasn’t caught up in a lot of pleasantries with Jake’s family. His brother-in-law, Cody, seemed friendly enough, while his sister, May, briefly said hello between plays, as she was coaching a herd of five-year-olds, her daughter Lucy included. Jake’s nine-year-old niece, Shana, seemed shy, so Jake and I were mostly left to enjoy the game. I don’t know what Jake looked for in me, as I watched his nieces play… perhaps nothing. What I noticed, however, was how wonderfully supportive his entire family was of this slightly silly game. I also admired how patiently his sister coached, without coddling. I couldn’t help but think how much more I might’ve enjoyed sports had I been taught with such positivity.

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On second thought… nah.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for actually playing sports, I enjoyed watching. From an educator’s standpoint, I found the teaching methods fascinating. As a woman with working ovaries, I found Jake’s open interest and encouragement quite appealing. It’s a good thing, too, because Lucy’s game was immediately followed by Shana’s, in a nearby town.

As I set my stuff down, at the next game, and turned to sit next to Jake, I noticed my seat had been stolen by Lucy, who just looked up at me and grinned. She is, clearly, her Uncle Jake’s smallest fan. Not wanting to deprive either of them of their bonding time, I took a seat on her opposite side and, surprisingly, got the chance to bond, myself. Lucy is both ornerier and more outgoing than Shana and she chattered away with me as I snuck her m&m’s, because a little bribery never hurt anyone. Together, we teased Jake, who teased us in turn.

Jake: “I won a trophy just the other weekend.”
He was referring to the trophy he’d won at the engagement party, as the champion of a drunken carnival game.
Me: “It wasn’t a real trophy, and he cried when he didn’t win the other one.”
He was genuinely mad that his teammate lost him the title of Beer Pong Champion.
Lucy: “Ha ha. You cried!”
Jake: “I didn’t cry. I pouted.”

There are a lot of different ways in which I find Jake attractive, but none of them have ever matched watching him snuggle and talk with his niece as he cheered the other one on at a game that was going quite poorly. At 28, you just don’t care about his six pack. It’s all about dad potential.

This game led to Dairy Queen for the kids and Chinese food for the adults. Afterward, we went directly to Jake’s sister’s trailer, where we all chatted and helped Jake’s parents with their new tablet. The entire day had been spent with Jake’s family, but it was nice to get to know them better, without the pressure of a First Meeting. Knowing we’d have time the next day, I wasn’t bothered, until…

Mrs. Granger: “Your Uncle Benny’s coming down to the ranch to go quail hunting. He wanted you to go with him.”
Jake: “Yeah. Dad told me. I may do that.”
Mr. Granger: “You comin’ down first thing in the morning?”
Jake: “Well, I don’t know if I’ll come down first thing.”

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We hadn’t seen each other for nearly two weeks and now he wanted to ditch me? On the one hand, I didn’t want to tell him that he couldn’t do something, or manipulate him into feeling that way. Jake had already mentioned how limited his time to go quail hunting would be, with his work schedule. On the other hand, we’d specifically planned to spend the weekend together. Not wanting to discuss it in front of his family, but unable to completely hide my hurt feelings, I got kind of quiet, until we got in Jake’s truck.

Jake: “You okay? You’re kind of quiet.”
Me: “I’m… um… I just… I’m good.”
::smooth::
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Jake: “‘Feelings are for the inside?'”
Me: “Um… yeah. They belong with the last Horcrux… it’s just… I had a great time with your family. I enjoyed getting to know them better, but I thought we’d have time tomorrow, because we planned to spend the whole weekend together. That’s why my Gramma has my dog and I even arranged to go into work later on Monday. Now you’re leaving the state to go hunting and I feel like you’re just ditching me. I don’t wanna tell you not to go, because I know you want to hunt with your uncle, but we had plans and it hurts my feelings.”
Jake: “Well, you can come. I wasn’t just going to leave you.”
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Me: “Why… why would I assume that? I’ve never been to your family’s ranch. You’ve never mentioned taking me and I’ve met your parents twice.”

The most functional part of mine and Jake’s relationship is how we communicate. At no point did either of us raise our voices. We were both genuinely surprised by the other person’s assumption. Jake was truly sorry he’d made me feel as if he didn’t value his time with me and I was excited that he wanted me to see his family’s ranch. So, the next morning, we got up early and headed further south to The Granger Ranch.

Y’all, I am not pulling a Belle-esque exaggeration here, where I make some hyperbolic statement and assume you’ll read it as such. The Granger Ranch is a legit, fully functioning ranch. This is the family legacy, which Jake made it more or less clear, will one day be the subject of the Granger boys’ prenups. Over 2,000 acres, a 3,000+ square foot house, hundreds of red angus, and a custom brand comprise the multi-million dollar ranch run by Jake’s parents and his brother. Jake occasionally assists, but tries to distance himself, because he does not want to be a cattle rancher. This, folks, is why I worried that Jake’s friends might think I was after his money, as he’s currently one third of the eventual ownership. His brother Craig’s girlfriend, Matilda, is why I worried Jake’s family would think I was after his money, as she seems to be. I can only assume that this is also why Jake’s mom was so… cool to me, after Jake left me at the house, to go hunting with his uncle for a few hours.

Mrs. Granger: “So, Belle. You don’t like this stuff at all?”
Me: “What?”
Mrs. Granger: “Going out in the pasture, seeing the ranch?”
Me: “No, I do. I just don’t think I’d take to quail hunting and I know Jake really wanted time with his uncle. I didn’t want to intrude.”

I tried a few times to engage Mrs. Granger in more conversation, offering to help her clean the breakfast dishes, but she didn’t seem eager. Soon after, Craig stopped by and briefly said hello. Not wanting to push myself on anyone, I sat down and crocheted a hat for Jake’s smallest niece, Chloe, with the yarn he’d bought me on the way, so I’d have something to do. After I showed Mrs. Granger what I’d made, she seemed impressed and asked if I’d like to go with her and Mr. Granger to find Jake and his uncle and see the ranch. She seemed pretty surprised when I was eager.

As we rode in the high-end ATV, Mrs. Granger began to point things out on the ranch, like the windmill she’d requested for Christmas a few years past. She seemed pleasantly surprised that, while I wasn’t necessarily knowledgeable about country life, I was interested. For a good 45 minutes to an hour, the Grangers drove me over the ranch, telling me all about their land, while lovingly sniping at each other. When Mrs. Granger snapped at her husband to quit going over so many bumps and he sped up, I couldn’t help but think that Jake is definitely his father’s son. Eventually, we found Jake and Benny and took Jake to retrieve the tractor to pull his uncle’s truck out of the mud. A boy riding a tractor…

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Jake: “What are you doin’?”
Me: “Chillin’ with your parents.”
Jake: “You havin’ fun?”
Me: “Yup. I love you.”
Jake: “Love you, too.”

Then he kissed me in front of his mom. Sigh.

Not wanting to be in Mrs. Granger’s way, when we got back, I walked down to the horses I’d seen and talked to them and petted them for a good fifteen to twenty minutes. I didn’t realize it, but Mrs. Granger had been watching from the kitchen window. It was like talking to a different person, when I returned. She told me who Jake was in high school and asked if I could tell the difference between him and Craig in old photos. I’ve known for months that she’s a bit high-strung, often worrying needlessly, but I could see how deeply rooted in love that was. She’s a good mom. Mr. Granger is a good dad. May is a good sister and mom. We had a dinner of ribs and homemade pecan pie, and headed on our way.

Me: “I think they liked me. I liked them a lot. Your sister seems like such a good mom. I’m glad I like her, because…”
Jake: “… you hate your sister-in-law so much?”
Me: “Well, kind of, yeah. I’m not proposing, but it would really suck to have two sisters-in-law I didn’t get along with one day. That’s kind of the same reason I like your mom so much. She may be a little high-strung, but her intentions are good. She’s a really good person.”

A few days later, Jake and I talked on the phone, after he’d gone back to the ranch to quail hunt for another day.

Jake: “Yeah, I asked her, kind of trying to catch her off guard, ‘So, do you like Belle?’ She goes, ‘Yeah, she’s real sweet. She’ll actually talk to ya. She’s a lot better than Matilda.”
Me: “Woot! I’m the favorite. Does she seriously hate her that much?”
Jake: “Well, apparently Craig called to say he and Matilda were going to come over for dinner and mom told him not to, claimed we didn’t have enough ribs. When I told her we had plenty she snapped ‘The only time that woman comes around is when dinner is served!'”

For reasons best not detailed, at this time, I don’t really blame Mrs. Granger for this. The situation sounds like Matilda probably is after Craig’s money, but at the very least, she’s a controlling woman who doesn’t want him to have much to do with his family. I also see it as promising that Mrs. Granger is just as forthright as her son. My own family has always been loud and opinionated, never leaving you to wonder where you stand. That, I can do. Fake, I cannot. Overall, I am beyond thrilled that Mrs. Granger likes me, because she is clearly the one to please as Jake and I continue to grow closer… and that we do.

Jake: “So, do you want to go somewhere the week after next?”
Me: “What?”
Jake: “You have some time off, don’t you? Do you want to go to Ruidoso and ski?”
Me: “I have Friday through Tuesday off. Are you serious?”
Jake: “Well, yeah. Let me look at my budget. I’ll let you know for sure.”

He called just a few days later to tell me he’d booked a room. I didn’t have to plan anything. I just have to go to Wellston on Friday morning, right after I get my last Gardasil shot, and we’ll head out from there to spend our first weekend together that will actually involve sex. I’ll hyperventilate later. Right now, I’m too excited.

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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: Relationships

Getting My Tattoo Removed

My heart belongs to a guy whose job is kind of up in the air.

Normal: I Never Thought I Would Be Here

Shout-Out to the Children of the Mentally Ill

Things I Will Not Do as an Adult, Wife, and Mother

Being Out of Communion with the Church

Why My Boyfriend Will Never Live with Me

The Romantic Weekend that had Nothing to Do with Valentine’s Day

Sex. It’s just a blog post about sex.

Visiting the Family Ranch

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