Category Archives: Romance

Crawfish and Friends

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Jake and I had our first weekend away together.

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For a never-married guy, Jake has a weird number of married and engaged friends, particularly since most of them are younger than he is. When we first started dating, he informed me that his last single friend had just gotten married, only to ask after Christmas, if I wanted to go see his friends out of state for an engagement party. Now, coming from the wealthy folk I do, I was picturing h’orderves, at a venue of some sort. Maybe it would be in a barn and the guests of honor would include some lace and burlap, as a shout out to their country roots and Southern locale, but there would definitely be a cello. I’m not being irrational here. My aunt and uncle had an anniversary party just months ago. Just to privately mock him later, I took a mighty pretentious photo of my cousin playing his cello in the corner. Naturally, I was stressing out a bit about meeting Jake’s friends under such formal circumstances. Being a clueless boy, Jake didn’t share, until the week prior, that said engagement party meant beer and crawfish by the lake.

phew

The respite to my nerves was temporary, though, as I realized that Jake hasn’t introduced a girlfriend to his friends. I mean, sure they knew some of the girls he dated in high school and college, because they were around, but Jake has never taken a girl across states lines to meet his best friends and their wives, ever. This was likely a bigger deal than meeting the parents, because while you can rationalize that your parents are from a different time, your friends often have the exact same priorities and aspirations you do. In Jake’s case, he’s told me quite a bit about his friends’ marriages, the way they relate to their wives and their goals in general, and expressed a pretty clear desire for something very similar. If we didn’t get along, that could be a big conflict. What if they hated me? What if I said the wrong thing? Actually, to reword, what would happen when I said the wrong thing? What if I was too much of a city girl, despite every person I work with thinking I’m too much of a country girl? What if they thought I was after Jake’s money? What if I was too nerdy? Should I wear a dress, like I always do, or would I look too big for my britches, like when I met Jake’s sister in a friggin’ prom dress (not really). Why didn’t I own any t-shirts without things like “Super Librarian” of “Trek Yourself, Before You Wreck Yourself” on them?

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I tried not to think about these things, as I packed, telling myself that they were Future Belle’s problems. That girl has a lot of issues. She could handle one more. The plan was to leave for the three and a half hour drive on Friday, after I got home from work, which was at about 6:45. Jake would already be at my apartment, waiting for me. I wasn’t aware that this would mean that the second I walked through the door, I’d be greeted with only a moment of pleasantries, to be immediately followed by “You got everything packed? You ready to go?” and rushed out the door.  This meant I forgot things, namely my toothbrush and some ibuprofen. Y’all, I don’t get health insurance for another two and a half months. My glasses are almost three years old. I pretty much have a daily headache, when I get off work, because I stare at a computer screen for a living.

Jake and I headed out, quickly stopping by a steakburger fast food restaurant that Jake had been adamant would be amazing, despite my informing him that it was pretty much just fast food. He would not be deterred, being about three times as stubborn as I am, so he ordered while I ran inside to pee, because there was no way he was stopping again, in as much as a hurry as he was… that is, until about two hours later. I tried to play it off, but as the headlights flashed in my eyes, one after the other, I’m pretty sure my brain started to bleed out of my ears.

Me: “I know you don’t want to stop, but I don’t think I can make it. If I don’t get some kind of medicine, I’m not gonna be much fun, when we get there… and I might throw up in your truck on the way.”
Jake: “Is it really that bad?”

I’ve exaggerated my fair share, but it really was. I don’t even think Jake realized this until he pulled into a truck stop and I couldn’t handle the lights long enough to go inside and pee without deep breathing, while he insisted I wait in the truck for him to buy some Aleve (awww). Fortunately, by the time we got to the house, where we were staying, I was no longer near tears. Jake and I walked in together and Jake, despite his many wonderful qualities, completely neglected to introduce me. I was a little uncertain, at first, until three women started hugging me. Apparently, Jake has been quite chatty.

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Mindy: “I’m a hugger. I just have to give you a hug!”
Me: “Hi. I’m Belle. I’m sorry we’re so late. I didn’t get off of work until 6:00.”
Hailey: “You’re a librarian, right?”
Aaron: “Jake, you didn’t even introduce her. Be a better boyfriend.”

We sat at a table, where there was clearly a drinking game in progress… I was pretty sure. I’d never played a drinking game, unless you count the one where I’d see how quickly I could finish my paper after taking three shots of everclear, to hide from my marriage. I also didn’t announce this, so three gold stars for normal socialization skills!

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These people were so friendly. I was a little worried that the women might be catty or at the very least, a little exclusive, since I was an outsider. I knew it was unlikely Jake would put up with people who practiced the former, but it was equally unlikely he’d even notice the latter. As we chatted and shared embarrassing Jake stories, though, I didn’t feel excluded at all. The girls and Jake explained the drinking game to me and didn’t pressure me to drink the entire bottle of beer when it was my turn to do so. We shared stories and told jokes, until finally Haley interrupted to announce…

Haley: “I’m sorry, but it’s just so weird to see you touching him.”
Me: “What?”
Callie: “I know! I thought that when he had his hand on her back as they walked in!”
Me: “What are you talking about?”
Haley: “Jake hates to be touched. He won’t even hug us. Did you not see him duck out of the way when he came in?”
Me: “Seriously? He’s the touchy feely one!”
Jake: ::scoffing:: “I am not.”
Me: “You hugged me on our first date. I remember, because I thought you were really sweaty.”
Jake: “What? I wasn’t sweaty.”
Me: “It was June, you were so. You’re the snuggler in this relationship. You pretty much lay on me when we sleep.”
Mindy: “When you were touching his beard, I thought that must be driving him crazy.”
Me: “Well, if it is, it’s been doing so for a while, because I do it all the time.”

His friends weren’t only really nice, but they were also funny. They’ve known each other since the beginning of time and had dozens of stories about growing up in a small town and going to college together. I could tell why Jake hung out with him, particularly because they had such similar senses of humor.

Me: “He thinks it’s hilarious to use his Bane from Batman voice, when we’re fooling around.”
Mindy: “Ugh. Aaron does the same thing! He pretends I’m a Russian prostitute.”
Aaron: ::stereotypical Russian accent:: “Prostitute. Get on the bed.”

This was obviously the funniest thing Jake had ever heard and if I’d had a quarter for every time I heard that sentence over the course of the three day weekend, I’d have been able to fund the gas to get home.

Gradually, the men drifted outside and the women to the living room, where everyone chatted about their careers and guys. Haley was the engaged friend and her fiance, Clyde, was outside with Jake. Mindy has been married to Aaron (Jake’s Gail) for almost three years now, after having dated for only five months from the first time they met, when Aaron asked her to dance at a wedding. Callie was alone, because her husband, Sam, was at a varmint hunt… no really. He was shooting raccoon for sport. Jake assures me it’s a fantastic time.

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For probably an hour, we chatted easily, in part because I’d had a beer or two. They seemed surprised by some of the things I told them about Jake, how gentlemanly and sweet he is, but pleasantly so. It’s clear these women, two of whom Jake lived with in college, think of him as an older brother. I give them extra points for not being too fond of him to give me a chance. That night, Jake and I went to bed in a room of our own, since Callie offered to take the mattress on the floor of the pantry, because Sam was shooting gorilla rats. As nice as the privacy was, however, our bed pretty much felt like a bouncy house. So, despite downloading an app that plays the sound of a fan, because I’m just high-maintenance, I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep.

The next day was the day of the actual party. I hadn’t realized, but numerous other people would be arriving around 2:00, so prep work was in order. Having forgotten my toothbrush in Jake’s crazed rush, I tagged along with the girls to Walmart. I wouldn’t say that I had a lot of interests in common with these women, as I’m quite sure they’ve no idea who Spock is and I mightily loathe Nicholas Sparks, but we did seem to share a lot of values. They were very… Southern. They clearly have really traditional relationships, which was a change of pace compared with my Women in Power family. Jake and I have a dynamic I haven’t discussed at length, but it is very traditional. He generally takes the lead and I generally follow. It works for us and I’m aware it wouldn’t for others. Trust me. Jake’s friends seemed to have pretty similar relationships to ours, though more permanent. The men were all very sweet to their wives/fiancees. At one point, not realizing everyone could see them from outside, Aaron grabbed Mindy’s hand and danced with her in the kitchen. Amy, who I would meet later, over-imbibed and her fiance, Taylor, spent at least a couple of hours away from the party, making sure she was alright. There was certainly a shared element, though, and I can’t even put my finger on what exactly it was, but it was pleasantly… relatable.

When we got back from Walmart, Callie started shredding a rotisserie chicken and she and I paired up to make her Pinterest buffalo chicken pinwheels. The women hung out in the kitchen, cooking, while the men goofed off in the back, but it was a mutual decision and really quite nice to be able to talk freely as girls. I don’t know if it was the standing or the bouncy castle bed, but after a few hours, my back was really bothering me. I hurt it about four years ago and it can occasionally be a real problem. Jake was having a great time, so I disappeared into the bedroom to lie down, so he could enjoy himself.

I’m not used to being so… on, as a weekend away with strangers. It took such constant effort to be friendly and sociable that by the time the party had really started going, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. We’d gotten up so early, for a Saturday, probably around 8:00, that the day felt endless. The one person I knew, was having a grand ol’ time with his high school buddies and the last thing I wanted was to make Jake feel like I needed his constant attention. I liked Jake’s friends. They were fun. It was also a lot of stimulation and I was in pain. After about 30 minutes, Jake came in to check on me and I put on my big girl panties and went back to socialize. It was then I met Amy, a newbie to the group, having been engaged to Clyde’s brother, Tanner, only a month ago, after eight months of dating. Amy, coincidentally, teaches home-ec (my bachelor’s degree), while pursuing her master’s in library and information studies. Not only was she a doll, but it was great to see how inclusive of her Jake’s friends already were. These were just really kind people.

I chronicle every detail of my life, so clearly, I’m a total narcissist, but one of my favorite parts of the weekend was the quiet pride Jake took in me. Despite his friends comments about his touch-phobia, he was just as giving with hugs and kisses and “I love yous” as always. He even bragged to someone that Callie and I had made the pinwheels. At one point, as I stood outside, listening to Aaron tell the story of how his made up game had been brought to the USA by the Titanic swim team, Jake came from behind and wrapped his arms around me.

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I’m pretty sure these are the sweetest hugs ever.

Haley: ::looking to Jake:: “You are a completely different person.”
Jake: “Why?”
Haley: “You’re touching her.”

As sweet, chivalrous, and physically affectionate as Jake is to me, he’s not a blatantly romantic guy. He pays for every date we ever go on, opens the truck door for me nine times out of ten, and shows up at my door less than 24 hours after I call him crying. He’s generally a pretty practical, tough, oil man, so that’s our hearts and flowers. For him to do this stuff in front of his best friends, rubbing my back while insisting I sit down, hugging and kissing me and telling me he loves me, openly bragging about some Pinterest food I helped make… that’s like the equivalent of that scene where Noah and Ally dance in the street, only I’m not an abusive, elitist snob. He’d been the same way, when I was sick during the drive, but that was in private. Seeing Jake value me the way his friends valued their wives and fiances made me picture forever with him in a way I never have. I’m talking about the consideration of compromises like uprooting my career and moving away from my family and friends, one day. It was big.

Not quite as profound, but also very important to me, was the chance to see Jake interact with his friends. Though he’d been drinking pretty steadily, all day, at no point was he out of control drunk. I never felt like I had to act as his babysitter or stay sober so I could take him to the hospital. He didn’t make any hateful comments to anyone or get angry. He was having fun, but he was being an adult while doing so. I never thought I’d say that about someone playing beer pong.

One of the many red flags waved by my ex-husband, was his lack of friends. My mother has a similar problem. I’ve never met an emotionally healthy person who just doesn’t have friends. I consider it a big warning sign that people just don’t like them. I had trouble even keeping up with Jake’s friends and he was loved. It sounds over the top to say that, but they adored Jake and were thrilled to have him there. These are people who’ve known him for 15-20 years. They’ve not only heard the drunken bathroom story, but were there to clean it up. It was awesome to know that he’ll always have his own social circle and that, if the day comes, it’s a pretty welcoming one.

The morning after the party, Jake was, surprisingly, not even hungover. When I asked him about it, he said he’d kept it in check, because he didn’t want me to feel awkward if he was sick. We ate breakfast, as a group, and then we lounged in couples and watched movies for a few hours. After that, everyone packed up and headed on their way. Jake and I chatted on the drive back and I was genuinely sad to leave. As stressful as meeting so many new people was, it was so… normal. I never had a weekend like that in all of my marriage. I’ve never gone away with a man. I’ve never had anyone hug me from behind while his best friend tells me some ridiculous tale. I’ve never even considered uprooting my life for anyone, not even Jake. It was sad to see it all come to a close, but it was pretty great to get all the insight I did from it.

 

 

“… an Eskimo kiss for the road.”

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So, why haven’t I written? Well, I could make excuses about work stress and car trouble, and while both would be valid, they wouldn’t be completely honest. The real reason I haven’t written, is because I’m sill suffering from the dreadful Girl Brain.

Things with Jake are super. He is the bees’ knees, peachy keen, dreamy, and every other pre-1960 reference I’ve made in the past. A few days before Halloween, he came out to Shetland and spent an impromptu two days with me, both of us taking off work to enjoy cuddling up during a rainstorm to watch scary movies and eat pizza. On Halloween evening, I drove to Wellston to spend the holiday with him and met his parents.

Jake: My parents will be here, by the way.
Me: Okay. Does that mean you don’t want me to come or that I just shouldn’t dress all whorey?
Jake: What? No. Stop reading into things.
Me: I’m not reading into anything. I’m trying to figure out if you’re saying you want me to meet your parents or if you want to cancel so you can spend time with them alone.
Jake: If you don’t want to meet them, I’ll understand, but I wasn’t telling you not to come.

Jake’s parents are southern cattle ranchers through and through. Just… picture a couple of southern cattle ranchers and that’s the Grangers. It was a nice dinner, at a local fast food chain. Jake was proud to introduce me. He joked about the fact that I was sort of in costume, in my red jeans and Superman shirt. His mom hassled him about the length of his beard, while his dad talked about politics. They discussed rodeos and deer hunting. They both laughed, when I teased Jake for looking like Yukon Cornelius.

After dinner, Jake watched Hocus Pocus with me, under strict orders that I not recite it. We cuddled on the couch before going to bed, where we also cuddled, until he had to leave for work at 6:00 in the morning and I had to make the drive back to Shetland.

After Halloween, I was all geared up to tell you this great story about meeting the parents. Then I got busy. Then I started overthinking things.

Y’all, if Jake ever proposes, I’m pretty sure my response is going to be “I didn’t even think you liked me.”

Due to distance, family obligations, work, and us both generally having lives, Jake and I get about one sleepover per week. In the meantime, we talk on the phone two or three times and I send a series of anecdotes or Internet memes that rarely get a response… via text message, that is. When we see each other in person, he’ll mention the things I send him and joke about them or discuss them. Jake just doesn’t put as much value on texting or even phone calls as I do. He’d rather spend time together in person… because he’s a dude. I can’t think of a single guy who would want to spend large quantities of time on the phone… but he does it for me, a few times a week. Still, by the time I’m ready to post a blog, I’m worried that Jake is losing interest and that I’ll look back on the post I’m writing and wonder how I was so blind.

The week after Halloween, Jake and I weren’t planning to see each other. He was going to spend his days off hunting and we were going to get together the next week. It was all good, though I knew I’d miss him… until the Thursday following the holiday. I got out of work early and decided I’d finally go get new tires. It couldn’t cost more than $200.

New Tires: $370
Replacement Wheel Strut: $55
New Break Shoes Immediately or I Die: $255
New Struts That are Future Belle’s Problem: $750
New Break Pads That are Nearer Future Belle’s Problem: $300

Me: I don’t think I can do anything next week.
Jake: Why?
Me: I’m just having some financial issues and I think I’m going to have to work. I may be able to take off Friday. I’m not sure.
Jake: Tomorrow or next week?
Me: I meant next week. I’m sorry. I miss you. It’s just been a tough week. 
Jake: I can come tomorrow.
Me: I work tomorrow… and every day after that and it’s still never enough.
Jake: What time? 
Me: I get out at 3:35.
Jake: I’ll be there.

After I got that text, I called Jake to assure him that he didn’t need to come to Shetland. He was in another state, y’all, yet he was willing to drive to Shetland the next afternoon, knowing I was on my period and that we both had to work Saturday, so we’d be getting a maximum of 16 chaste hours together.

Me: “You don’t have to come here. Enjoy your time with your family. I’m fine.”
Jake: “You just called me crying. I’ll be there, tomorrow.”
Me: “I’m not crying! I’m fine.”

Gail: “You’re right. He probably doesn’t even like you.”

The following night, we went out for pizza and cuddled on the couch to watch Zombeavers on Netflix (he now has his own profile on my account).

Jake: “To save your life? Yes. I would throw your dog to a pack of zombies.”

What do I do? Do I swoon or break up with him?

We didn’t get to see each other for another week, after that night. Once again, instead of blogging about the astounding chivalry and genuine care Jake showed me, after I called him bawling about money troubles, I spent the week deciding that the rarity of his messages obviously meant he just wasn’t that into me. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t tell him these things. I don’t act clingy or crazy or ask what he really means, when he says he loves me. I’m aware that these are my insecurities to deal with and not his problem. It’s just that every other woman in the dating world needs a book called He’s Just Not That Into You and I’m wondering where I can get a copy of No Really, He Actually Likes You. He says he loves me. He shows he loves me. Yet, here I am, scratching my head and wondering what he’s thinking. He’s not a complex guy! He’s thinking exactly what he tells me he’s thinking!

This past weekend, Jake came to Shetland, once again at the end of his three days off. He had been hunting with his brother and saw a giant buck on his way out to see me, but still kept his commitment to our plans. I made us crock pot taco soup and talked him into watching an episode of Supernatural, while I sprawled on top of him on the couch. The next morning, Jake came to church with me for his very first Catholic Mass. We went to lunch and then he humored me while I browsed the outlet mall for a couple of Christmas presents, even carrying my bags after I’d made my purchases. We went back to my place and watched The Devil’s Advocate (his choice).

Me: “I made you a present.”
Jake: “You made me a present?”
Me: “Yeah. You probably won’t wear it and that’s okay. I just thought I might make you one. You said red is your favorite color.”
Jake: “It’s a hat. Why wouldn’t I wear it?”
Me: “I don’t know. It’s really bright and maybe it’s kind of lame to wear a hat your girlfriend crocheted for you.”
Jake: “No. I’ll totally wear it to work.”

Definitely swoon.

A few minutes after he left, I called to tell him he’d forgotten some things. I packed them up and ran out to meet him in the parking lot of my complex.

Me: “Open the door. Give me a hug for my troubles.”
Jake: “I would’ve come up and gotten it.”
Me: “That’s okay. I love you.”
Jake: “I love you, too.”
Me: “Hold on. You need an Eskimo kiss for the road.”
Jake: ::laughing::

Gail’s right. He probably doesn’t even like me.

“Would it freak you out if I told you I loved you?”

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Me: “You make me really happy.”
Jake: ::silence::
Me: “Does it freak you out, when I say stuff like that?”
Jake: “What? No.”
Me: “Would it freak you out, if I told you I loved you?”
Jake: ::laughing:: “No.”
Me: “I love you.”
Jake: “I love you, too.”

Y’all, I said it first. I later informed Gaily that I didn’t feel insecure about it, because Jake’s a very strong-willed guy and there’s not a soul on Earth that can manipulate that man into doing anything he doesn’t want to do. Also, though, as I was leaving…

Me: “Did I push you into saying anything you didn’t want to say, before?”
Jake: “What? No. You didn’t.”

Despite this, I had horrible moments of insecurity over the next week and a half, rationalizing that “I love you” is practically an ultimatum. The other person either says it back or the two of you break up. So, by that logic, Jake wasn’t saying he loved me. He was just saying he didn’t want to break up with me.

Well. I made that significantly less romantic.

Suddenly, I was worried about every text I sent. Was I annoying him? Was he not texting back, not because he’s always been more of a phone guy, but because he’s over me? Did he really want to spend his birthday with me? Would the effort I put into his birthday celebration freak him out? Should I send everything back and act like I hadn’t planned anything? Would buying him beer that he’d undoubtedly keep at my place be too long term? What about starting such an epic series as The Lord of the Rings? Zetus lapetus, I may as well have just proposed!

I kept this all to myself, of course. I’d already essentially asked Jake if he was sure he loved me. I’ve also heard him say numerous times that women need to just take the things men say at face value instead of over-analyzing them. I know he’s a forthright guy. So, at this point, my vulnerability is not Jake’s problem. It’s Gail’s.

Me: “He told me he loved me. He told me he was sure he loved me. He cooked me dinner that he killed personally. He doesn’t care that I left a toothbrush, some shampoo and conditioner, a comforter, and a stand-up fan at his place. He was willing to go with me to have my dog put down if he had puppy cancer. He’s a bearded oil man who gives Eskimo kisses and coos at my beagle like he’s a baby. He’s not getting laid until Valentine’s Day! Still, I’m over here with Girl Brain, tearing it all to pieces.”
Gail: “When he said ‘What? No.’ when you asked if you’d pressured him, what he meant was ‘What? No… and I hope that’s the end of that drama.’ You’re being totally and completely irrational and you’re right. You don’t get to talk to him about it, because that’s not his problem. I can tell you this, because I know it’s exactly what you need to hear. You talk to me about this stuff, not him.”

Despite Gail’s reassurance, I vowed that I was just going to stop saying it. Clearly, this goes on the very short list of things at which Belle does not excel: modesty, sports, and vulnerability. So, the next time I saw Jake, I was going to just pretend the whole thing never happened. On Wednesday, when I drove to Wellston after work, I was determined not to say it.

Me: “What if February comes and I’m really bad at sex?”
Jake: ::laughing:: “Meh. You’ll learn.”
Me: ::laughing:: “I love you.”
Jake: “I love you, too.”

  1. modesty
  2. sports
  3. vulnerability
  4. filtering thoughts to speech

It’s definitely best that we haven’t had sex, yet.

The First Time He Sees You Have a Panic Attack in Bed…

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That’s a relationship milestone, isn’t it? Wasn’t that an episode of Sex and the City?

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that, in addition to my dated television references, I have… difficulty processing negative emotions.

Me: “All kidding aside, I genuinely think that if we just bury our negative feelings, without discussing it, there won’t be any long term consequences as long it doesn’t happen often.”
Gail: 

So, last Wednesday, when I topped off my already terrible day by running into my ex-husband for the first time since he signed the papers five years ago, I coped as only Belle can… which is to say I didn’t. It was only 4:00 in the afternoon, y’all. I was already overwhelmed and still had a night at the library head of me. I chose not to process such unpleasantness. After all, no words were spoken. We only made eye contact and kept walking. It was easy enough to compartmentalize and label it Future Belle’s problem.

Indeed it was. That night, after work, lying in bed, I had an… episode. Though it’s been almost five years, occasionally, I still have nightmares about my marriage. Usually, I’m still married, he’s still a sociopath, and the worst part is that I have trouble waking. Even more rarely, I wake and have trouble convincing myself that I’m in the present day and in no danger. Last Wednesday, however, was… severe.

I’m talking, Lifetime Original Movie severity, here. It was epic, in a way it has not been in years. So, naturally, once I’d come to my senses, emotionally and physically exhausted, I assumed the drama was out of my system. Everyone gets one meltdown every decade or so. Fortunately, I’d had mine that night, as opposed to the next, when my boyfriend would be staying over. What luck!

Jake came to town the next day and I conversationally explained a bit about why the previous day had been so awful, including that seeing my ex-husband “rattled” me. We went to dinner, watched a couple of movies and an episode of The Walking Dead, and we went to bed. Once there, we fooled around for a little bit and then I started to feel a bit… off. I feared I knew what was happening and went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I told myself to get control and went with my usual inner mantra.

It’s 2015. Your’e 28 years old. It has been almost five years and you are safe.

It wasn’t working. Of course, I shifted my focus to hiding my breakdown from Jake as I got into bed. It seemed easy enough to do with the lights off, even if that was making my little PTSD-worthy flashback worse. I told myself to keep my feelings where feelings belong: on the inside…

… as I started shaking. To Jake, there was no catalyst. The room was cold and he assumed the shaking was shivering… for the first few minutes.

Jake: “Are you okay?”
Me: ::nod::
Jake: “Belle? Are you alright? Say something.”
Me: 

Without a response, Jake reached for the light… and I lost it.

Me: ::hysterically crying:: “I’m fiiiiiine.”

I don’t remember a lot of the conversation, honestly. It’s sort of a blur beyond Jake finally getting frustrated with all of my apologies for crying.

Jake: “Will you stop apologizing and just please tell me what’s wrong?”
Me: “Sometimes, I just… I feel really panicked and just get really… scared. I’m sorry. Yesterday just really freaked me out. I promise this never happens!”

Jake was impossibly sweet, as he stroked my hair, told me I was okay and that I was safe. At one point, he actually feared I couldn’t breathe as my throat started to close and I wheezed through my cries. He just held me as I apologized again and again for showing negative emotions.

Me: “Do I have too much baggage?”
Jake: “No. Jude’s not too much baggage. He’s close, but not quite.”

He made a joke. The guy realized how much I don’t like to talk about feelings and he joked about my clingy dog being too much baggage, instead of forcing me to take the situation seriously.

Once I’d calmed down, Jake kissed the top of my head…

Jake: “I want my tea.”
Me: “What?”
Jake: “I’m thirsty.”
Me: “There’s a water bottle right there.”
Jake: “I know, but I have tea in the fridge and I want to get it.”
Me: “Okay? Why are you telling me this?”
Jake: “I just didn’t want you to think that I was getting up to put on my boots and leave, because I would never do that.”

More than once in the night, Jake actually woke me to make sure I was alright. The next morning, I brought it up first.

Me: “So, did I freak you out too much last night?”
Jake: “What? No. I’m just glad I was here.”
Me: “Yeah. Me, too. It was a lot worse the night before last. Don’t worry, though. I only cry once a year. If feelings were meant to be talked about, they would be called talkings.”

The Fault in Our Deal Breakers

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Things with Jake are going really well. He’s funny, smart, hardworking, and chivalrous. We enjoy enough of the same things to be compatible and have a good time, but have enough of our own interests not to bore one another. The sexual chemistry is as good as it can be for two people who are not actually having sex. Simply put, after three months, he is still the bee’s knees.

It’s funny how such chemistry works, though. When I met Jake, we’d barely chatted on Plenty of Fish, both eager to just meet and see if there was anything there. At first sight, I remember thinking that he was, indeed, 5’8″, which was both a positive and a negative, in that he was being honest and 5’8″ is fine, but was not secretly a very sexy 6′ tall. I noticed that he was clearly a country boy and drove an attractively ridiculous pickup. I supposed the red hair wasn’t so bad, but I did wonder what he looked like without the hat. Yes. Those are the initial physical impressions I had of the guy with whom I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love. These observations were without negativity or distaste. I considered Jake the way I assume most people consider an online date, comparing him with the image I’d been given and assessing whether or not the result was workable. It’s almost… scientific. Looking back, though, I find it somewhat fascinating what does and does not actually matter in our relationship, in regards to the deal breakers I initially set forth, even after reading the book that helped me to completely reevaluate my priorities in January. For example…

What Doesn’t Matter

His Hairline


Two years ago, I went to a festival with Ava, a friend from high school. Ava’s married to her second boyfriend, so as much of a doll as she is, she’s not really capable of exchanging dating experiences. She had, however, brought a friend from work along, Sheila. I’d been discussing some of my latest dates with Ava, when Sheila shyly admitted that’s she’s tried some online dating as well. We started to specify, in a little more detail, what we will and won’t accept in a profile or photo, when Sheila announced with disgust “I don’t want bald guys.”

At the time, I was still in the midst of my Shallow Phase and even I thought that was a little harsh. I mean, bald can be attractive, particularly when worn with confidence, but I figured everyone has their limits and I didn’t want to be judgemental toward a woman I’d just met. That was then. Today, I’ll say with certainty that if you’re turning men down because of their hairline, you’re making a mistake. Statistically speaking, over two thirds of men will experience significant hair loss by age 35. It truly is only a matter of time and wouldn’t it be a damned shame to be single at 33 (disclaimer: assuming you want to be married at 33) only to realize that the petty reason you had for turning down potentially great guys five years ago is now a quality shared in most of the men you meet?

Personally, it took me a little while to get used to Jake without his hat, not because I found his hairline unattractive, but because he just looks like a different person without it. The fact is, however, that when he does all of ­­the sweet things he does for me, such as taking my dog out while I’m in the shower, cooking me dinner, or walking around the fair for 30 minutes looking for the chicken and waffles I just had to have… it never really registers which guy he looks like anymore.

His Height


If they’re going to lie, women lie about weight and men lie about height. This generalization is usually true, regardless of age and no matter who’s telling tales, the logic is the same:

I’m only rounding and once they meet me, it won’t matter.

We all know that lying in online dating is unfair, but we do it because no one responds to us, otherwise.

I’ll just post that more flattering photo from last spring. I look basically the same.
I’ll say I’m 5’10”. As long as she’s below 5’8″, she won’t care.

You don’t look the same. You’re not 5’10”. They’re going to care, because you’re lying by introduction.

We’ve been over this, though. What I haven’t really acknowledged, however, is how little height matters in the long run. When I first started dating online, I stated that prospects must be six foot, not because I was being shallow (okay, not just because I was being shallow), but because my dad and brother are both six foot. At 23 years old, I genuinely thought that six feet tall was average height for a man. When I learned otherwise (less than 15%*), however, I only lowered my requirement to 5’10”, because I wanted to be a dainty little lady next to my guy.

Now, as I mentioned, Jake is 5’8″. That means he has about two inches on me… only two inches on me… and it’s fine. Being an oil man, while not tall, Jake is stocky, so I do still feel quite small next to him, particularly since I wear ballet flats everywhere and he wears work boots that add an inch to his height. I’m not saying that I’d necessarily be just as attracted were he 5’3″, but I think I would even if he were just my height. Attraction is important. I’m not claiming otherwise. Just as with his hairline, though, when Jake pays for dinner, chases his giggling nieces, or laughs at my dad’s jokes, I don’t give one fig how tall he is. Eventually, the individual features that you’re considering on that first date just add up to a whole person. Hat or no hat, 5’8 or 6′, today, Jake just looks like Jake… and I find him pretty darned cute.

His Hobbies

When I started dating, I had this image in my mind of a man who reads non-fiction and perhaps high fantasy. He’d like to fish and hunt, but wouldn’t mount trophies. He wouldn’t really care for video games or have such a juvenile sense of humor as to watch stereotypical boy comedies.

Not only does Jake love South Park and tell me all about each new episode, he thinks Austin Powers is hilarious. He likes to golf and despises cats. We have an ongoing dispute over whether or not his deer mount has a name (it’s Buzz) and he loves to camp. Y’all, when it comes to camping, the only thing I DON’T have in common with the mom from Troop Beverly Hills, is that I will never love my daughter enough to camp.

Take my kidney, but I ain’t sleeping on the ground.

We share a lot of commonalities as well, though. We both like old cheesy science fiction and love the holidays. We enjoy horror movies and Jake doesn’t even mind that I screech like a rape victim whenever anything jumps out at me (at home or in a crowded theater). We share a dry and sarcastic sense of humor and I, in fact, do understand most of his South Park references, because I used to watch the show. I like older video games and can even be coerced into playing some newer ones. We both love to learn and Jake will more or less humor me in regards to any outing I suggest.

Having different interests gives us something to talk about and allows each of us to try something new. Jake’s really enjoying The Walking Dead and I’ve learned some fancy new hunting lingo. Did you know that a successful dove hunting outing does not equal “catching a lot of birds”? Because we work in entirely separate fields, there’s never a competition to be the expert. Perhaps, most importantly, Jake’s silly hobbies allow me mine. I can always crochet or read a trashy romance novel while he plays his new video game or watches the latest political debate. Just as my affinity for paranormal romance says nothing about my intelligence, his South Park quotes say nothing about his. Everyone wastes time in different ways and it’s just been really nice to sit next to someone while doing so. He’ll just have to deal with it, when I get a cat.

What Does Matter

His Weight
When I read my one and only dating guide, I was convinced that weight didn’t matter. Like height, weight was just part of the initial attraction and eventually, I wouldn’t notice anyway. Then, I had my date with Dell, who blatantly lied about his weight. This wasn’t 10 pounds, but 40 on a man who was only 5’7″. Jake isn’t a wisp of a guy, but he’s nowhere near obese, as Dell was. The thing is, as we’ve been dating, I’ve realized how much it matters to me that he’s not excessively overweight.

Unlike height, weight isn’t about attraction so much as physical capability. Never have I sat in a booth with Jake only to realize he doesn’t quite fit. Not once has he had to sit down and catch his breath from leisurely walking, as my ex-husband did, because he was morbidly obese. Being with someone so young, yet so out of shape is inconvenient and embarrassing. When Jake and I went to the zoo, on our 6th date, I was the one who needed the break, when my asthma started giving me trouble. Last Friday, we spent the whole day walking around the fair and Jake kept pace just fine. He doesn’t have high blood pressure, or bad knees, or trouble maneuvering in bed.

I think the most important issue in the long run, is that I don’t feel pressured to eat poorly around Jake. When we went the fair, sure, we stuffed ourselves with bottled beer and syrup drenched chicken. In fact, I appreciate his ability to enjoy a day without calorie counting. I also appreciate his generally healthy habits, though, as they more or less match mine. We may not be talking forever just yet, but if it’s ever up for discussion, I don’t want to spend the next 50 years fighting about pouring gravy over everything.

His Time


From our first date, Jake has done something that’s set him apart from any man I’ve ever met. He’s made me a priority. When we first started messaging, I was hesitant to get involved with a man in oil, as ubiquitous as it is around these parts. Engineer 114 had been in oil and his schedule and priorities had both been problematic. Jake had assured me that distance wasn’t important to him and he’d travel to Springfield to meet me and buy me lunch. For our second date, he traveled even further to meet me at the mall in the heart of the Metro. For our third date, when we went to the Fourth of July festival in Springfield, he mentioned to me that he was supposed to spend time with his parents, but they’d arrived several hours later than planned. Rather than postpone or cancel with me, he explained to them that he’d made a commitment and he was leaving. He chose to forgo time with his family to keep his plans with me and not ruin my holiday.

Sure, when I was looking, I mentioned that I wanted someone who had time to date, but I never expected the level of commitment that Jake displayed from the beginning. It wasn’t that he was obsessed with me or clingy, so much as if he said he would be somewhere, he meant it. Yes, Jake’s been late when he’s come to see me from his family’s ranch, but he’s never bailed on me. In fact, last Friday, when he hadn’t messaged or called to tell me for sure if he’d still be able to come to the city for the fair, I assumed he’d been caught up in the rig check he’d done that morning. Dejected, I told myself that this is part of dating an oil man and I either am or am not up for it, but that Jake wouldn’t just stand me up without a damned good reason and I didn’t get to guilt trip him for it. I took care to keep my texts neutral.

I’m gonna go to the gym. Let me know when you’re able. Miss you.

Almost immediately, Jake called to tell me that he was halfway to Shetland and hadn’t answered the phone, because he was driving through a thunderstorm. On the surface, I’m dating a guy who won’t ditch me when he knows I’m looking forward to the fair. I look deeper, though, and I see a guy who won’t tell me he’ll mow the lawn and yell at me for guilt tripping him by doing it myself two days later… a guy who won’t get fired for staying home to play video games… a man who won’t leave me to miscarry alone and scared.

His Respect for My Field

To be fair, I did list this as a requirement in dating, but I never realized how important it was to me to not only be with someone who didn’t openly mock my field, but who genuinely seemed to respect it. As a librarian, in the dating world, I’ve received some pretty danged appalling comments about my degree and profession. I’ve written entire posts about them. In short, there’s just no quicker way to end a date with me than to to mock libraries and/or librarians… after I lecture you about how wrong you are.

Jake has never belittled me, especially in my career. On our first date, he naturally asked a lot of questions, and I think the stress involved in my job still surprises him. The other night, when he asked me how work was, I answered “over stimulating”, which threw him for a second. He’s hardly the only one who pictures a peaceful library instead of a night of secretarial work, in-depth research, information technology, education, babysitting, customer service, and the occasional call to the police. The difference is, he asks and listens. He processes what I’m telling him and believes me.

As an engineer, Jake has a very stressful job, sometimes working for 24 hours at a time, in a hole in the ground. Never once, though, has he responded to my exhaustion with a comparison to his own. He respects my field and my stress level for what they are, even if he doesn’t fully understand. Not only that, but when I excitedly told him I’d applied for a full time position at a library in a dangerous part of the city, he didn’t imply that he didn’t want me to take it… just that I needed to stop defending it with stories of how all libraries are sketchy and telling him about the bullet holes in the window next door. He knows my job isn’t just important to me, but part of who I am as a person.

I don’t know where things are going to ultimately go with Jake. In two years, I could be blogging about my new boyfriend or my new baby. It’s really too soon to tell. If this doesn’t work out, though? I feel like I know a lot more about what actually matters and what just… doesn’t.

Citations

http://gladwell.com/blink/why-do-we-love-tall-men/

My Secret Dates with Fluid Engineer

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I used to follow these two dating bloggers. They weren’t dating bloggers in the sense that I’m a dating blogger, sharing a bad date one week, a funeral the next, a rant on gender equality after that, and eventually another bad date. They specifically started their blogs to discuss their dating lives, their search for love. Regardless, I enjoyed reading them. I wanted to read about that date that didn’t end in disaster and finally led to a second date, a third, an “I love you.” They stopped writing, though. Maybe they’re busy with wedding plans. Maybe they gave up the search and are focusing on their careers and friendships. Maybe they’re still going on bad dates. I felt cheated, though. I was a loyal follower, reading each post, writing comments and giving advice when they asked for it. I was happy for them when they had a good time with a man and frustrated for them when they never got a call back. I promised myself that I’d never do that to my readers.

Today, I have 1,352 followers on this blog. I don’t know how many people are actually reading, sharing in my joys and pain, my laughter and frustration. I don’t get a lot of feedback, but that’s okay. I’ve had this blog for nearly three years and I’ve written consistently, because I enjoy writing. I’ve had a blog, in some sense, for the last… 12 years? Before that, it was paper journals. No. I’m not going anywhere. Y’all will likely read about my wedding, my first child, my family vacations. So, I’ve never really felt in danger of breaking the above promise. I won’t just disappear on you. But… I’ll apparently keep those good dates from you.

I suppose it started with Engineer 114. He was out of town a lot and we were just texting, but I was hopeful. Politician came next. I liked him well enough. There was a possibility for a second date. Then there was Oil, who I really did like. Finally, there was Dell, who I didn’t find attractive, which made me feel guilty and judgmental. I didn’t share about any of these men until after the fact, though. Week after week, I brainstormed for writing topics, even when I’d just been on a date. I’ve been doing exactly what I resented from my dating bloggers. So… I haven’t written about Fluid Engineer.

Fluid Engineer is 30, never married, no kids. He turns 31 on October 14, which he only told me once and I remembered, because Gaily is right and it’s weird that I text her every September 14 to remind her to wish her first ever boyfriend a happy birthday. But, that means he’s a Libra to my Virgo, like Gail and we seem to get along mighty fine. He lives about an hour away, but he’s not especially attached to his location, since he’s originally from Texas. We didn’t text long before our first meeting, which is how I prefer it.

My first date with Fluid Engineer was lunch and it was just… nice. He drove to me and he paid. In regards to appearance, he just looks like a guy. I likely wouldn’t notice him on the street, one way or another. He told me I was the first woman he’d met who actually looked like her picture. I may have called his family racist.

FE: “We play Chinese Christmas every year.”
Me: “Chinese Christmas?”
FE. “Yeah. Haven’t you heard of Dirty Santa? It’s like that.”
Me: “… just racist.”

Fortunately, he laughed. He walked me to my car, where he very sweetly tried to open my door for me, before I’d unlocked it. Naturally, I narrated the awkwardness.

Me: “That’s still locked, but that’s very sweet of you.”

We made plans for a second date pretty immediately, texting over his six days on and planning to get together on one of his three days off. He seemed interested, but not creepily so. I looked forward to our second date, which ended up being Jurassic World in 3D at the mall. We walked around the mall and talked. He bought chocolate Swiss Army knives for his niece’s birthday and I teased him about his first time in the Big City. He sounds like a bit of a redneck, so I’m glad we never talked on the phone and I couldn’t be a judgmental cow, because he’s really quite intelligent. He’s nice and was chivalrous enough to pay for lunch and we talked until I realized I was going to be late for work if I didn’t call my Gramma and ask her to take the dog out so I could go straight to the library. Fluid Engineer even wanted to see each other again, before he started his next six days on, but I felt like that might be a bit much a bit soon, so I asked if we could do something next week. Since then, we’ve been texting and he’s still pretty keen.

So… why the secrecy?

Well, I suppose I’m embarrassed to tell y’all about my eventual possible rejection. That’s second only to admitting that I sabotaged things with a perfectly nice guy. I mean, statistically speaking, it’ll be one or the other. It’s not like any of my previous dates haven’t ended poorly. That’s the point of this blog, though… to chronicle my life. I want to look back and read my first impression when it does go well. I want to remember it all. I want to share it all. I also do so anonymously, so I really have nothing to fear.

The Time I Wasn’t Overreacting: Update on Stabby McStabberson

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So last week, I had a pretty terrifying online dating experience… or at least I was pretty sure it qualified as one, when I wrote The Time I Almost Got Shankraped by Online Dating. Bee tea double ewe, the day someone slips “shankraped” into casual conversation or a presidential speech, you heard it here first, so you’re welcome.

As my original post indicated, I immediately called Gaily and told her everything. As is her way, she flipped the fuck out and started talking about protection orders and staying at her house for a little while.

I figured it was all good, though. I mean, surely he didn’t think I was interested after all of that awkwardness, right? Then I got a message on Plenty of Fish, after I deleted my OKCupid account.

05-01-15 1

“A little while back”?!?! Dude, this was two fucking days later!

Okay. So he didn’t understand it the first time. There’s no way he could’ve missed the point after that message. Until he did. Unfortunately, I don’t have that screenshot, because I was so freaked out that I immediately blocked him and the message was erased. It went a little something like this, though:

Stabby McStabberson: “Hey, I can’t read your message for some reason. Just text me and maybe we can get to know each other a little better.”

Shetland’s not Mayberry, y’all, but it’s not exactly Chicago either. I could see this guy anywhere, but most especially at my gym. So, I was literally shaking with fear… hence the typos when I responded.

05-01-15 2He “dropped the whole thing awhile ago.” I mean, sure I’d gotten that message, literally 20 minutes earlier, but that was “awhile ago.” I am soooo sorry, Stabby McStabberson, for making you uncomfortable. I’m aware that my response was aggressive and downright mean, but I was terrified and I wanted a response to clarify that he understood. I was way beyond letting him save face, at this point. Perhaps he was less crazy and just not that bright, but it’s also not like a dimwitted man can’t still skin me and wear me.

I tried to be polite and subtle. I tried to be polite and direct. Both attempts failed. So for now, it seems that Leatherface considers me a complete bitch, which is fine by me… as long as he doesn’t seek revenge. Keep an eye out for that news story, though.

Belle of the Book Blogs

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Ugh! FINE. I LIED, OKAY?!?!

I claimed the reason I never started a book blog was that I’m just too opinionated. That’s not strictly true. It’s really because I was too lazy. About a year ago, I set one up. I chose a name, formatted it, even made a custom header. I just never did anything with it. You see, my favorite book bloggers, they’re just so… wordy. They go on and on about their favorite titles and how the characters made them feel and what they liked and didn’t like and who they’d choose to play the roles and what they hope to get out of the next installment and for the most part…. I’m just skimming. Also, that was an intentional run-on sentence to create a feeling of endlessness. Anyhoo…

As much as I value the opinions of my favorite book bloggers and appreciate a good review before I spend time trying to get into a story… if I wanted to read that much on the subject, I’d just read the book. Why can’t someone create a book blog where they just tell me whether or not the book is worth my time and give a brief description of why? I mean, if you didn’t like the story because the man was too bossy, step aside and give me a copy, because I love a good fictional alpha male. On the other hand, if you wanted to cut the heroine, because she was so obnoxious, thanks for saving me the time and pennies. Regardless, those sentiments can be shared in very few words and we can fangirl in the comments. Which brings me to my final point: If I wanted to make a book blog, why would I spend hours reviewing a title, when I admittedly skim everyone else’s reviews?!?!

So, I invited y’all to follow me on Goodreads, which I do maintain, but any reviews I might write quickly get lost in the sea of clever, GIF filled, three-page-long critiques. So, alas, I am going to be the change I wish to see in the world… cuz that’s where Gandhi was going with that. He wanted me to review smut and such… in 250 words or less, at Belle of the Book Blogs. It’s the Twitter of book blogging.

Five Ways You Offend Women by Insulting Fifty Shades of Grey

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Provocative title, isn’t it? Anyone who reads my blog is familiar with my love-to-hate affection for the Fifty Shades of Grey series. After all, I’ve captioned it here, here, here, and in my last entry I showed you my homemade Pin the Penis on Christian Grey game. There are many things wrong with this series, but quite frankly, that’s a topic that’s been exhausted as of late, by individuals willing to take it a lot more seriously than I. In fact, while researching for this blog post, I found this one, which makes a lot of great points and this one, which makes me giggle.

Reba: “Everything makes you giggle, Belle.”


I do have a pretty low threshold.

So, don’t misunderstand my point here. I am not defending the series, as a whole. It’s just that in reading all of the thought-provoking and giggle-inducing critiques, I’ve come across a few criticisms that insult women all on their own. For instance:

Women who read Fifty Shades of Grey are unintelligent.

Zetus lapetus, is this book badly written. The characters are abhorrent, the dialogue is beyond a reasonable suspension of disbelief, and it is just so redundant. I don’t care that Anastasia says “double crap.” I just said “zetus lapetus.” I care that she says it 88 fucking times. It’s just… unreadable, but you know what? That’s just me. I read books about pushy special ops alpha males and werewolf love stories and that one about the sexy alien king. One of the most well-read women I know has a soft spot for hobbit slash fanfiction. Does that make either of us any less intelligent? If your answer is yes, kiss my ass, because I’m also reading The Teenage Brain, by Frances E. Jensen; and I devour at least 10 articles a day on everything from current events to the issues facing prison libraries.

If your argument against Fifty Shades of Grey is that intelligent women can’t read poorly written smut, you are one of the reasons reading is not a more popular hobby. Some people don’t watch American Idol or Keeping Up With the Kardashians. Some people just Googled “most popular reality show” to make that point. That doesn’t mean they don’t need to turn down their brain to relax. Not everyone considers reading a chore all the time. There are two kinds of librarians: literature snobs and those who hate literature snobs. I am the latter. I am intelligent. Sometimes I read smut.

Ana is only 22.

I’ve seen multiple criticisms of Fifty Shades of Grey fixate on the age of the heroine. For one, they get it wrong. Ana turned 22 in the third book, Fifty Shades Freed, so actually, the character in the movie is supposed to be 21, until otherwise specified. If you’re gonna bitch about something, do it accurately.

fiftydollars

When I was 21 years old, I lost my baby to a nearly second trimester miscarriage. Six months after that, I helped my best friend bury her infant daughter. That year, I accepted over $20,000 in student loans, graduated college, made the decision to enter graduate school, and chose to leave my ex-husband. Perhaps it wasn’t the typical middle-class American 22-year-old experience, but I was unequivocally an adult. By 22 I had bought a car, moved several times, paid my bills, taken out more in student loans than I could possibly earn in a year, and made major decisions about my future career path. That is typical. So, how dare you tell me that I wouldn’t have been of sound mind to enter into a sexual relationship of my choosing? If a woman old enough to vote, marry, drink, be tried as an adult, and sign binding contracts wants to sign a pretend contract before consensual sex, it doesn’t matter how much she giggles or how “mousey” she appears. I was 23 when I learned to apply eyeliner from a YouTube video and actually style my damned hair. That’s not what made me an adult. Being both responsible and accountable for my own choices was. Regardless of where things go in the books (spoiler alert: it ain’t good), Anastasia Steele was both of these when she met Christian Grey. Her age had absolutely no bearing on the situation and it’s disrespectful to young adult women to imply that they are not capable of making their own choices.

Ana is still a virgin.

This article is not the first one to take issue with the fact that Anastasia Steele has never had a sexual experience until she meets Christian Grey. The writer actually suggests that, because Ana has had no genuine interest in a man and doesn’t masturbate, it’s more likely the character is asexual. For one, the lead character in a romance isn’t asexual. That’s not how the genre works. Two, we learn later that Ana has had encounters with the opposite sex and they just haven’t gone anywhere. In regards to masturbation, I do know women who just aren’t interested. A lot of women have trouble reaching orgasm, both by themselves and with a partner. Their bodies just work a bit differently and without an emotional connection, physical stimulation may lack appeal… and that’s okay.

My biggest problem with focusing on this criticism of the series, however, is the assumption that a woman who is not sexually active is asexual or somehow abnormal. I am 27 years old and I have not had sex in five years. Furthermore, I’ve only kissed five people, ever. I am not asexual. I’m just not interested in sharing my body with someone with whom I see no future. I once let a man in a bar kiss me, with tongue, when I’d just met him that night. It makes me uncomfortable even remembering that, because physicality without an emotional connection just doesn’t do it for me. Different women have different needs and it’s just as offensive to shame a woman for not being sexually active as it is to call another a slut.

Fifty Shades of Grey is only popular, because the hero is rich.

While Christian Grey sure isn’t my dreamboat, I can tell you that in the current dating pool of grown men with flat-billed caps and job titles as specific as “n/a,” it’s not so far-fetched to think that, perhaps, it would be easier to repair deep-seated emotional scarring than to motivate a man to get his shit together. Regardless, I’m not convinced that the ability to “buy all the planes” is what appeals to the Fifty Shades of Grey target audience, particularly the over 30 bracket. This article actually suggests a somewhat circular logic: women are reading Fifty Shades of Grey, because women are reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Finally, a woman with traditional goals (marriage, children, an optional career) can come out and say…

No longer is it only Carrie Bradshaw that gets to talk dirty, but housewives too!

As a librarian, part of my job is analyzing literary trends. This is why I am particularly aware of the rise of the billionaire romance novel. Along with Christian Grey, in the last few years we’ve been introduced to Gideon Cross, Gabriel Emerson, Jesse Ward, and many other laughably wealthy and emotionally damaged heroes. However, long before well-worn copies of Fifty Shades of Grey hit nightstands all over the world, we met the heroes in these series: Rock Chick, KGI, Black Dagger Brotherhood, Psy-Changelings, Immortals After Dark, and The Sookie Stackhouse Novels. Every title listed stars leading men who are borderline abusive and financially set. That describes most contemporary, paranormal, and historical romance. This shit ain’t new. Not only does the insistence that this book simply broke new ground with an abusive megabajillionaire give the title far too much credit, it also implies that all women who enjoy romance are gold digging whores. That’s just not nice.

Note: I have been known to declare that I’d let a man string me from the ceiling and whip me if he’d pay off my student loans, but I am hardly the standard by which all women should be measured.

Fifty Shades of Grey is responsible for sex injuries.

This article and many, many more suggest that the rise in bedroom play injuries is the fault of Fifty Shades of Grey. Maybe it’s the researcher in me, but…. I call bullshit. You are an adult. You likely have a smartphone on you at all times, meaning you literally have endless information at your fingertips. If you are stupid enough to purchase a spreader bar and use a trashy novel for a user manual, you are the only one to blame for the broken spine. Have some faith that the majority of women are intelligent enough to manage a Google search, y’all.

I can say a lot of bad things about Fifty Shades of Grey. A lot of writers can. I mean, two twenty-somethings e-mailing each other? What is this, Amish country? Between Ana’s “inner goddess” and Christian’s “laters baby” this librarian actually fell out of love with reading for a few days. I love when women ask me to suggest titles “like Fifty Shades of Grey,” because it gives me the opportunity to introduce them to much better written erotica. Perhaps I can get them started on Kristen Ashley’s special-ops-saves girl books. Maybe I can send them back in time with one of Karen Marie Moning’s sexy highlanders. I can even show them more plot-light erotica, but with with steamier scenes that don’t read like a child reporting her molestation – “Then he touched me… down there!” You know what I won’t do, though? Insult them.

Engineer 104: The Date I’ve Already Forgotten

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I’m just numbering the engineers by tens now.

Gail: “Judging by the men you skip over, that’s probably pretty accurate.”

For some time, I’ve been operating under the rule that if a man meets no deal breakers, I’ll give him a shot. I know I haven’t written about a date since the night I was stood up downtown, ultimately ending up crying over a bag of jelly beans, but that’s not because I’ve vowed to recruit my gal pals in some sort of eventual Golden Girls arrangement. There’s just nobody left. Every man I meet in person and online is perpetually 12 years old. I’m dating in The Children of the Fucking Corn and there is not a grown up to be found. Thanks a heap, Generation X, for raising a society of men who can’t put down the XBOX controller long enough to fill out a job application.

I jest, of course… sort of… at least about the choices and laziness of grown men still being the responsibility of their parents. Everyone in the dating world, though, has that one stat that they look at before all others. For some, it’s physical attractiveness. For others, it’s whether or not they have children. For me, it’s career. I’ll respond to a man with an otherwise blank profile if he has a legitimate and promising career. It’s not about money. I make my own money, proudly. It’s about security and knowing that I won’t be the sole bread winner, pretty much ever. What can I say? Young divorce broke me.

 

In 2014, when the Peter Pan Generation reigns supreme, it seems the number one profession for men under 35 is “student.” In the South, second to that is “oil.” Finally, at least in my experience, it’s “engineer.” I won’t, under any circumstances, even respond to the first. The second, rarely, because no further specification usually means blue collar rig worker who likely won’t have a job in 10 years, because the oil field just sort of works that way. So, I date engineers. Apparently exclusively.

Engineer number 104 had messaged me multiple times over several different dating sites. He wasn’t especially pushy, doing so with a significant amount of time between each, but he was persistent in his interest. I… wasn’t.

Gail: “What’s going on in your dating world, by the way?”
Me: “Meh. There’s this one guy who keeps messaging me, but there’s really not much there. He’s also too old for me, built like Uncle Fester, and has scary teeth.”

uncle festerNot one time, have I claimed to be sweet.

Ultimately, I decided I was being shallow, because I totally was, and I should give this guy a shot. He didn’t meet any of my deal breakers and I did say I would actually start trying, so as to lessen my chances of getting a Daddy in a Jar at 32 and raising a child alone. I finally responded to his offer to text, with some lie about why it took so long, and tried to get a conversation going. There still wasn’t anything there, but whatevs, in for a penny…

Engineer 104 told me to choose a place to meet, which obviously lost him some points right away, but I was pretty adamant that I was going to give the guy a chance and not go in with any assumptions that the night would be a disaster. I chose a local sports bar and ate beforehand, because however dedicated I was, I knew I’d felt little connection in our digital communications and didn’t want him to buy me dinner if there was no spark in person.

I got to the bar first and, after my tearful night of jelly beans, I most definitely thought I might be stood up again. Engineer 104 was about 15 minutes late, with no text message, but had told me he was on his way earlier. I mentally calculated the money in my bank account and planned to leave and buy a cat at 30 minutes after. No joke, because that is definitely an impulse buy to make after a bad date. When he finally arrived, I realized that Engineer’s pictures didn’t really do him justice, as is often the case with men. They suck at selfies and he’d only posted a single very unflattering one. He wasn’t a Winchester, but he also wasn’t an Addams, so woot. We chose a high top table in the middle of the bar and he started talking… about himself… and didn’t stop.

In all fairness, 104 wasn’t awful, but he also wasn’t interested in engaging me in the conversation in the least. I make an effort to ask questions on a first date, so as to avoid a a nervous Buffy the Vampire Slayer fangirl rant, and did so this time as well, but it really wasn’t necessary. Engineer was happy to tell me all about his father/sons camping trip, his problems with deceased family estate drama, the dog his ex-girlfriend kept in the breakup. He even did a few racist impressions of the past clients he name dropped. Let me tell you, you don’t know romance until you hear a Southern white man’s imitation of the Sultan of Dubai.

Now, I like to exaggerate, y’all. It’s kind of my thing.

Gail: :: shivering in the cold grocery store ::
Me: “No one has ever been this cold. I feel like I’m in the hedge maze at the end of The Shining.”

I must clarify, however, that I do not exaggerate when I say that this man checked his phone at least 10 times in the hour we spent together. He explained that his dad was sending him score updates for the high school game his brother was coaching, but dude, you are on a date. Either this is important enough that you need to leave, or you can put away the fucking phone for one hour. I thought my generation was supposed to be the iGeneration. Which brings me to his age. Engineer was only 34, but to listen to him, you’d think he was nearing 40. I’m 27 years old. I do not feel old and I’m not going to for some time, so the last thing I want is to be with a man who is constantly talking about burial plots. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but he did keep saying things like “now that I’m older” and talking about how hard it was to get around these days. I’d rather be with a 35-year-old, who realizes he has all the time in the world, than a 28-year-old who talks nonstop about the dreaded 30. The golden ticket with 104, however, was when he got out of his seat to stand next to the table for a moment.

104: “I’ve gotta stand for a minute. My butt’s asleep.”

Engineer 104 just may not have been that interested in me and felt no need to impress or engage. I can’t imagine this was his best behavior. Maybe I was too young and spry. Possibly, I just didn’t do a great Arabian impersonation. I don’t know, but after just an hour, I told him I had to get up early the next morning and he didn’t seem particularly disappointed. I feel no need to leave a date with false hopes and simply told him to have a good night. He moved in for a hug and told me we should do it again sometime. I likely just looked confused, because I didn’t think the date went all that well. He either agreed or I’m not great at hiding my emotions (I am so not great at hiding my emotions), because I never heard from him again and I was not sad.

Engineer 104 was… forgettable. You know what, though? That was kind of nice. It wasn’t a good date, but I also didn’t leave in tears, which is, sadly, an accomplishment after these last few months. He did not insult my religion. He did not drink five beers in one hour. He actually showed up. He was just some guy and I assume I was just some girl. Sometimes, it’s kind of nice to have a forgettable date, as it reassures me that I’m not just overly critical and eager to buy myself some sperm for my 32nd birthday. Had he asked, I might have gone on a second date with 104, just to give him another chance. In hindsight, I realize it would’ve been a disaster, but I’m proud of myself for not letting his incorrect usage of the word “literally” write him off as a person. No, it was definitely the racism.

So, here’s hoping that things might go more smoothly with the new guy I’m texting. He’s an engineer, y’all!