Five Instagram Trends I Hope to Never Tag

Posted on March 31, 2023 by Belle of the Library

Once upon a time, I was an active Facebook user… very active. I was constantly scrolling, posting, checking for notifications from people I didn’t even know, and just generally pausing real life for a digital world that didn’t matter. After some insufferable Girl Drama with some insufferable girls, I decided I needed to take a break. I deleted my account, certain that I’d cave and return in a few days… except I didn’t. The next day, there was a shooting at a church in Texas and I actually had the emotional and mental energy to discuss it with, of all people, my husband. When Jake shared that he’d felt like I never wanted to talk to him about world events, because I’d worn myself out arguing with virtual strangers, I realized that social media was harmful for me on levels I’d never even acknowledged. As time went on, I felt less stress, less frustration, and like I had so much more time without it. Suddenly, my family called to inform me when someone was having a baby, getting married, or admitted to the hospital. While I felt less connected from those for whom I felt little, I felt more connected to the ones who mattered. That was six years ago and although I do use Jake’s old account to sell things on Marketplace, I’ve deleted anyone we actually know from his friends list. In my mind, Facebook has just become a place where moms go to compete and old people go to fight. I want no part of it. Instagram, however…

I became an active user of Instagram when I found out I was pregnant with my girls. I knew my Gramma would want to see pictures, but I wasn’t willing to rejoin Facebook. It took years for my family to accept that I’d left and would never return. As far as I knew, Instagram was strictly comprised of photos and videos, with little opportunity to argue with my great uncle about whether or not it was appropriate to use the n-word on someone else’s account… or at all. It seemed the obvious choice for sharing family photos, one universal enough that I wouldn’t need everyone to download something new. That was two years ago and I feel that Instagram is the one social media forum with which I can manage a truly healthy relationship. Still, there are several Instagram trends with which I want no part, such as…

Becoming a Momfluencer

I take a lot of pictures and the number increased exponentially once I had some babies. Having spent years working as a teen librarian, however, I am hyperaware of the presence I give my family on social media. My children are not only my children. They are people with feelings, who will one day have relationships, goals, and an image they want to cultivate for themselves. They don’t need to know about the times Mama sat in the living room floor and cried as they screamed, while somehow managing to look gorgeous for that carefully filtered photo. They don’t need to read about any of the negative feelings they’ve inspired, be they stress, frustration, or anger. They don’t need to be constantly dressed in uncomfortable designer toddler wear, that occasionally veers into disturbingly suggestive territory. While it’s easy enough to decide what’s appropriate to share and what’s not, now, just as I have never shared nude baby photos, I’ll never tell tales of bathroom accidents, school punishments, or private puberty moments. I limit both the types of photos and videos I share, in addition to who can see them and will likely become even more discerning as my kids grow older and more aware.

It’s not just my children who I don’t want living under a microscope, though. I have zero desire for feedback on my every parenting decision, from snack time to forward-facing carseats, to whether or not I do Santa. Moms can be the worst, most judgmental, hateful individuals. Just as I won’t allow my children’s middle school friends to dig through the archives for humiliating family song and dance videos, I won’t expose myself to the relentless scrutiny of women who know nothing about me or my children’s needs. My Gramma loves seeing photos and videos of her great grandbabies, but her ability to do so does not include the general public. There’s a reason this blog is anonymous and I’ve given my own family pseudonyms. We all deserve privacy. I will not give that up for the remote possibility that I’ll gain the kind of popularity that could lead to ad revenue. Which leads me to my next undesirable craze…

Creating Amazon Storefronts

Naturally, the above opinions mean I don’t follow a lot of influencers. My feed is largely comprised of complex cooking, cake decorating, and crafting videos, which I harshly judge with full awareness of my inability to replicate them. Still, the occasional influencer has crossed my path with her Amazon Storefront.

Folks, even a cursory glance at my most recent Amazon orders leads me to call shenanigans on these influencers and their carefully curated shopping history. At least half of my last twenty purchases were different brands of earbuds, because keep your Lilysilk hair scrunchie for overnight curls, what a stay-at-home-mom really needs is excellent earbuds. Were I to share my Amazon purchases, it would only result in an Amazon Storefront for the insane. In the last three months, I’ve purchased:

8 different styles of leather pouches
14 different pairs of earbuds
8 pairs of women’s shoes
1 curling iron
4 different infant hats
3 jacks-in-the-box (yes, I need to know the plural)
1 high-end XBOX gaming controller
4 different lamps
3 pack of acrylic double-sided picture frames
40 pack of slap bracelets
8 pack of hand puppets
4 rolling blackout curtains

Sure, I returned most of the duplicates. I even bought more popular mom items, such as face wash, fabric softener, and hairbands. Regardless, my Amazon Storefront could only appear as a cross between that of Peewee Herman and one of the Desperate Housewives. I never have excelled at trendy, which brings me to…

Tiny Home and Van Living

It’s rare that I throw around the word “privilege.” Initially coined to call attention to legitimate social and economic advantages, our bored and hyperbolic society has wielded this term to create greater division and attach a sense of moral superiority to what often boils down to simple jealousy. In the truest sense of the word, however, there is nothing more privileged than glorifying minimal square footage. A component of the more widespread minimalist movement, tiny home living exalts the wealthy for having less, when so many people in this world have little choice in the matter. I, myself, have lived in “tiny homes” at different times in life. They just went by different names, like “trailer,” “motel room,” and “low-income housing.” My “capsule wardrobe” was a collection of Goodwill finds. The dishes I once displayed on an open shelf were a design choice resulting from my apartment’s roach problem. My simplistic décor and limited belongings were due to a lack of funding. I wasn’t chic. I was poor.

As a white, middle class, suburban mom, I am now exposed to every Marie Kondo-style fad as it arises. Each time it’s presented as a new and innovative way for people to dispose of all the junk they’ve had the privilege to buy in the first place, before painting everything in their house “natural cotton,” and filling it with overpriced houseplants. Each time, I roll my eyes so hard they’re in danger of getting stuck. While it is, of course, fine to love the color “oatmeal,” limit your dishes to four individual place settings, and decorate with copious amounts of macrame, I cannot stomach the sanctimonious attitude that accompanies this movement. I grew up in a hoarder’s home. I’ve been donating and throwing out the things that don’t “bring joy” for the entirety of my adult life. Have less if you want less, but don’t act like it somehow makes you a better human to spend $50,000 refitting a shed or van that you plan to park on someone else’s property rent free. Don’t even get me started on shipping container homes. I’ve gone without out of necessity. My three bed, three bath, 2,300 square foot home (converted garage included), on over an acre brings me joy. If living with less is your jam, excellent, but I’ve lived in 400 square feet and it was far from Instagrammable, so the champions of this movement can hold the self-righteousness. At least van and RV living have the benefit of mobility, which can’t be replicated by just buying a smaller house. That, however, reminds me how much I don’t want to…

Travel with Children

I have previously written that I am the only Millennial who hates travel. As much as I want to see something new or something old, the process of doing so is exhausting. I cannot wait for The OASIS of Ready Player One, so I can tour the pyramids from my own home. I am apparently all alone, however, because according to Instagram, travel is the bees knees. I’ve never related to the wealth of reels raving about the adventure that is spending hours in a car or on a plane… to sleep on a comforter that’s only washed twice a year… so that I can wake up and spend hundreds of dollars on basics that would cost me tens of dollars at home. In 2019, I declared that I’d rather do porn and I stand by that. Now my feed is flooded with articles celebrating travel with children and while I’m not quite willing to joke that I’d rather do porn with children, I would do some pretty degrading stuff.

Last summer, Jake and I had to bow out of a family trip to Colorado. We were a single income household with one-year-old twins, expecting a baby in December. We had to buy a minivan, decorate the spare bedroom for the girls, and redecorate their old bedroom for Thomas. As much as I wanted to spend a week in a luxury cabin with my family, it just wasn’t possible. Instead, we took a day trip to a nearby lake and watched The Hills Have Eyes in a hyperbolic reminder that vacations aren’t always fun. Meanwhile, while they weren’t dealing with mutant cannibals, my parents and step-siblings were decidedly not enjoying their Labor Day getaway. What began with an all-ages airport floor slumber party, shifted to group altitude sickness, followed by mass food poisoning, a family IV hydration therapy session, and finally, a return trip with Covid-19. The only thing that sounds worse than sleeping in an airport lobby and being several different kinds of violently ill, is doing so away from home, surrounded by other people, while caring for children.

While all of this reads like the screenplay for a bad family comedy, even normal travel involves navigating airport terminals, extended car or plane rides with changing air pressure, hotel rooms without the routine of home, and sourcing food and fun for everyone involved. This week, I had the privilege of telling Violet that she couldn’t eat the beanbag filling, Scarlett that it was time to leave the park, and the opportunity to try out the baby leash on both of them. If those every day events have been any indicator as to how a family vacation with three in diapers would go, I think I might prefer the cannibals. No amount of painter’s tape, snack tackleboxes, or a toddler travel bed from your “Amazon Storefront” is going to make a family trip any more enjoyable or worth the money than planning a family fun weekend in our comfortable home while our children are this small. Speaking of which, there is one final Instagram obsession that I wholeheartedly want to never tag.

Flipping Homes

When Jake and I bought this house, we had a short list of improvements we wanted to make. Having rented my entire adult life, I was eager to paint every room in the house. We needed a fence for our dogs. Jake had to clear some brush so we could get full use of our backyard. Over the years, the list grew. While we immediately refinished our converted garage into our bedroom; we eventually had to redo it as a family space where we could pull back the furniture and carpet when it rained heavily. That meant we had to finish the master bedroom in a way that would fit our furniture, requiring a pocket door and 360° shelves. Next, we blew insulation into the walls of the adjacent spare bedrooms, in preparation for the day they would be made into nurseries. Somewhere in there, we needed a storm shelter, a water softener, and a carport. The roof has been replaced, but now we need a new front door, a few new windows, and exterior paint. Our laundry list of little luxuries has become a chore list of necessities for a finished home built in 1980. I cannot imagine the burden that is flipping a house.

I’ve previously detailed my disdain for HGTV and how every single house looks the same. Nowhere is that more apparent than the #flipperhome hashtag. Whether you’re staring at a red brick townhome from 1960 or a Frank Lloyd Wright-style bungalow form the early 1900s, it’s going to be painted white with black trim and doors. The kitchen will have exposed wooden beams, a backsplash of subway tile, and dark green cabinets with gold finishings. The bathrooms will have free-standing oval tubs and showers built entirely of transparent glass. It’ll be staged with jewel-toned minimalist 60s mod furniture. The finished product will be homogeneously gorgeous in a feed with all the other #flipperhomes and it will have been miserably expensive, time consuming, and tedious to make it so.

HGTV presents every disaster as a hilarious adventure, complete with dialogue reminiscent of a middle school play. As a homeowner, though, I’m aware of the actual financial obligation that is a flooded garage turned bedroom, the disgusting chore of a septic system that needs tending, and the relentless hassle that is a roof replacement. I don’t even want to replicate the furniture remodels on my Instagram feed, let alone take on an entire house. As it is, Jake and I both insist on decorating our own home in classic styles and fashions we love, so we don’t have to take on the physical, emotional, or economic burden again any time soon. Our home may not be Instagram feed worthy, but that just might save me the trouble of getting all dolled up for that mental breakdown photoshoot.

A Call for Censorship

Posted on March 7, 2014 by Belle of the Library

I am a librarian. Now, most people think that means I shush folks, shelve books, and push my glasses up my nose with my forefinger.

Indeed, I’ve done all of those things, but there’s more to it than that. As I’ve previously mentioned, librarians have a host of responsibilities. We help people fill out job applications, create resumes, send money to their spouses in prison, set up e-mail addresses, download e-books, recommend reading material based on age/interest/reading level, create programs people actually want to attend… the list is endless. We are public slaves… and we love it. One of our major platforms though, is the war on censorship.

No, really. If an angry mom has a tantrum, because a librarian gave her 10-year-old Thong on Fire (click the link! click the link!), it will be explained to her that the library does not censor or police information, but she’s welcome to come in and assist her daughter in choosing her reading materials. We dispense knowledge. We do not control knowledge. I can no more pull Thong on Fire for its lewd content, than I can pull Heaven is for Real for its Christian content. I stand by this. It is a truly American viewpoint… perhaps one of the only ones left.

All that being said, however, maybe it’s time that we, as individuals, choose to censor ourselves a bit, particularly in regards to our children.

Sunday, the Midwest got a gust of cold wind and a brief flurry. Naturally, we were all stranded. I didn’t even go to Mass, because of how I almost died, last time. Gail, just being off for her one day (because being a mailman suuuuucks), texted me…

Gail: Wanna play a game? I’ll recommend a show and you recommend a show. We each have to watch two episodes.
Me: Okay. Hart of Dixie.
Gail: Bates Motel. The first episode is a little graphic, but it’s really good.

:: two hours later, referencing Gail’s “dark erotica” phase ::
Me: What the hell is with you and rape?!?! It’s like your freaking favesies! You think it’s the best of everything!
Gail: I said the first episode was graphic!
Gail: Which OBVIOUSLY means rape. Lol.

So, for the last few days, I’ve been watching Bates Motel. It’s easily the most disturbing thing I’ve seen since the week I marathoned American Horror Story, while ranting on Facebook about how the entire writing staff is made up of broken souls.

AHS is still in the lead, though I gave up on season 3 for a while.

Jane: What did it for you? The incest or the bestiality?
Me: The bleach enema.
Jane. Spoiler alert! I haven’t gotten that far!

These disturbing epics have gotten me thinking. Yes, they have to be the result of a group therapy effort gone awry, but I’m more interested in effect than cause. Now, I exaggerate a lot. I know that… but American Horror Story disturbed me to my core. I was genuinely upset by the school shooting episode. I work with teens every day and the idea of them being so afraid and alone, waiting for death, having just enough time to process all they’ll miss in life… ugh. I’m done writing about it. It’s too much. That’s also a pretty healthy reaction. I remember Columbine, Virginia Tech, and Sandy Hook. Just the portrayal of similar events deeply unsettles me. As it should and as the writers intended. I, however, am an adult.

I’ve discussed media’s effect on society before, but it’s been of greater concern to me, recently, how children are being affected. Just the other day, I discovered a fun correlation. The average age of first exposure to pornography is 11.* The average age for first cell phone is also 11.* I’m not criticizing the idea of giving children a way to call for help. I am concerned, though, that just as puberty hits, we give children limitless and often unmonitored access to media… and that’s the norm. Children have always been curious, certainly; but that curiosity used to manifest itself in stolen peeks at dad’s Maxims or the wrinkled pages of an old bodice ripper found in the garage. Neither medium, however, was acceptably nestled in a child’s pocket at all times.

The danger does not only lie in obvious sites, either. Today, smartphones have numerous apps that parents don’t even consider a threat. Tumblr seems harmless enough, sure… until you combine the words “naughty” and “gif.” The same goes for the Kindle app. Maybe between Harry Potter books, your curious 13-year-old is also absorbing The Erotic Dark. YouTube is just a bunch of cute kittens, you say? Search for “ass kicking.” Just the words SnapChat are enough to make me want to home school… and all of these things are available from the very device that was given to them to keep them safe.

My question is, what is this media doing to children? What will the case studies look like in 15 years? When I was younger, video games were the primary concern. In fact, I firmly believe that video games are still an issue. Don’t get me wrong. Grand Theft Auto V’s protagonist, Michael De Santa, did not shoot up a movie theater in Colorado. Are we harming developing young minds, however, by normalizing this kind of behavior through media? Ten years ago, we didn’t even have all of this new access to media and we were still asking this question. Today, Netflix is a beautiful thing… until your nine-year-old makes it through half a season of Sons of Anarchy, before you even realize they’ve been watching it. This used to (primarily) be the plight of the neglectful parent. Sure, I was watching Sex and the City at age 12, but that’s because my mom was more interested in being my bestie than an authority figure. Now, what kid doesn’t have a smart device?

While the expanse of this problem lies mainly with electronics, even beyond that, erotica is publicly acceptable.For realz yo, my sister-in-law had a “Laters Baby” sticker on the car she drove to her job as a 7th grade reading teacher. That’s a 50 Shades of Grey reference, for anyone who didn’t catch it. At the height of its popularity, that book was all over Facebook. My sister-in-law wasn’t even the only teacher posting about it. Additionally, the covers of books in that genre used to be anything but subtle…

Wait. His chest is disproportionate to… everything else. No, really. The gun looks tiny.

… today, the trend has shifted to the completely innocuous.

In this one, he essentially holds her captive until she think it’s sexy…
like in The Beauty and the Beast.

So, even when you aren’t reading something on a Kindle/Nook/iPad, no one has to suspect that you need to change your panties, anymore.

Aunt Glenda: “Is that a Kindle, Belle?”
Me: “Yeah. It’s a Paperwhite.”
Aunt Glenda: “Can I see it?”

It took me an unexplainable amount of time to find any book that was appropriate for Thanksgiving dinner, before handing it over.

I reiterate that NO library will deny these books to anyone.

I’m not proposing that we all pretend it’s 1986. Technology is a beautiful thing, with many benefits and self-control can only be taught with moderation. I’m also not suggesting we, in any way, police the media consumption of adults. They’re old enough to compartmentalize and separate fantasy from reality. That’s no one else’s responsibility. Children, however, are the responsibility of society and, most importantly, their parents. We’ve entered this age where we’re so afraid to tell kids that they can’t do something. We’re terrified of setting limits and I see that in the students in my classrooms who cannot get through a single hour without some form of electronic media, be it music or texting or social networking. I see it in the kids who watch violent YouTube videos on their phones and the 6-year-old boy shouting “BITCH!” at the computer in the library. This is all happening right now. Children are becoming addicted to pornography, The Walking Dead is completely desensitizing them to violence and gore, little girls are sending pictures of their breasts to boys (22% ages 14-17)*, teens are encouraging self-mutilation and eating disorders, and no one is doing anything about it. We will see the day when a presidential election is compromised by a sext. So, my suggestion? Start telling children no. The library certainly won’t do it, because it’s not our place. Nor is it the place of Netflix, YouTube, Tumblr, Instagram, SnapChat, Tinder, Samsung, and iPhone.

We don’t have the luxury of rating systems anymore, as we did when video games and movies were the scariest things out there. We have to create limitations ourselves. I’m not saying that I have the perfect answer for what those limits are, despite the fact that I see no reason anyone under the age of 18 needs 24/7 internet access, but they have to exist. Parents need to set limits that work for them, and find a way to enforce them. Schools need to reclaim the power and ban cell phones from sight. Parents should back them. Children should never touch a single electronic device in church, ever. The phone should be put away during mealtimes, and that goes for adults as well. Perhaps an extension of the problem is that we’re too busy with media to take notice of youth. We can’t protect kids from everything, especially in this digital age, but that doesn’t mean we have to banish them to the town from The Children of the Corn, either.They need guidance. They need our effort. They need a little censorship… because things never work out so well when children run the show.

http://www.citizenlink.com/2012/01/27/the-new-normal-%E2%80%93-youth-exposure-to-online-pornography/

http://www.theonlinemom.com/secondary.asp?id=1981

http://www.dosomething.org/tipsandtools/11-facts-about-sexting

“Too soon?” Yes. It is too soon and you’re an asshat.

Posted on December 5, 2013 by Belle of the Library

On Saturday, Paul Walker, actor in The Fast and the Furious franchise, died as a passenger in a single car accident, on the way home from a charity event. We, as a country, responded in one of three ways:

1. Appropriately sad
2. Somewhat unhealthily sad
3. With giggles

The first response is obviously the one I favor. These people may have posted something on social networking sites addressing Walker’s age or expressing best wishes for his family. They may have mentioned their love of his films or the fact that they just got them all on sale on Black Friday. They expressed remorse and went on with their lives. Perhaps these folks watched She’s All That and managed to not angrily scream “WHERE IS THE ADMINISTRATION?!?!?!” during every high school scene. Normal.

The second response… is weird. I’ve really never understood the total devastation someone can feel over a celebrity death. If Pope Frankie (as my cousin, Mitch, likes to call him) died tomorrow, I would weep for the Church. I’ve never met the man, but he’s an influential leader and, in my opinion, a truly good soul. If Barack Obama died tomorrow, I would weep for the country, because he’s a political leader and that would leave our government in uproar during a tenuous time. If Leonardo DiCaprio died? I’d comment on his age and watch Titanic, failing to not angrily scream “HE’S A VAGRANT, YOU IGNORANT COW!” during every romantic scene. I would not cry… because his life in no way affects me or anyone I love and I don’t feel I have that right. My Gramma cried the day Elvis died. I know many who cried when Michael Jackson died. I just don’t get it. However, it’s not an offensive reaction. I realize that other people (who are wrong) don’t necessarily scream “Emotions should be hidden like the last fucking Horcrux!” every time their eyes water. Maybe they’re the healthy ones. I don’t know. Regardless, no harm done.

The third reaction? This one is deeply disturbing.

Facebook status on Tuesday:
So a car just freaking exploded and was engulfed in flames right next to my apartment building. This is one of the most insane things I’ve ever witnessed

Comments:
– Paul Walker came over? To soon?
– ok guys that’s a bit fast with the Paul Walker jokes. I’m furious.
– haha I think it’s time to hit the brakes with the jokes.

I am not contradicting myself here. I realize that I’ve made many inappropriate jokes in my day.

::in the car, waiting for my dad and step-mother to bury my grandfather’s ashes, inJuly::
Me: “Ugh. It is a thousand degrees in here. They’re gonna have to bury three more piles of ash if they don’t hurry the hell up.”
Cade: “It would be awesome if the window was open and they could hear you.”

So, what’s the difference? The difference, is that my grandpa used to drag my brother and I to church on the weekends that we went to the lake, because vacation was no excuse for missing Mass. The difference, is that every Christmas he bought us shitty gifts, filled with love, because it’s all he could afford. The difference is the cherished rosary he wanted me to have. The difference, is that he was my family and saying goodbye was hard, so humor was my crutch, because emotions belong with the last fucking Horcrux!!!!!

Paul Walker was only 40 years old and his father had to bury his baby boy. I don’t even have kids and my relationship with my dad has shown me that a child never stops being his parents’ baby, whether they’re throwing up at age 10 or crying on their doorstep at age 23. A woman watched her son lowered into the ground forever. His parents won’t be able to give him the Christmas presents they’ve already bought. There’s a couple out there weeping over high school graduation pictures from the early 90’s. Paul Walker wasn’t an only child, either. Bo may be a redneck bigot sometimes, but if my big brother died, I would be inconsolable. Most tragically, there’s a 15-year-old girl out there who was just getting know her daddy and now his light is gone from the world.* He’ll never interrogate a college boyfriend or walk her down the aisle. That is heartbreaking.

Paul Walker’s death was no more tragic than that of any other 40-year-old man with a family and full life. It also, however, was no more uproarious. If his family and friends choose to use humor as a crutch, more power to them. We all have fucked up coping mechanisms. Whatever gets you through hard times. Everyone else? No. We don’t get that crutch, because it’s not a crutch for us. It’s insensitive and cruel, especially when published on a social networking site where the man’s name is tagged and his family is guaranteed to see it. Remember when your dog was hit by a truck when you were fourteen? How much more awesome would that have been with strangers making lame-ass jokes?

“What’s black and white and red all over? Your dalmatian!”

This isn’t a new issue, either. It’s not even confined to celebrity deaths. During the last natural disaster, I had a heated Facebook debate with that douche bag from high school who’s only on my friends list because it’s amusing to read about how much he loves himself. When I called him out on his insensitivity, he told me I had no right to be offended, because I wasn’t harmed. CHILDREN DIED. I’m sorry, but as an American citizen, a native of this state, an educator, I had a fucking right to be appalled that the bodies had barely been recovered and he was running the laugh track for his self-proclaimed cleverness. Furthermore, several people liked each and every comment I made, as I defended the fact that his being an inconsiderate prick, didn’t mean I didn’t have a sense of humor. I clearly was not the only offended party on the billboard that is Facebook.

Gaily’s daughter died at eight months old. I was Aunt Belle. I saw that little lady 5 times a week…. and sometimes we make disturbing up jokes about it, because it hurts not having her in the world. It’s how we deal and we know we’re broken. Where has the compassion gone for everyone else who’s hurting, though? I’ll admit, I don’t know what to say in times of heartache and I usually end up doing something really awkward…

In fact, the last time, I’m pretty sure I waited waaaay too many days to comment and then blurted “I’m sorry you’re sad.” It wasn’t perfect. Far from it. It also wasn’t a giggle. Had that been the alternative, it would have certainly been best to say nothing. This is a really easy response in social networking. You don’t have to comment. If you don’t have anything nice to say, shut your damned hole on a public forum.

I’m not even knocking offensive humor, as a whole. I, myself, have made too many battered wives jokes to count. I’ve also survived an abusive marriage. Just the same, generally offensive jokes, like those horrifying dead baby jokes that Gail and I made as teenagers, are far less appalling. They never pinpointed one tragedy or crying family. We were also kids and didn’t quite comprehend that that shit actually happens. The comments I’m reading and hearing about celebrity deaths, the Oklahoma tornadoes, and Sandy Hook? Those aren’t being made by kids, but adults who fully understand the pain and heartache of losing a loved one; and without fail, they always end in “too soon?” Yes. It is too soon and you’re an asshat.

This shirt fucking exists.

http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/paul-walker-died-seconds-crash-coroner-rules/story?id=21098595

http://popwatch.ew.com/2013/12/01/the-sides-of-paul-walker-you-may-have-missed/

Go suck an egg, People Of Walmart

Posted on September 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

“I have a brilliant idea! I’ll get on Amazon and order the creepiest sex toys I can find. I’ll have them shipped to Terry; based on his response, you’ll know whether or not he’s into the weird shit!”

Gail at the words “brilliant idea.”

Over time, my unreasonable, stick-in-the-mud, best friend has refused to even listen after those two words. Um… it’s not like I actually tipped the truck when were 16… nor did I get a thank you for that one. Geez. Also, I believe the brilliant idea to spread the word that Esteban had herpes totally worked in Gail’s bullied 15-year-old favor.

You’re welcome, Gail. You’re welcome.

A couple of years ago, after losing 90 pounds, I had another one of my brilliant ideas. I decided to take up running… and P90X… in the same week. It was not a brilliant idea for my back, however. I saw a doctor… a physical therapist… took a lot of prescription drugs… and finally met with a chiropractor. For months, though, I could not move. There were nights when I couldn’t stand long enough to cook Easy Mac. It was horrible. So, during the trips to Wal-Mart to grab a pre-made salad or a new phone charger, I was doing well to have my top and my bottom covered. Forget about underwear, I deserved a trophy if my feet weren’t bare. The pain was so excruciating that I legitimately understood people who kill themselves from that kind of chronic torture… and I’m a religious gal.

Then there was that brilliant idea to go to graduate school and work two jobs. There were nights, when I would find myself at Wal-Mart at 3:00 in the morning, buying my groceries for the week. Considering the fact that I’d just finished and submitted an annotated bibliography or a literature review, I wasn’t wearing a fucking prom dress, either. I probably wore various pajamas… like this lady on People Of Walmart.

Things she could be texting….

Should I get him Nyquil, or just the Pepto Bismol? The Nyquil might help him sleep.

I’m just in so much pain. What is the strongest over-the-counter medication?

I have not slept in three days. If I don’t get this project turned in tomorrow, this was all for nothing and my printer’s out of fucking ink!

Go suck a bag of dicks, People Of Walmart! Why is it that I read or hear about a child committing suicide every week, because of cyber bullying, but People Of Walmart is wildly popular? At 16, I started a Xanga about Shetland and the ridiculously hypocritical things that went on in my hometown of 15,000 with its 22 churches. I didn’t target any one person and spent more time on stories about the town than anything, but some people still took it personally and I hurt some feelings through social media. This was, however,…

1: before the term “cyberbullying” was coined or defined
2: totally Gail and Jane’s fault as well
3: the work of children

I’ve said it before: my generation was a technological experiment. We grew up in a Lord of the Flies version of the Internet, more-so than today, because our parents had no idea what the hell we were doing. So, when I took a yearbook picture of a cheerleader holding her arm out in front of her and placed it next to Hitler heiling Germany… well, there really wasn’t anyone there to guide me. The cheerleaders weren’t very nice to me. They always made snide remarks toward my friends and I for coloring during assemblies and wearing feather boas to school, regardless of the fact that the latter was an AP English assignment… almost always. They made fun of me and I made fun of them… and it wasn’t nice. I know that as an adult and I’m sure they do as well.

PeopleOfWalmart, though? This website is dedicated to adults insulting people they don’t even know. That old lady in the nightshirt may not have the mobility to pull on pants and she sure as hell never screamed at you to get a life in Algebra class. Are we, as a society, seriously telling these kids to “do as we say, not as we do”? Cyberbullying is a huge concern among Americans with Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube. Teachers are warned that their embarrassing pictures will likely end up online. Children are dying. Teenage boys were shooting up schools long before internet bullying and it ain’t gettin’ better. If it’s not good for the kids, why is it good for us? If watching an advertisement for the new Kindle Paperwhite makes me scream “I WANT THAT!” with my Kindle Paperwhite in hand, then what affect does sneering at someone for a poor fashion choice on a website about sneering at someone for a poor fashion choice have? Is this not an advertisement for a lack of compassion? Does this not encourage me to act catty toward people I don’t know in real life? Does the encouragement from others to be cruel not slowly degrade my character?

This is not the first time I’ve ranted about People Of Walmart and I’ve gotten many rebuttals in the past. They usually go something along the lines of…

“Have you seen the things those people are wearing? If you go out in that, you’re asking for it.”

Wow. I think I’ve heard a similar defense in rape cases. I’m not saying an embarrassing photo is the equivalent to rape, but that is still a disgusting excuse for publicly humiliating someone: she asked for it. It’s her responsibility not to be embarrassed online, not our responsibility to use technology for the better. Maybe she doesn’t realize she’s gained 15 pounds this summer. Maybe she’s hurt and those footy pajamas are all she can stand wearing. Maybe she just likes dressing like a goth kid from that South Park episode. Who fucking cares? It’s her prerogative to do so. That girl with her panties showing? Maybe the polite thing to do is whisper in her ear “ma’am, you need to pull your shorts down a bit,” rather than whip out your smartphone, as a good 90% of the redundant contributors to PeopleOfWalmart have chosen to do. If you absolutely have to be catty about the woman with back breasts, fine. Take a picture, send it to a friend and have your moment. We’ve all done it, but there’s no reason to do it globally, encouraging and receiving encouragement from the masses in your moment of spite.

Don’t worry. I have not conveniently forgotten my own… abrasive sense of humor. I will say, though, it’s usually directed toward people I love, who know I’m kidding and enjoy being around me because I

1: … make them feel like the nice friend.

Gail

2: … am just as mean as they are.

Malik

3. … am just as mean as they are deep down, and they just don’t want to admit it.

Jane

Despite my barbed comments toward my friends, I don’t target online, those who’ve done nothing to me. Even my bad date stories use pseudonyms. I’m sure I’ve been the subject of someone’s “What is she wearing?” text conversation… and that’s fine, as long as that photo stays off the internet. I’m also sure I’ve been someone’s “… them bitches be crazy” story and that’s fine, too, if my name isn’t involved. People Of Walmart posts pictures of actual people that could be easily identified in their most embarrassing moments for all the world to see. It’s not bullied kids taking the passive aggressive revenge stance, either. It’s not confused and misguided teenagers leading this massive effort in cyberbullying. It’s the adults who tell them not to, because they fucking know better.

Pinterest, I’d like a word.

Posted on August 22, 2013 by Belle of the Library

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

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

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

Jane

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

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

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

And, oh yeah…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where can I get that board?!?!?

No one knows what words mean.

Word: easy

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

“A beginner can do this.”

“Easy hairstyles…”

“It’s so easy!”

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

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

Both of those fit the definition of:

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

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

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

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

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

The words they’re looking for are:

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

and…

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

Oh, the judgy.

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

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

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

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

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

Presenting…. MY FIRST UPLOADED PIN!