Category Archives: Weird

I just need a friggin’ paper towel!

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I’m substitute teaching and a kiddo spills orange juice on the floor. The entire box of tissues is a soggy mess of yellow and there are streaks all over the tile.

I’m at Librarian Job #2, in the steel and glass building worthy of a Dystopian young adult novel, rubbing away at the coffee on my dress as clumps of toilet paper pill on the hot pink cotton. The entire front of my dress is now wet, the stain is still there, and I’m adorned with what looks like September snow.

I’m in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant, throwing wads of toilet paper into the trashcan to cover the evidence of my period. Who wants to see that? No one.

A little boy is covering his ears and crying in the bathroom of the Springfield Target, where it’s not enough that they blast one’s hands with germs, but it must be done with jet engines that actually make your skin ripple.

I’m drying my hands on the bottom of my dress pants, because of that episode of Big Bang Theory, where Sheldon explains that air dryers are far less hygienic. I recall reading an article declaring a similar point and figure no one will notice my damp and disease-free shins.

I’m stuffing paper towels into my jeans pockets, because I might need them later and they are apparently more valuable than cigarettes in prison.

We’ve really just picked up the earth-friendly movement here in the South. There are recycling bins in the Shetland Community Center today, though there weren’t when I worked there just two years ago. There are a lot more vegetarian choices on the menus and a lot more people posting nasty videos on Facebook about what was done to the poor little chicken on my plate. They don’t stop eating meat, but they sure do enjoy being Internet Activists.

eating at computer
“Ugh! Do you have any idea what’s in those McNuggets?!?!”

Wind turbines dot the countryside while angry townspeople complain about them destroying the view. More people than ever are paying $50 for rubber-soled socks, because they’ll provide African children with their very own pair.

toms

… and without fail, the times I most need a friggin’ paper towel, I’m faced with one of these…

dirty rag

Oops… wrong picture… too accurate, though possibly far more useful than…

hand dryer
… this.

Now, don’t get me wrong. We may have just discovered Twitter in the Midwest, but we have had hand dryers for the entirety of my life. We just used to have paper towel dispensers next to them. That way, by the time I hit my teen years and decided that hand dryers were obnoxiously slow or my twenties and learned that they’re absolutely disgusting*, I had another choice. Today, we’re too busy “Going Green” in the fucking oil capital of America to offer the option. It’s great we’re being more environmentally conscious. It is. But how’s about you leave me with my paper towels and concentrate on some less hypocritical way to save the planet, because of you know…

oil rig
THIS?!?!

You know what else? I can’t dry a puddle by blowing on it. I can’t clean up a stain or cover up the evidence of my vaginal shotgun wound with hot air or half-ply industrial toilet paper. The sound of scouring my skin with pestilence-filled wind currents could wake a hibernating bear and I’m sick of walking around with paper towels hidden in my pockets because they’re as precious as the Dead Sea Scrolls! Sometimes, I just need a friggin’ paper towel and I’m not sorry for it!!!!!!

Sidenote: you should probably never let me hold the Dead Sea Scrolls.

http://www.europeantissue.com/pdfs/090402-2008%20WUS%20Westminster%20University%20hygiene%20study,%20nov2008.pdf

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

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

fearless

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

roswell

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

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

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

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

wwbd shirt
Don’t think I won’t.

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

This is me on a project:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

black man white child
Look! I found a picture of great great great grandpa!

Um….

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

elf eating spaghett

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Win. Win.

fist bump dog

Looking at T*ts with My Dad

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For the last few years, my dad and I have been having semi-weekly daddy/daughter lunches at a local restaurant of his choosing, since he pays. The man has this great cackling laugh that you can hear a mile away. If you are in the building, you know he’s present by this laugh and I get to hear it at these lunches a lot. My dad is surprisingly supportive of my marital status for a Southern father of a single 25-year-old girl. I think part of it is that he got married and had children young himself and he’s glad I’m enjoying my youth and building a career. Mostly, I think it was hard enough for him to watch his baby girl struggle through a hellish marriage once and he’d prefer she choose more carefully the next time, so he doesn’t end up in prison.

dad with gun

Still, my brother Bo has made it clear that my uterus is going to start to smell if I don’t use it soon, so I feel the need to reassure my dad of my dating efforts. I love my daddy, but I’ll admit we have a peculiar relationship, a fact to which the waitresses who’ve served us will attest.

Dad: “Baby, you don’t need to worry about that right now. You’ve got plenty of time.”
Me: “Well, I know, but I do date. I just date douche bags.”
Dad: ::cackling::
I realize the waitress is standing next to us, with a surprised and amused expression as she refills our drinks.
Me: “One guy asked me to come over and watch Arrow with him. He didn’t own a TV. The day I find a guy who’s not a bag of dicks, I’ll call you up and tell you there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Dad: “Well that’s the way to do it. Don’t listen to your brother. He’s been married since he was fuckin’ twelve years old. You enjoy it while it lasts.”

So, yesterday, when I woke up, I sent my dad the following text:

Lunch?

When I didn’t get a response, I sent:

Lunch!

He told me he wasn’t sure and he’d call in a bit. Soon, the song Cowgirls Don’t Cry filled the room…

Dad: “Watcha doin?”
Me: “Commenting on my blog.”
Dad: “What do you say we do something different today?”
Me: “Okay. Where do you wanna go?”
Dad: “How ’bout you meet me over at Twin Peaks at 11:00?”
Me: “Sure. Works for me.”

Now, I had never actually been to Twin Peaks before yesterday. I’d heard mixed reviews, some comparing it to Hooters, but others comparing it to Buffalo Wild Wings. I just pictured conveniently tight t-shirts. I had told my dad 11:10, thinking it would take me longer to get there, but arrived at 10:50. I knew he hadn’t yet, as his work truck wasn’t in the parking lot. I immediately realized that I was not, in fact, at what was basically Buffalo Wild Wings. I also realized that, as the apparent only female customer in the place, I was both over dressed and under dressed in my ruffled pink flip flops, jean shorts, and pink “I ❤ Springfield XDM” t-shirt. You see, at Twin Peaks, the female dress code is apparently…

twin peaks

The counter was crowded with girls wearing plaid bras, khaki panties, and mountain boots as I entered… alone… thinking:

Seriously, Dad? Seriously?!?!

I don’t think less of people who work for their money. Food service is one of the few jobs I skipped while I worked my way through college, because it’s hard. I may have been surprised and felt out of place, but I had no intention of being disrespectful to girls who had friendly smiles on their faces, so I just gave them one in return as I stumbled through asking for a table.

Me: “Hi. I’m waiting for my dad…” Motherfucker, how creepy does that sound? “He should be here soon and he’ll probably be wearing an electric company shirt…” Look at their faces. Look at their faces. “… so if I could just get a booth, that would be great.”

I was soooo glad they had booths, because I was concentrating so hard on looking at their faces, I hadn’t even noticed the layout. Honestly, this wouldn’t have been so bad during the dinner hour, as there would’ve been at least a few other female customers. This was lunch, though, and the only people who eat lunch at Twin Peaks on a Tuesday are these guys.

Image converted using ifftoany

I quickly realized that I was literally the only woman in the place not wearing a push-up bra and flannel and it was beginning to get crowded. I looked over the menu, briefly, and realized one of the choices was a sandwich called The Mile High Club.

Seriously, Dad? Seriously?!?!

As I sat alone, each man who passed my table seemed to give me a subtle (or not so subtle) second glance.


“No, no. I’m just waiting for my da–. Wait. I mean…”

I think my server realized I felt a little awkward, so she sat down across from me and asked…

Server: “So, Belle. Do you think it’s gonna rain all day?”
Look at her face, look at her face.
Me: “I’m not sure. I didn’t even realize it was raining until I checked Facebook this morning. Fortunately I take the Turnpike to work, so I won’t have to deal with any flooded streets or anything. Honestly, I’m loving the rain. I’m so sick of all this sunshine and so over summer and ready for fall. I saw a spider the size of a baby squirrel the other day and I. Am. Done. It wasn’t really the size of a baby squirrel. I did kill it, though. It didn’t like just go missing, which would’ve been terrible. I don’t even know how it got in, since I live upstairs.”
Fuck, Belle. You have been talking since THE BEGINNING OF TIME. Shut up!
Server: “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m ready for some colder weather, too”

She didn’t stay much longer, since she had tables. It was super sweet of her to sit and chat with me, though. While I had been babbling like a lunatic eating her own hair, I saw my dad’s truck pull in and gave an internal sigh of relief, figuring he’d be in any minute. I’m pretty sure he rescued a baby badger and raised it to adulthood in the parking lot, though, because it was at least another two and half years before he walked through that door.*

I was so relieved to end this awkwardness, that I immediately hugged him and said

“Hey, daddy!”
Oh… weird. Don’t say ‘daddy’ in a Twin Peaks.

He sat down and we started chatting. He seemed to think nothing of sitting across from his daughter while a very sweet girl in flannel pasties took our order, so I brought up the sexy plaid elephant in the room on my own.

sexy elephant costuem
Oh em jingles. Guess who just found her Halloween costume!!!

Me: “Just so you know, it is super awkward to be having lunch with my dad in a strip club.”
Dad: ::cackles:: “Hey, I come here for the food.”
Me: “Clearly. Let me guess, The Mile High Club?”
Dad: “Hey, that’s a great sandwich and it’s huge. You could eat off of that thing for days. Lena’s always askin’ ‘Where’d you go for lunch today?’ and when I tell her Twin Peaks, she never believes me when I say it’s for the food. Hooters may have good scenery, but their food sucks. At least when I come here, they’ve got the scenery and they have great food.”
Me: “Classy, dad.”
Dad: “Classy! That’s it! It’s a classy restaurant.”

I did not bother to clarify my sarcasm that it was his comment I was calling classy, not…

class twin peaksMe: “Yeah, yeah. I get it. They’re bringing you food, not lap dances.”
Dad: “Hey, I’ve known women who’ve put themselves through school doing this kinda thing.”
Me: “Well, duh. Hell, if I didn’t like gummy worms so much, I’d be working here.”
Dad: ::cackles::

Honestly, the food was just meh, but the company was still great. My daddy gave me life advice and we caught up on family gossip. I bragged to him about my blog being Freshly Pressed and doubling my followers in a day, since he’s the one who always tells me I need to be a writer. He’s super supportive of my writing efforts and makes it clear the pride he has in me for both these and my Master’s degree. Despite that, we sort of have this unspoken agreement that he’s not going to actually follow my blog, because no matter how nontraditional our relationship, he doesn’t need to read all of those jokes about my vibrators. It’s a very unspoken agreement. Since he doesn’t know how the whole blogging process works, I’m pretty sure he just nods along at this topic like when I start rambling about how awesome it is to be a librarian. In fact, I’m almost certain that every time I start talking about these things, in his head I’m telling him all about the unicorn story I wrote at school today and I look like this…

fairy princess

Regardless, he’s as supportive of these updates as one might expect from a member of the Duck Dynasty family.

Me: “I love you daddy. Thanks for lunch.”
Dad: “Love you too, baby. Sorry it was at a strip club.”
Me: “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just write a blog about it called ‘Looking at Tits with My Dad.”
Dad: ::cackles::

*Fun fact: I actually looked up the age of maturity for a badger. You can’t say I’m not thorough.
http://www.blueplanetbiomes.org/badger.htm

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

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

I cannot be trusted with my own health and medications.

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

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


Yeah… um… don’t do that.

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

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

 saw foot
It saves 200 Weight Watcher’s points!

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

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

… or I’m the most impulsive person alive.

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

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

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

magic potion
…the blood of a centaur.

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

across the universe

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

lots of pills
Pictured: not a balanced meal.

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

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

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

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

screaming at blow dryer

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

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

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

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

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

conspiracy lady
Gail.

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

malik 1 malik 2
Malik

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

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

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

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

niki
Niki

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that. 

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

A Letter to My Downstairs Neighbor

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

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

 gigantic bug
It was like Kafka fanfic.

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

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

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

I56 Astra FNS1
I must have just kicked it coming down.
(Fun fact: contortion sex is a thing. SAFE SEARCH)

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

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

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

Sincerely,
Belle

S#^t I Can’t Do (Part 1): Share Important News Like a Normal F&@#&*% Person

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priest dean
I would throw myself under a train if this man took a vow of celibacy.

Over Lent, Father shared a series of homilies focusing on the Seven Deadly Sins. Each week, he focused on a different one. This is the same… exactly the same.

Shit I can’t do:

Date Without Being a Jackass
Time Management
Cook on the Stove
Express Sympathy Appropriately
Manage Heartbreak Without Humor
Drive… At All
Share Important News Like a Normal Fucking Person

At the moment, I’m caught up on that last one. I’ll cover the others at some point, if I don’t get distracted and decide there’s other shit I want to discuss, because that’s how blogs work.

Dean Winchester
If I could watch any man clean a gun naked…

Where was I?

When I was five-years-old, my Gramma had this warm, sweet, cuddly little kitten named Calamity.

calamity

Hahaha. I’m just lying. It was really an under grown chupacabra and it ate souls. Regardless of the hellfire coursing through Calamity’s veins, though, my Gramma liked this stray enough to claim it as her own… sort of… it’s difficult to cage that sort of creature in anything but a circle of salt. My dad, however, has always been one of those redneck men who thinks it’s funny to tell stories of cats dying. Yeah… that’s a thing, here in the Midwest.

At the time, my brother was just like any eight-year-old boy, hero worshipping his dad while running around barefoot on an acreage, shooting things with a blow dart gun, after having handcuffed his little sister in a field. So when my dad jokingly (says he) told Bo to shoot Calamity with a blow dart… he did… and she crawled away to die. Yes, someone please tell this story at my next wedding.

So a few days after the demise of Calamity, my Gramma wondered where she’d gone. She asked my parents and my brother and they swore they didn’t know. It really was a shame that she’d run off. Then she asked me.

Me: “Dad told Bo to shoot him with a blow dart, so he did.”

Horrified Senior WomanA few years later, a neighbor’s un-collared and often unfed dog kept killing our chickens. One day, I came home from school, all alone at eight-years-old, because that’s totally safe, and found my rabbits inside-out all over the back lawn. You can spread pet rabbit pretty thin, y’all. I called my mother in hysterics and then just a week or so later, the neighbor’s dog met with my daddy’s gun and he buried him the back field… because my father is Jed Clampett.

jed clampett

A week or so later, one of the neighbor kids asked if we’d seen his dog.

Bo: “No.”
Me: “Yeah, my dad shot him and buried him in our field.”
Bo: “Shut-up, Belle!” :silence: “She’s kidding.”

My dad was within his full legal rights to kill this dog that was trespassing on his land, so despite the threats, there were no consequences… for everyone except me. Yes, that’s right. I got yelled at when my eight-year-old brother went full-on Dexter on my Gramma’s cat. I got yelled at when my dad tried to start his own Hatfield-McCoy feud.

As I got older, though, I naturally developed the ability to empathize with people appropriately and recognize the importance of breaking significant news in a personal and serious manner. For example, at 18-years-old, I needed to get on birth control and wasn’t sure how to go about doing so with my insurance. So, one afternoon, I sat my mother down and had a serious heart-to-heart, explaining that I had made the adult decision to protect myself.

Bazinga.

No, no. I was really helping her clean up dog poop in the backyard and blurted “I’m having sex now and I need to get on birth control.” Roseanne handled that topic better than yours truly.

As the Hometown minister warned during our high school sex-ed class – I shit you fucking not – sex led to pregnancy… three years later. My ex-husband wasn’t working… still. I was just shy of my bachelor’s degree and working at the movie theater, living off financial aid and prayer (which is not so tasty). This was not good news. How to tell my dad? I KNOW! I’ll go to lunch with him and tell him then.

Dad: “So what do you want to eat?”
Me: “I’m pregnant.”

So that’s out of the way. Now how to tell everyone else…

Facebook Status:
Belle is… seven weeks pregnant today.

Then, as I’ve mentioned previously, I lost the baby. It was heartbreaking, physically painful with no medication at the end of my first/start of my second trimester, messier than those Lifetime movies ever said, and absolutely terrifying since I was all alone. So I called my Gramma and my dad. I told my mother when she showed up unannounced. I texted my brother, since we weren’t very close. It wasn’t perfect, but it was personal… enough.

So that’s out of the way. Now how to tell everyone else…

Facebook Status:
I lost the baby. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want your apologies or to hear your awful miscarriage stories. Just leave me alone.

puppet show
It was between that and…

A little over a year later, I’d had enough of the stealing, the lying, the pet abuse and murder, the make-believe jobs… you know, marriage.

Wait. Shut the front door! That’s not how marriage works?!?! Wha…?!?!

So, I told my ex-husband he needed to leave… and he said no.

confused
Wait… that’s not how divorce works either…

Over the course of the next few months, I continued to tell him to leave, often loudly, occasionally with projectiles.

Ex-husband: “We never have any fucking food!”
Me: “Then maybe you should GET OUT.”

disney couples
Oh, just suck my big fat furry dick, Disney.

At this point, I probably should’ve reached out to someone, told my family what was up, let my daddy bury the bastard in the back field… but nah. I suffered in silence. Finally, I threatened to call the police, on Jay’s advice, and my ex-husband left. He kept sneaking in and taking things, but I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with that, so I still called it a win. Then I filed the paper work two weeks later.

Chad: “You seriously need to tell your family.”
Me: “I will… eventually.”

It was two weeks before Christmas, when I finally got up the nerve to tell my Gramma. I lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, while she watched the news. Neither of us had been talking.

Me: “Gramma?”
Gramma: “Yeah?”
Me: “I’m getting a divorce.”
Gramma: in an almost bored tone “Are you really?”
Me: “Yeah… like I filed the paper work already.”
Gramma: “Huh.”

You see! That is why emotion freaks me out. She wasn’t mad. She fully believed me. She was glad I was leaving. She just understands that feelings are for the inside.

kristen stewart
There’s a girl who knows how it’s done!

Voicemail: “Hey, Bo. It’s Belle. I just called to tell you I’m getting a divorce. He wouldn’t work. I couldn’t do it anymore. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me. Love you.”

text conversation with my mother
Me: “I filed for divorce.”
Mother: “Do you need anything?”
Me: “I’d really like that Fossil purse for Christmas.”

Then the most epic of all. I pulled up to my dad’s house, knocked on his door.
Dad: “Hey kiddo. What’s goin’ on?”
Me: “I’mgettingadivorce. I’msorryIruinedChristmas.”
Dad: “Do what?”
Me: “I’m getting a divorce. I’m sorry I ruined Christmas.”

ruined christmas

Since then, there have been numerous breaking news faux pas.

Me: “Do you like memoirs?”
Gail: “Yeah, sometimes.”
Me: “I do. I really like biographies too. I did shots with Chad and let him feel me up last night. I just really like to read another person’s story, ya know?”
Gail: silence… “Yeah. I’d love to hear another person’s story, too.”

Text message
Me: “I just woke up on my grandma’s patio after passing out from the heat.”
Gail: “WTF? Seriously?”

This particular incident was accompanied by an “I need a ride to the E.R.” text message to my step-mother a couple of days later, when I couldn’t stop vomiting from the concussion.

Over the years, I’ve just accepted it. I am never going to be able to tell anyone anything important in a grown-up manner. There will one day exist the “Honey, I’m pregnant” text message. It’s actually become a running joke.

conversation with my female cousin Mick, the baby of the family
Me: “Well, if you ever do decide to join the Air Force to be a pilot, just remember, the best way to break serious news is via Facebook. ‘Mick… just joined the Air Force. Love y’all.'”
Mick: sitting next to her mother “Yeah… I think that one might get me into a lot of trouble.”
Me: “Well, yeah. That’s why you ‘lose your phone’ that day.”

When Gail was raped and couldn’t figure out how to tell her boyfriend a couple of weeks later (he’d been out of town), I suggested a cake with the words “Your girlfriend was raped” on it. The guy’s had enough bad news. Why not give him a cake, too? Do you have no compassion at all?!?

I also suggested a barber shop quartet… and wrote the lyrics, which did make Gail laugh and that was the whole point. Duh. She’d just been raped, yo.

“Your one and only girlfriend was ra-a-aped.”

barbershop quartet

I give the best fucking advice.

Sidenote: This incident will also be covered in the topics “Express Sympathy Appropriately” and “Manage Heartbreak Without Humor.”

The fact of the matter is, of the Shit I Can’t Do, several share one foundational issue. Emotion is horribly uncomforatble and should be hidden like the last fucking horcrux.

horcrux cave
Right there. That is where your feelings go.

Clear Your History: My Funniest Google Searches Examined

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If you’re not making fun of yourself, you’re passing up some great material.

Girl using laptop computer and laughing

– How to tell when meat’s gone bad/What does rancid meat smell like? –
I have a bachelor’s degree in HOME-EC… and bee tea double ewe: if you’re Googling it, it’s gone bad.

– Paranormal erotica –
“As his wings rose above us…”

– Requirements to join the Air Force –
I was freaking out and needed a backup plan in case I failed my graduate portfolio again… cuz you know… librarian/soldier. Tomato, tomato:  a phrase that totally works in print.

– Penis drawing –
If your best friend is having a tough day, use Android apps to design adult bookmark suggestions. “Suck my dick. I’m reading.” Fo’ sho’.

– Adult thumbsucking –
It’s the INTERNET. You’re never the only freak. Oh, wait. Until you are.

– Can’t eat polar bear –
It is, too, common fucking knowledge, GAIL.

– Hot actors –
Who shall don the wings in this paranormal erotica?

– What happens with Daniela and Murdoch? –
I don’t know if I should address the laughable cheesy paranormal romance names or the fact that I’m too impatient to see how a 100 page novella turns out. Spoiler alert: Murdoch realizes that if he goes through the painful process of feeding from Daniela, his body temperature will drop to hers so that he can have sex with her without burning her skin with his. Also, at one point, he fucks her with an icicle. For realz. THIS is the smut I read.

– Funny grieving E-cards. –
I wasn’t accidentally being insensitive. There was actual research involved.

– How long has Elena been in high school? –
– How many people did Rachel sleep with in friends? –
Over-analytical my butt, Jay. I can SO watch something without tearing it apart. Also, I’m as much a fan of Vampire Diaries as the next gal who secretly has werewolf porn on her Kindle, but it’s been like twelve freaking years, Elena. Maybe if you weren’t so caught up in your double brother penetration, you’d be able to pass a freaking English class. Also, little known fact: Ross was one of the sluttier in the group. Not surprising. He was relatively good-looking, loyal (they were on a break), and had a PhD. SWOON. Rachel was an idiot.

– Levar Burton –
Internal monologue: DO NOT tell your customer he looks like the guy from Reading Rainbow. Do not. It will come out like the time you tried to tell the waitress she looked like Lucy Lui, but not just because she was Asian.

Weiner Buddies

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I awoke early this morning, because I had to be at the library by 8:00. I checked my phone and found an interesting Facebook notification. It was a friend request from The Musician. I immediately sent Gail a screencap, had a beat of thought and confirmed his request. Had I broken down that beat, it would’ve gone something like this:

That’s really weird. I should probably deny him. I bet I could make this worse, though. It’s likely that that would be a lot funnier.

:Confirmed:

This thought process is a major aspect of my personality and humor.

towelie
The Musician

The Musician was Gail’s recurring one-night stand for about a year. “Friends with benefits” implies that they’d ever have hung out for any other reason and they did not. He did a lot of recreational drugs and played Jazz. The only thing they had in common was that they interlocked. He was her one and only fuck buddy. I never cared for The Musician, because he wanted an exclusive Gail while he stored multiple brands of tampons under his sink and had a mirrored headboard. He’s seven years older than us and every time they got in an argument, he’d patrionizingly defend his actions with “You’re just used to dealing with boys. I’m not a boy. I’m a man.” We mock this to this day… like all the fucking time. Once, he and Gail were fooling around, while she was on her period (we tell each other way too damned much), and he pulled back to mumble sexily

“So how we gonna do this, Megan?”
“What?”
:beat of  silence: “How we gonna do this, Baby?”

I shit you not. Gail just went with it, because it’s not like she was there for the conversation any more than Megan was. Regardless, I root for her, because I will always root for her and it’s her vagina, so what-the-fuck-ever. They continued on and off until Gail met her current fella and still ocassionally text, but that’s all.

Okay. That’s Gail’s background with The Musician. Mine is shorter. I met him twice. I had one actual conversation with him a year and a half ago. He’d gotten Gail near to tears the previous weekend by implying she was a big ol’ ho for talking to other guys, while he called her Baby to keep his facts straight. There is no quicker way to get me or Gail to go Mama Bear than to make the other cry. I was drunk and told him he didn’t have a real job and that he probably wouldn’t tell Gail how many women he’d slept with, because he didn’t remember. Beyond this, he knew only what Gail told him of me.

So after deciding I could probably make this Funny Bad and accepting The Musician’s friend request, I went to work and forgot about it… until he messaged me. I called my Gramma after work to laugh about how he’d contacted me.

Gramma: “You need to stay away from him.”
Me: “Please, Gramma. My panties are like Fort Knox. Like I’m going to let a musician into them.”
I tend to be a total snob about men, rarely giving a second date, and have a lot of sexual hangups, so my magic number is still just the one.

I called Gail and refused to tell her anything until we met in person, only excitedly exclaiming:
“WE’RE GONNA BE WEINER BUDDIES!”

I also clarified:
“Hey. He messaged me. If you thought that I was above fucking with him for it, then you have greatly overestimated me as a person.”

*Sidenote: Gramma doesn’t like the phrase ‘Weiner Buddies.”

The following conversation is as much copy and paste as was possible for proper blogging. I shared it with Gail this evening in a Taco Bell. Just to be clear, my profile picture is of Gail and myself. The Musician knows I’m Gail’s sisterfriend, though he doesn’t bring that up.

The Musician:
You look to have had a makeover since I’ve seen you last! Nicely done. Hope yer doing fancy

Me:
Well, thank you very much for saying so. I’ve been well. You? How’s music?

– “Wow. You’re not fat anymore. I’ll make contact and inquiries as to your well-being… even though I’ve never done so ever.” Charming. No wonder he’s rollin’ in the pussy. On an unrelated note, don’t use that phrase over Thanksgiving dinner. You’re welcome. –

The Musician:
🙂 another day in paradise…music is going well. Sometimes I think my life is akin to being the like man with the most cigarettes in jail hehe

You should swing by a show sometime. Visit the city much?

– He does not know how to get into Fort Knox. –

Me:
That’s good to hear. I make it to the city every now and then. Been working and finishing up school. Where do you play?

– This was the point where I could’ve blown him off and ended the conversation politely. I, however, gave it some thought and decided that not only would it be funnier to not disuade him, but to actualy encourage him. –

The Musician:
We’ve been performing at the doll house downtown for the last year. (and no its not a strip club haha) I think my tenure with them is about over though which means we are back to the grind.

The city has some new venues worth checking out. Ill be at Grandads this coming thursday off the top of my head.

If you find yourself this way don’t be a stranger. I will always remember you riding in my back seat, firing off your mind lasers and sharing comical observations about the universe.

Message me sometime if you think you’ll be out. [His phone number] or Facebook me though sometimes it gets frozen and won’t work on me

– This is the point in the conversation that turned Gail’s laughter to screeching bird noises and mine to wheezing gasps broken up by clicking sounds. Not only does “back to the grind” mean “unemployed”, but I’ve never even seen The Musician’s car. I’ve only spoken with him once, when Gail and I went to a bar downtown and I was pretty damned clear on the whole not-liking-him thing. How many women does he sleep with that he’s actually confused The Bitch Friend of more than one? “I will always remember…” Apparently not, because that never fucking happened. The man just hit on me by reminiscing over an anecdote of someone else’s. That’s the best pickup line in the HISTORY OF TIME. I’m tattooing it to my fucking labia, because it is haaaaaawt. “Mind lasers”? Was he on some sort of halucinogen at the time? Was he during this conversation? –

Me:
Well, I’ll be sure and do that sometime soon. I’ve been wanting to visit the Dollhouse, actually. I’ve heard good things.

I haven’t even had a night out in ages with school and two jobs.

– No. I will not be sure and do that sometime soon. Yes. Ineed, I was fishing for him to ask me out… because it would be funny. Keep up. –

The Musician:
Well we gotta fix that lol! What are you studying and where ya working?

Me:
I graduate in May with my Masters in Library and Information Studies. I’m working at Shetland Schools and the library on the southside.

– No fucking way was I telling him which library. –

The Musician:
Librarian aye? Somehow that makes sense. Librarians are some of the most interesting people to be around I’ve discovered. Very mischevious.

If you see me out don’t tell the library… I have some late fees :O

Me: “I swear, the man has got to have a punch card and the only thing left on it is ‘Librarian.’
Gail: “What does he get when it’s full?”
Me: “I don’t know. VD? Syphillis that makes him blind?”
Gail: “So all syphillis? He gets BAD syphillis?”

Me:
Yup. Dream job. Just gotta do my final presentation.

Haha. Don’t worry too much about the fines. They disappear after six months.

-Nobody flirts like this gal. It’s like a striptease with words. Bow chicka wow wow. –

The Musician:
Really?! I’m going to the library today then:D What are you getting into this evening Miss?

Me:
That’s fines, not books, BTW. Lol. Not a lot. Probably more homework. Kind of broke and that’s free. You having crazy musician times tonight?

– And if so, would you invite me so I can giggle over it with my sister in every way outside of a CSI episode, whose ass you’ve been inside? –

The Musician:
Haha not so certain of that tonight. There are a couple shows around town I thought about checking out.
Hmm what to do, what to do. If you find your chair growing those kind of fast moving legs that carry you from your living room
To the burgeoning streets of the city-i will buy your first round lol
Me:
Lol. I’ll have to keep that in mind.
date rape
Me: “I should so go. I want to see what else I can get him to reminisce about. I’ll use information you’ve given me and make it seem like I know him. ‘Remember that time you bought me chicken on a stick? How’s Lola? She got hurt a while back, right? Such a sweet cat.'”
Gail: choking on laughter “You’re a horrible person. You can’t do that. I’ll feel involved for telling you his cat’s name.”
Me: :nodding with a huge grin:
Gail: “Do not give me that look! I played hard to get, too. If you meet up with him, he’ll get into Fort Knox. Fortunately, I’m off tomorrow and I’ll leave my ringer on so I can hear it when you call me from the breakfast place down the street.”
Me: “Psh. I can’t even have sex alone without crying, Gail.”
Gail: “Yeah. That’s why I’m picking you up in this scenario. You’re crying too hard to drive.”
Me: “Gail, is he really just that charming? He opened with ‘Dayum, you’re not fat anymore.’ How’s he going to get me to sleep with him? You’re forgetting that I don’t find him attractive even a little.” :gesturing toward my lap: “It wouldn’t matter if this were Vegas. He still wouldn’t be gettin’ in… and like you’ve ever played hard to get with anyone.”
Gail: “You say that now, but…” :pauses to think of an appropriate metaphor and lays her hand on the Kindle I felt I had to bring into a Taco Bell: “You have this Kindle and it hasn’t been charged in a loooong time. That plug-in right there might be dirty, but if you want to read badly enough… you’ll use it. This is actually turning out to be a really good metaphor for you. In fact, based on the stuff you like to read, it’s a really good example.”
Me: “That may be true, but it’s not gonna happen, because as much as I like to say ‘Weiner Buddies’…”
wiener buddies text

Alas, I did not take him up on it. I went home, wrote this blog and read. Perhaps, Gail and I have forever lost the chance to be Weiner Buddies. It is a bond we will never share.

crying friends

Four Reasons I Shouldn’t Breed

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So, I’m really not a maternal person. I used to think I was, but then I miscarried and Gail’s daughter, whom I adored, died six months later. Now, babies make me completely paranoid. I don’t even like to hold them, because they might choke on something and die in my care. If I’m invited to a baby shower, I don’t even look at the registry. I just buy glass bottles so your baby doesn’t get brain cancer from the plastic ones. I understand that you’ll probably return it, but whatever. I’m not contributing to the death of your kid and that’s just the same as giving a gift card. I hope that, one day, if I ever give a guy a second date and it eventually leads to marriage, he’ll be confident in my mothering ability and pressure me to breed, because I generally think I’d like to give that another go… when I’m like thirty… two. In the last few years, however, I’ve become convinced that I’m completely incapable of being a mom. It’s not even because I don’t like kids all that much. I’m sure it’s just other people’s kids I don’t like. Rather, I’m focusing on the trivial, background moments in life as a sign of something greater. For example…

I can’t keep a cactus alive.
That is not an exaggeration. I’ve killed several… and some ivy. For years, the weather would warm up and I’d think “Plants! Plants would look great on my patio!” So I’d spend $30 on the prettiest little full sun flowers Lowe’s had to offer and they would look great… for four days. Four days y’all! Inevitably, day five would hit and these pretty pink flowers would start to brown and wilt just slightly. I’d water them more, because the Southern sun was just too severe on the west side of my apartment complex. By day seven, they would be pitifully shriveled and I’d still be someone who worked two jobs and was in graduate school and I’d ultimately just say “Fuck it. It’s just a stupid plant.” A part of me, however, wouldn’t want to give in, so I’d just leave the flowers on the patio. I mean, I spent $30 on them! So, my pretty little patio with its white southern rockers and discount wind chimes was also adorned with dead plants. A year ago, I figured out the solution. I’m upstairs. You can barely see my patio plant life. That means you can’t tell that I just bought some fake flowers from The Dollar Tree and shoved them in some soil. You can’t do this with babies, y’all. You can’t just let them die and pretend they’re still alive and then replace them with dolls. People are going to notice.

dolls
My son and daughter… no really.

I keep my dog alive… because he reminds me.
Okay. So the plants are hopeless, partly because I don’t notice I suck at plants until they’re half dead, partly because of my “it’s just a stupid plant” mentality, and partly because I could kill a fucking redwood. I’m just a really busy person. I don’t have time to keep anything alive unless it’s cute. My dog, however, is five years old with the same energetic spirit he had when he chewed up a pack of pens at 9 months, happily giving me his puppy dog grin with ink all over his mouth. Clearly, I can keep something alive and healthy, right? You see, Jude and I have this little… routine… it’s more like a skit really. I go to wash my hands and he barks and howls at me. It’s fucking adorable. It’s also because I forgot to give him water. In my defense, I’d probably remember if it weren’t for our little play. At this point, I’ve just accepted the fact that if he’s thirsty, he’ll tell me. He free eats as well, meaning I give him a huge bowl of food and he just eats it as he wishes over the next several days. Then he bugs the hell out of me when I have food to remind me that he’s out… or that he’s just spoiled and wants table scraps. It’s an imperfect system. He may even get into my bag looking for food (even if he has some) and chew open a pack of bullets or eat my headphones. Yes, we’d make a great sitcom about an inept dog owner who let her puppy eat a pack of pens… and possibly a bullet. I can’t even imagine that ER visit with a child.

I abused an electronic doll.
The graduating class of 2006 was the first to try out the new Baby Think It Over dolls. The edition before this required the user to jam a key in the doll’s back with enough force that it couldn’t be duct taped until it stopped crying… just like a real baby? I don’t know. I don’t have children. Anyway, the 2006 version required diaper changes and bottles placed to the lips. It sounded like a real baby that eats way too loudly and only breathes periodically. Our school didn’t have a fantastic budget for this program, however, so we got to take it home for just one day, while the neighboring town requires four. It pretty much taught me that babies are absolutely fucking adorable and everyone wants to hold them, so I’ll get tons of attention for having one, too. Fantabulous. The point of the project was not to just stay inside and chill out with no other responsibilities, however. You were supposed to take the baby out and multitask to care for it while old ladies in the grocery stores gave you dirty looks. Since I lived for shock value at 16, Gail and I had a ton of fun with this assignment. Then I got my grade. If you’ve read anything I’ve written, you should know about the time I wept over a 98.5%… like six months ago. When I got my 92% on the baby project, I was upset enough to ask why.  “A low A?!?!?! Why did I get a LOW A?!?!?!” The teacher explained to me that while she’ll excuse one head drop (the baby had a wobbly head you had to hold up), she had to take off points for the second one… and the child abuse. Apparently, not only did I drop this child’s head twice, but in my attempt to quell the baby’s cries in the milk aisle, I tried to burp it too enthusiastically and the computer registered this as if I threw the poor thing up against a wall. While this project taught me that babies are the most fun a 16-year-old girl will ever have and child abuse isn’t that bad, I’m still a paranoid person. I accidentally abused a hypothetical child. What if it wasn’t while burping it? What if I blacked out? Oh, God, what if I have some kind of neurological issue that makes me hit babies?!?!

I killed my water baby.
Come to think of it, that wasn’t, in fact, the first time I abused a tiny pretend person. It could be neurological! Okay, I have to stop joking about that or I’m going to find myself crying uncontrollably in an MRI machine. The first time, I was four years old. Water baby was the most awesome toy on the planet after the umbrella we used to hold while jumping out of trees in an attempt to fly. I had a really unsupervised childhood, which might explain why I had free usage of dangerous kitchen equipment at fucking four. The best thing about Water Baby was that it felt like a real baby when you filled it up with warm water. I, however, couldn’t get the plug out of its back on my own (an admittedly ideal feature) and my mother wouldn’t just refill the baby every time it cooled down. Some mothering instincts she had, huh? So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Please do not misunderstand this. No part of me was worried that my baby was feeling uncomfortable cold. I was just frustrated, because I wanted my doll warm. Purely selfish reasons. Ask any four-year-old how they make something warm quickly. The answer is obvious. Microwave it. Yes, yes, I did blow up my baby doll. Not only that, but I didn’t even realize until later when I asked my mother what happened to my Water Baby and she explained that it had a hole in it. I wasn’t even concerned. I just wanted a new one. Again, you can’t do this with real children. You don’t just get another one after microwaving the first.

water baby
Just add radiation.

Summary: If my baby can make it out of my hostile blender of a uterus, I may leave it out to die in the elements, forget to feed it, accidentally kick it in the head, and then pop it in the microwave. Anyone need a sitter?