We B*tches Be Crazy: Women of PoF

Posted on October 8, 2013 by Belle of the Library

When Gaily and I met in the 9th grade, we had this mutual friend named Abby. Abby was kind of surly and sarcastic, just like us. She was also batshit crazy. As high school wore on, that last bit became more and more apparent, but the true mark of insanity was when Gail, forced to take on a roommate after her divorce at 22, let Abby move in with her. Not only was Abby constantly shoplifting and never paying any rent, but she once walked in on Gail showering, looked her up and down, and said suggestively “Well… you look better than I do.” Gail had to actually ask her to leave the bathroom. Not long after, Gail woke up in the middle of the night, her boyfriend by her side, to see Abby standing in the doorway staring at her.

So, when Gail and I were crafting and marathoning Under the Dome, I decided to search Plenty of Fish for Abby. Her horribly misleading Facebook pictures alone are hilarious. I couldn’t imagine what her Plenty of Fish account looked like and after she screwed Gaily out of hundreds of dollars when her daughter had just died, I don’t mind being catty… not that I did before, when it came to Abby.

16-year-old Gail: “She rides her horse a lot.”
16-year-old Belle: “Yeah, I noticed the dip in his back was pretty low.”

The girl was awful and crazy. After making jokes about using the skin of Gail’s daughter to make a pool table and telling a high school acquaintance that Gail mistreated her as a roommate, it’s apparent she hasn’t gotten any better. Her online dating profile sounded like a fun read. Unfortunately, I was not able to find her brand of crazy. Instead, I found several new brands.

I pick on men a lot in my online dating blogs, because I date men. I feel like the poor guys get a bad rap in online dating, though, and not just from me. It’s not that I don’t think women do crazy shit. Quite the contrary. I’ve even done my fair share.

Now, there were certainly a number of good profiles, where cute girls advertised themselves well, just as how some good men advertise themselves well. End disclaimer. Looking for Abby’s profile, however, brought to my attention something I hadn’t really considered, and that is just how horrible some of us women are at making profiles. For example…

Insulting Online Dating

I’m finding women do this a lot more than men. Regardless of gender, there are two versions of this statement.

1. I’m out of school. My office has a no fraternization policy. People are only looking for hookups in bars. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I’m trying online dating.

2. I’m fed up with online dating, but it’s the only way anyone meets anymore, so I’ll stick with it.

I understand your frustration with the dating scene in general. No one meets in person anymore and efforts to disprove that statement are expensive and time consuming; but the story you tell your grandchildren is going to be so unromantic compared to the one your grandparents told you if you meet someone online. I get it. I do… but get a blog, because your profile isn’t the place for that negativity. If you’re declaring that you’re embarrassed by online dating as a whole, you’re implying that every person who might be interested in you should also be embarrassed to be dating online. Also, don’t be embarrassed. Just yesterday, I confessed to my redneck daddy that I mostly date online. His response? “Hell, baby, everybody dates online, anymore.” I expected a lecture about being shankraped and I pretty much just got a fist bump. Don’t feel bad that you’re dating online, because everyone is dating online. Besides, your grandparents story likely left out the part where they only got married at 17, because he knocked her up and her daddy owned a shotgun. Romanticism is about presentation, exaggeration, and well… lying.

If you’re just frustrated with online dating, because no one’s actually 5’8″, everyone’s allergic to your cat, all the men are divorced, that guy called you stupid for believing in Christ, or whatever it is that’s not going well, again get a blog, because your profile isn’t the place for that. Do you really think opening with “I don’t even know why I’m bothering to fill this out, since no one reads these anyway” is going to make anyone want to message you? Yes, a bad date is disheartening, but if it is legitimately enough of a reason to give up, then delete your account. If it’s not, then actually try to appear interested.

The Ridiculous Expectations

I once read the profile of a man demanding that any interested parties must have no divorces, tattoos, or children, not wear make-up and be a virgin from the Church of Christ. Furthermore, he wasn’t paying for Match.com, so prospects should wink at him and then he would pay to talk to them, if he deemed them worth it. Welcome to the Midwest, y’all.

This guy, however, stood out in all his crazy glory, because it’s not super common for men to be so specific in their demands. Women, though? Wow. Gail’s boyfriend, Terry, once complained that women were just looking to fill in their check-list and I thought he must have just had a bad experience, but after one search on Plenty of Fish, I see that he’s right.

Now, don’t misunderstand my point here. There are some things that are genuine deal breakers and these should really be listed. If you just cannot have a relationship with a Christian, make that clear. If you don’t want to be with someone who is not politically aware, say so. If you do not and will never want kids, state that upfront. These facts cannot be derived from a photo and they could genuinely affect the outcome of your relationship and your own personal happiness. Make sure they’re understood. What I’m concerned about is over-the-top statements like:

looking for a man to make me dinner just cuz, take my kids to the park cuz i’m tired, buy me flowers just cuz

I want a man who knows how to take care of a woman in her emotional needs. Opens the door for me, says please and thank you, tells me I look nice when I get all dolled up for a date. Also, not 100% sure I want to have my own kids in this society, but for the right guy who takes care of me and shows me that I’m the most important thing I would be willing to have kids. I want to feel like the most important person in the man’s heart. I like PDA so you have to be willing to hold hands, hug, kiss, snuggle.

What I’m reading in these profiles is a lot of the word “want”. Why would a man want to date someone he’s never met, when she’s already making some pretty big demands, such as taking her kids to the park while she relaxes or taking charge of her “emotional needs”, with no real explanation for what that entails? I’m not saying that’s an unreasonable hope from an established relationship, but the men viewing your profile are going off a few pictures and what you type. They don’t know you. They don’t have any obligation to you. You’ve sort of just told them that they would be taking on a lot, from day one. One or two of these statements wouldn’t be so bad, but these women are making actual lists. Then there’s:

2) You drive a…
a. Jeep (3 points)
b. Truck (2 points)
c. Car (1 point)

We all have our trivial preferences, sure. I’d like a guy who is tall and broad and rugged and… oh, we’ve had this conversation already.

Are you really going to deny yourself the opportunity to get to know someone because you’ve set up a fucking quiz assigning points for something as inconsequential as what he drives? I love me a big, intimidating truck. I do. It’s not a requirement, though. I drive a freaking hatchback. I am the last person to demand a sexy car. In this gal’s defense, she really liked camping, so I think that had something to do with the Jeep preference, but you can drive a car to a campsite, so I still declare this a trivial desire based on physical attraction. The fact remains that he loses points if he doesn’t check the box she’s already picked out for her perfect man. He doesn’t quite fit the clearly stated mold. Just like with this woman, who states…

No Black Men. Not attracted. Thanks.

It’s okay not to be attracted to someone. It really is. I’ve met black men who will openly declare that they’re not attracted to black women. My problem with this statement is that, if she doesn’t want to date a black man, it’s always an option to… you know… not date a black man! You can tell from a person’s profile, through pictures and/or text, if he’s black, white, bald, tall, short, fat, Asian, has glasses, or a weird-shaped head. Why sound so judgmental by listing those things and being somewhat offensive to the people who don’t fit those parameters if you can tell without doing so? This is like men who include a “No Fat Chicks” paragraph. Why tell Ola that’s she’s not good enough, because she’s 200 pounds, when you could just not date Ola?

The Detailed Description of Baggage

The search I ran was for women ages 24-28, within 35 miles of Shetland. I’m not going to mock a demographic I don’t fit. A surprising number of the women I found opened with statements such as…

Someone said to me “you’re too pretty to be single” I said “no, I’m too pretty to be lied to, cheated on, and played games with.”

I am actully working on getting back in shape so I would like someone with this same goal or who would support me in this goal, prior to having my children I took ballet and was healthy I have never been a size 2 and I don’t want to be but I do want to be smaller then I am

Dont let my outside bubble fool you I am very sweet and have a lot to offer…. if you can break down my shields.

Yeah… those were copy and paste and it pained me not to fix the grammar, but you get my point. We’re in our twenties. A little baggage and some insecurity is implied. I understand that there are some pieces of information that you have to get out there, despite how much I throw a tantrum about it.

I do list myself as divorced and, when prompted, I explain briefly.

I was married at 19 and divorced at 23. He was just a really bad person. I finalized two and a half years ago and there are no attachments.

It’s a weird question to answer without sounding like I got bored with marriage one day, but also without being that crazy person ranting in the mechanic’s office about her ex-husband being a prick. Oh, yeah. That was me. After I gave Aerospace that explanation, he gave me a brief account of his last relationship and we stopped talking about it. If you’re divorced, mention it. If you have a son, say so. If you’re overweight, make sure your pictures reflect that. More explanation is not needed until the other person gives a shit. I loved this advice book as a teenager, and the author, Carolyn Hax explained that you have to lay your cards out on the table one by one. “You can’t just shout ’52 card pickup!’ and expect someone to care about the mess.”* Stating painfully obvious deal breakers, like lying, cheating, and stealing, is the equivalent to talking about how your ex lied, cheated, and stole from you. No one wants a liar, cheater, or thief, just as no one wants someone who can’t even put their past betrayals behind them long enough to make a profile. You sound like the personification of a headache.

The Batshit Crazy

I think my favorite profile belonged to the unemployed, six months pregnant, mom of one, with her twin daybed in the background of her profile photo, as she flipped off the camera, showed her boobs, and made a duck face. You can’t ask for something you don’t offer, such as employment or pride.

My second favorite was:

first off if ur just lookin at my profile cause I’m in a bikini top in one my pics an thats the only one u noticed then dont bother with sending me a message i am more then just boobs!

Perhaps, little lady, if you’re looking to express that you’re “more then just boobs” (::cough:: than ::cough::), you shouldn’t be displaying them in your profile.

“How dare you message me for sex!?!?”

Citations
Tell Me About It: Lying, Sulking, Getting Fat… and 56 Other Things Not to Do While Looking for Love, by Carolyn Hax.

Shelving the Stereotypes: When I say I’m a librarian…

Posted on September 16, 2013 by Belle of the Library

When Gail and I go to a bar, there’s always this great moment where she says she’s a Mail Carrier and I say I’m a Librarian. We are both fully aware that we sound like we’re making up sexy alter egos and she’s just really bad at it. I’ve had high school acquaintances, dates, and even attendants in high-end shops assume I am joking when I say I’m a librarian. They aren’t being rude. I’m just 26 and they’re visibly waiting for the punchline.

However, when I say I’m a librarian…

… no, I’m not kidding.

Everyone pictures one of two people when they hear “librarian” and the frumpy gal with the bun is generally the first. I’ll get to the second in a minute. In actuality, about 50% of the librarians I know are in their 20’s and early 30’s. We’re also not typically ultra conservative. On the contrary, it is a hugely liberal profession and includes tattoos, pink hair, and piercings, depending on the library. Massachusetts even has its own Tattooed Librarians Calendar. While I have more conservative political beliefs than my coworkers, even in the Midwest, the Librarians for Obama bumper sticker is quite common. My point, though, is that most of us actually look a lot more like this…

… if Zooey Deschanel had Harry Potter tattoos up and down her arms.

… I’m not wearing nipple clamps.

… and we rarely look like this.

This is the second most common image conjured. I’m sure most librarians like sex. In fact, if I could remember what it was, I’d probably like it, too. It is a biological drive. That does not mean that we do strip teases with ladders on rollers. Do you have any idea how many germs are in a library?!?! I think this fantasy actually developed as the result of the aforementioned “ultra conservative librarian” stereotype. We’re so prim and repressed, if properly triggered, we must go absolutely wild. On the contrary, librarians are in public service and just like cops and poison control operators, we have some of the most bizarre encounters. We’re all about free information, therefore, our calling is to give information freely; that means without judgement or surprise, regardless of whether it’s a 10-year-old’s request for Fifty Shades of Grey or a man’s desire for books on rape. We do not get to voice an opinion. If you ask your local librarian for books on sexual positions and STD treatment and she even bats an eye, she’s not doing her job very well. So, hearing the phrase “demure ladies in the streets, but utter freaks in the sheets”, in regards to my profession is neither going to scar my virginal soul, nor is it going to cause me to rip my tweed pantsuit from my swollen breasts. It’s a career path… a wonderful one. It does not, however, come with any sexual requirements. In fact, the beauty of being in such a liberal field means that heterosexuals, homosexuals, transexuals, transgenders, and swingers would really all be welcome.

… no, Kindle is not putting me out of a job.

It used to really stress my out to hear these kinds of comments, as they were usually accompanied by the implication that I would never get to be a librarian. If you’ve been reading my blog for any period of time, you know how that usually went.

Today, I find the people who make the above suggestions have not usually been in a library in the last ten years. They aren’t library people, because they don’t know what libraries offer. In addition to programs, classes, access to technology, and on-site IT assistance, we do offer e-media… for free. Go ahead and spend $11.99 on J.K. Rowling’s new book for Kindle. That’s a bit redundant, though, because you probably already bought it with your tax dollars. The state of e-media in libraries is up in the air, right now, as publisher’s decide how it affects their profits, but a few facts remain the same. Someone has to decide how many copies to order in e-book versus hardback. Someone has to choose a vendor. Someone has to teach people to actually use the Kindle/Nook/Nabi/iPad. Furthermore, people freaking love books. I am a traitor librarian, because I prefer my Kindle. I’m sporadic in my reading and I love carrying 40 different titles at a time, but I’m a minority. Most people I talk to prefer to hold the book and feel the pages, without worrying about pdf/Kindle/adobe format compatibility. As there is a place for both radio and television, there will be a place for both hard copy and e-media, because not only does not everyone want to use an e-reader, but not everyone can afford to use an e-reader.

… no, Google is not putting me out of a job, either.

“So… no offense or anything… I’m actually curious… why do you need a master’s degree to be a librarian? What do you actually do?”

I need a master’s degree, because we’re rendering bachelor’s degrees redundant in this country, by sending confused kids to college to major in general studies so that they can graduate and work in food service. That’s another rant, though. Ahem… I need a master’s degree, because I spent 44 graduate level hours studying program development, advocacy, public relations, grant writing, evaluations, books and materials for children, books and materials for young adults, the effect of technology and social networking on society, collection development and maintenance, cataloging, the very concept of free information, the organization of information, and the information seeking habits of individuals. They didn’t teach me that when I was getting my required bachelor’s degree. That’s why I needed a master’s degree.

What do I actually do? I plan community programs that people may actually attend. I figure out which books aren’t being circulated and pack them for the annual book sale so I can make space on the shelf. I find the appraised value of a customer’s neighbor’s house. I find books at a sixth grade reading level that will interest a second grade child. I spend 30 minutes on the phone helping an elderly woman download an e-book. I look for poetry to read during an infant’s funeral. On an average day, I take on the roles of social worker, researcher, saleswoman, IT specialist, teacher, and babysitter. Some days, it’s Realtor, historian, scientist, and job coach. I wear many, many different hats and the most important one is the customer service hat. I do not get to talk down to anyone and I must always have a smile on my face. It’s exhausting… and wonderful.

I am an Information Professional. As technology takes root in our society, we have more and more information to sort through and the average person isn’t as well trained to do that as they think. Google, for instance, is a keyword search. There is no accounting for author, date, full text, pdf, peer reviewed, or content. You get to pick one, maybe two, of those parameters and hope for the best. Librarians are trained to use search terms and tax funded databases to narrow the results. For example…

My grandmother died in 1991. In the 50’s or 60’s, there was a newspaper that published an article on her influence as a teacher. I think she taught third grade. I want to find the article and don’t know what newspaper.

Go ahead. Google that.

In addition to the increase in information, for better or worse, this country is becoming more socialist, not less. Libraries are one of the only institutions that serves both the engineer and that man on the street corner that he just loudly suggested should get a job. It takes Internet access to apply for that job. It takes knowledge of technology to use the Internet.

Go ahead. Google that.

… no, I have not read that book.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was assigned a 9-12 grade reading level. I was not allowed to read anything below an 8th grade level for credit. That meant no Harry Potter, no Babysitter’s Club, and no Ramona for credit, no matter how much I read. I made one C in K-12 and it was the year I refused to read on my level.

I was an advanced placement student in high school. I read The Inferno and The Bell Jar for fun, but spent more time looking up Sparksnotes summaries than it would’ve taken to actually read the damned book, when we covered The Great Gatsby. I don’t regret that. Daisy was a horrible heroine… like written by Nicholas Sparks horrible.

My bachelor’s degree is in family and consumer science education… home-ec. I was not required to read any of the classics for that. During my MLIS, I took Books and Materials for Young Adults, Books and Materials for Children, and Children’s Literature. It was in these classes that I did the last of the required novel reading I will ever do. So, when I read a librarian’s blog and she talked about all the varied reading of popular materials we all do, just to keep up with the interests of customers, I thought…

It’s not that I’m a lazy librarian. It’s that there are an assload of books out there. You can’t read them all. You can’t even read just the New York Time’s Bestsellers. I know. I type up the Bestsellers list every week and they’re listed by fiction, nonfiction, children’s picture books, middle grade, and young adult. That’s not even counting the e-books. I cannot read them all, so I read what I like.

“Have you read…?”

Unless the rest of that question is “that one where the hot guy morphs into a dragon to save his mate, only to find out she’s a unicorn?” then the answer is likely no. I primarily read paranormal romance, romantic suspense, memoirs, blogs, and articles on current events and information theory. Every now and then I’ll read something deeper or more popular, because I want to do so. Most librarians just read what they like, be that inspirational fiction, Amish romance (it is so a thing), or historical accounts. News articles may increase awareness, but romance novels increase vocabulary, graphic novels increase comprehension, and themes are universal. It all has value, so I’m not reading something just because the New York Times tells me, especially when it’s just as pretend as my werewolf porn. If you want a recommendation, I can recommend within my preferred genres, or I can suggest some awesome resources that cater to your own tastes like LibraryThing or Novelist. I’d rather see the occasional customer leave psyched about the three paranormal romance series I suggested than never please anyone, because I only read the most popular items in their genres, which they have likely already read.

Fo sho.

The Week of 1004 Dates: Insurance Salesman

Posted on August 29, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Fine. I’m lying. It was more like three… almost. The reason for such outlandish exaggeration, however, is that three dates in one week is only one less than the total amount of dates I’ve been on this year. This was mostly because, after I failed… ahem… excuse me; I mean “did not pass” my graduate portfolio back in November, I went full-on Miss Havisham and sequestered myself until May.

Pictured: Typical graduate student

I set the goals of passing my portfolio, getting my degree, and accepting a Librarian postion. Then… I would date. So, despite my online presence in profile format, it was not until June, that I actually met anyone… after I had been offered a job. Even then, I wasn’t super eager to take on the dating world, since the free dating sites involve far too much weeding and, frankly, I kind of hate dating. I already told you about how shocked my GP was at my startling lack of a sex life and how that led to my match.com membership, but I must give credit where credit is due when it comes to my sudden motivation, to, you know… try.

While there are some outstanding disaster stories in the world of online dating, and really just dating in general, there are success stories. I haven’t actually had any and the bad stories are just so funny that I can’t keep them to myself, but make no mistake; I don’t specifically hate online dating. Actually, I think it’s awesome to be able to let someone know, upfront, that I’m a divorced, practicing Catholic Librarian with somewhat conservative political views and a love for dogs that jeopardizes my own safety.

“It’s a PUPPY!!!!!!”

I love the reverse, too. I enjoy knowing before I spend time with a guy, that he’s single, has a career, his own place, and a functioning relationship with his family. When you meet a nice guy in a bar, it could take up to a half hour of pleasantries to find out he’s not quite divorced. Hell, it could take a few dates, as it did with Gail and the guy who lied about his name. Torturing herself after receiving a call from his crying wife, she called me, knowing I’d tell her what she needed to hear and then make her laugh with offensive jokes.

Me: “Please. You had no idea and you only made-out with him a little. It’s not like you fucked him… surprisingly.”
Gail: “Bitch…. Ugh!!!! I just feel so awful… motherfucker!!!!”
Me: “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘husband.'”

See. Crazy people exist in the real world. The difference is, that guy’s dating profile/Craigslist ad, might be completely open about the fact that he’s married, because someone might just take him up on it and save him the trouble of lying. That’s the real perk of online dating for me. The facts are listed and no one has to talk about it.

Maybe that’s the reason for all of the success stories I’ve read on blogs and received in the comments from people who understood that my Freshly Pressed post … and then I died alone: My latest online dating pet peeves was not a spew of hatred for men online or online dating, but humorous venting. One success story in particular struck a cord, though. For awhile now, I’ve been reading the blog of a 28-year-old Canadian woman who’s really just thrown herself into the dating world. She’s had bad dates, good dates, hilarious dates, and heartbreak, but she’s kept at it. Just last week she announced that she met a guy she really liked. They may not get married and have lots of babies or anything, but it is a success story and her determination was inspiring. I started to think about how I’m going to be 26 in a little over a week. I’m okay with being single right now, but at 28 (in the Midwest that’s every one else’s 31), I think I’d be pretty disappointed. So why wait? Why not throw myself into the dating world right now and see what happens? This led to… The Week of 1004 (::cough:: three… almost… :::cough:::) Dates. I’ll remind you that I call all men by their job title, not because I’m a gold digger, but because I like knowing they have one.

Date 1 – Saturday – Insurance Salesman

Encouraged by the aforementioned Jane at Single, Not Hopeless, I decided to be a little less picky about height. Sure, I’d love a towering guy with broad shoulders…

… oh let’s not bother with the description. Him. I’d love him, but that’s not realistic and it’s a little unreasonable since I’m a whopping 5’5.5″/5’6″, myself. My profile hadn’t been too unfair, listing 5’10” as a minimum height, but we are talking minimum here. So, I changed it to 5’8″, which means I can still wear heels without dwarfing him and I’m a girl who likes her heels. So, when Insurance Salesman messaged me, I was cool with the 5’8″ height. He looked pretty cute in his photos and he was personable in his e-mails and texts. We arranged to have coffee after I got off work on Saturday.

Oh. Em. Jingles. This was the bad date from sitcoms, y’all. For starters, I had texted Insurance Salesman about going to Starbuck’s, after he e-mailed “So when do you want to get coffee?”, though we hadn’t even mentioned meeting. He said he wanted “real coffee.” I said Starbuck’s was fine with me, but we could go somewhere different instead. He responded with…

cool beans

… and gave me an intersection. Well, there is a coffee shop called Cool Beans on one of the streets he mentioned, but it was on a different cross street. I texted and told him I was on my way, but was confused by the address and he said we’d agreed to Starbuck’s. He had been using the expression “cool beans,” not naming a coffee shop. I was a little irked, because I’d told him I was on my way to Cool Beans, which was probably less than a few miles away and he’d previously said he didn’t mind driving any distance, so I could choose where I liked. I felt like he should’ve offered to do Cool Beans instead, since he wanted “real coffee” anyway, because that would’ve been the chivalrous thing to do. I let it go, though, because it was a small thing and he thought we’d agreed to Starbuck’s. Then I couldn’t find the Starbuck’s, because I’m a ‘burbs girl and we were meeting in the city. I got there about five minutes late and, though he’d been texting me with directions, he wasn’t even there yet. He said he had been waiting in a parking lot nearby… weird and probably a lie, since he was just late and totally could’ve gone to Cool Beans. Again, though, whatever. These would be stupid reasons not to give him a chance.

I have never met anyone online who did not look like his picture. This guy had either Photoshopped his pictures or he was the most photogenic person alive. Honestly, it’s likely the pictures were from several years ago. I think he was honest about his age (28) and just didn’t realize that he no longer looked like that. For one, he was not 5’8″. I’m starting to think that 5’8″ doesn’t exist, because no one who says they’re 5’8″ is ever actually 5’8″. He also had about 30 more pounds on him and far less hair than his pictures showed… and he was sweating… a lot. It’s August and I understand that. The guy was nervous. Okay. But his clothes were also visibly dirty, sort of like they’d been worn the previous day. I stood, shook his hand and introduced myself. In closer proximity, I realized he also kind of smelled. He introduced himself and then dropped my hand and turned around and walked away.

Huh?

I wasn’t even sure what he was doing at first, because he hadn’t commented. When I realized he was walking across the store to the counter, I followed. He ordered and just waited.

Okaaaay. Am I ordering or is he done and going to pay for only his order?

IS: “You want anything?”

After we sat down and started talking, he told me that he’d spent the day recovering from his hangover after staying up drinking with his friends all Friday night. He had some kind of nervous tick and kept squinting… constantly. However, that didn’t hide his painfully obvious physical assessment of me as he looked me up and down.

I asked what Insurance Salesman thought of his job and he told me it was boring and he talks to assholes all day. My profile specifically says I want to be with someone who enjoys their career. He doesn’t even like his and went on to talk about how it didn’t matter, because he makes so much money. Then… he started swearing. You read my blogs. You know I swear. I’m not particularly offended by it… when I’m familiar with someone. I didn’t even know this guy and he kept saying “shit” and “fuck” loudly in a Starbuck’s. It was awkward and embarrassing, but I kept trying to talk to him. Soon, the topic of T.V. shows came up.

Okay, okay. I know that “Team Shane” is not a popular Walking Dead standpoint. I’m not saying it is. I have such a strong tendency to sympathize with villains that I once told Gaily she’d love Game of Thrones, because the Kaleesi is a badass heroine. Her response was to ask if I was sure she was a heroine, because I don’t have a strong history of siding with the intended protagonist, bringing up the time I defended Cruella DeVille for doing her part to combat over-breeding. So… when I expressed my viewpoint that Shane was the stronger character in Walking Dead, I didn’t really expect agreement. I also didn’t expect downright anger.

Me: “I just felt like they sort of had him go bad overnight. It seemed like they just got tired of the love triangle and decided to make him the villain.”
IS: “NO. It was obvious that he was the bad guy when he was looking through the scope at his friend!”
Me: “Um… not really. He was upset that his new family was being taken from him. He didn’t kill him.”
IS: “NO.You knew he was thinking it! You knew he wanted to!”

Duuuude, it’s fiction and this is a date. Are you seriously getting pissed at me over my defense of a fictional character in a show about the fucking zombie apocalypse?!?! You don’t know anything about these people, because they aren’t real! Also, I’m sorry, but the world is overrun with folks who are eating each other. It’s survival of the fittest, yo, and I would’ve let that guy get eaten so I could save the kid, too. Hell, I would’ve left the little girl behind after two friggin’ days. Ain’t no place for bleeding hearts.

When we’d brought up The Walking Dead, I’d told Insurance Salesman how frustrated I was when one of my students told me about a character dying in the season I hadn’t seen.

IS: “Well, next season…”
Me: “Well, don’t tell me.”
IS: “No, but it hasn’t even happened yet.”

Then he went on to ruin The Walking Dead for me, because he read about a main actor leaving. Double ewe tea eff, dude?!?! I just told you not to tell me! After that, he’d bring up movies and I’d tell him I hadn’t seen them, like with This Is 40 and he would ruin the entire fucking story for me! I’d tell him not to and he’d just say…

IS: “No, but…”

Stop talking! By this point, I was more or less done and trying to figure out a polite way to leave. Then, Insurance Salesman mentioned Firefly and I told him it was a shame it got canceled. Then, he started getting pissed again.

IS: “Well, Fox fucking ruined Firefly. It was all their fucking fault!”
::The lunatic shouted in a Starbuck’s”
Me: ::confused by and totally over his rage:: “How’s that?”
IS: “They aired it during fucking football season and it kept getting rescheduled. People were like ‘There’s this awesome fucking show on… sometimes’, so no one watched it and they had to fucking cancel it.”

It was not long before I declared that I had to get home to my dog. We’d been talking for less than 30 minutes and I assumed it was obvious that I was uninterested as Insurance Salesman walked me to the car.

IS: “So, um… I’d like to… I’d like to um.. I’d like to… you know… take you out to dinner sometime… or like… maybe watch a show together.”
Yeah. I totally want you to scream at me over another T.V. show. My panties are already wet.
Me: “Yeah. Sure. Text me.”
What the fuck?!? Don’t encourage him if you’ve no intention of seeing him again, Belle!!!!

I called Gail and my Gramma after the date and declared…

“I’m going to die alone!”

Gail’s response was to give him a second date, because she got a much abridged version. Gramma’s response was…

“Well, you don’t need to be goin’ out with a man with a dirty mouth like that!”

Insurance Salesman never did text me. It appears his only redeeming quality was the ability to take the hint.

I initially planned to write this as one blog, but I’m seeing two more dates is going to be a novel. This has just been upgraded to a series. Stay tuned.

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!

Feel free to follow me, Belle Roquemore, under the email address belleofthelibrary@gmail.com. http://pinterest.com/belleroquemore/

I’ll be busy hammering nails into a wooden plank for string art in the meantime.

Fucking Jane.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinterest#History

“I’m not lying about how many people I’ve been with…”: A Speculum and an Epiphany

Posted on August 9, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I don’t actually have a gynecologist. I’m not having sex, so why bother when my general practitioner will perform the yearly exam? Well, Wednesday was my appointment with said doctor and it went a little something like this…

Doc: “Are you married or single?”
Me: “I’m divorced. I’ve been divorced for two and a half years.”
Doc: “Do you have a new sexual partner?”
Me: “No.”
Doc: ::pause:: “Well, when was the last time you had sex?”
Me: “When I was married.”
Doc: ::raised eyebrows::
Me: “Like three years ago?”
Don’t say it, Belle. Don’t say it.
Doc: ::raised eyebrows:: “Well, if you’ve been abstinent for three years, there’s really no need to run a test for human papillomavirus. Typically, if you’ve had three normal tests and you haven’t been sexually active, the chances of you contracting it are almost none.”
Don’t say it, Belle.
Me: “Well, you can run it if you like. It’s all unpleasant, so it doesn’t really matter to me.”
Now shut-up. Just stop talking.
Me: “I’m not lying about how many people I’ve been with…”

You just had to keep talking. If she didn’t think you were lying before, she sure as shit does now.

Me: “I mean, I’d tell you either way.”
That’s right. Keep talking. That’ll make it better.

Doc was neither rude nor unprofessional. It was just clear that she didn’t believe me. I’m not even offended by the idea. I’ve read articles about the percentage of people who lie to their doctors. Maybe that’s why I’m not getting laid. The one-night-stand thing has just never been for me, in part because I used to be fat. I’ve just recently grown accustomed to being with myself naked, let alone anyone else. I think as the exam wore on, though, the doctor began to realize this, as she babbled to take my mind off the breast exam. As I nodded and “hmmed” and answered questions about work, I couldn’t help but think…

I wonder how many times her assistant has heard the story about her new pool. I wonder how many vaginas her assistant has seen. Is it just, like, no big deal anymore? Why would anyone want this job? This is disgusting and I’m not the one knee-deep in vag on a daily basis. Wow. I haven’t had sex in a really long time. How embarrassing would it be to get turned on right now? How is this not over yet?!?! At what point should I be concerned that she’s just enjoying this?!?!

I suppose my discomfort convinced Doc that I was, indeed, pure as the only slightly yellowed snow, because she began to talk about how I hadn’t missed anything in my celibate years. She told me about how she’ll have patients in their forties and fifties who hooked up with some young guy at a bar and then they come in confused at all that gonorrhea, because they didn’t have to worry about those sorts of things when they were younger. I think she felt bad about doubting me as she sang the praises of not fucking.

Sitting on a bench is also nice.

Regardless, the whole visit got me thinking about how I need to get out there more and date. I’m just so sick of the free dating sites. Student is not a profession. Fill out the fucking profile. Why would you post that picture? You look like a fart. I hate that word and poop humor, but that is just the only way to describe how sloppy and gross you look in that photo. Take it down. While you’re at it, lose the negativity in your profile, quite lecturing me, and spell out the word “you.” I haven’t even been taking prospects seriously, because of these frustrations, so I deleted my OKCupid and PoF accounts days ago. What’s left, though? My church doesn’t really do social events and when they do, they’re family-oriented. My two total female friends are attached, so barhopping is out. I hate bars, so barhopping is out. Guys in bars are only looking for sex and I can barely touch myself, so barhopping is out. I go to the gym to work out and so do the men there. All those things people used to do to meet, like taking pottery classes or going bowling, those things are now occupied by couples who met online. How I Met Your Mother shows people living in the city and going out and meeting members of the opposite sex in person, but that’s not what the dating world actually looks like. It looks like a single girl sneaking to the bathroom of a Starbucks to send her best friend a reassurance that she’s not in pieces.

Ted’s famous Two Minute Date…

Ted takes Stella on a super romantic date… concentrated.

Belle’s famous Two Minute Date…

– He just asked me to kiss his fake leg. I am not even kidding. I’m sneaking out the fire exit. Pray it doesn’t set off the alarm. Text in 10 to make sure I’m alive. –

Okay. That hasn’t actually happened… yet. The Meet Cute is dead, though. I’m not going to turn around in the 300s at work and bump into a cute psychologist. Wanna know why? He already has a girlfriend that he met online.

So that’s the story of how the spreading of my legs led to a match.com membership that will (hopefully) eventually lead to further spreading of my legs.

Friendly advice: Google match.com coupons before signing up. I saved over $25.

… and then I died alone: My latest online dating pet peeves.

Posted on August 1, 2013 by Belle of the Library

181

I started my very first Librarian job this week, so I’ve been less focused on dating. Here was the (somewhat hierarchical) list I created back when I wrote Online Dating: Holy S#!+, I Don’t Have Time for This in March.

Portfolio

Graduation

Career

Boys

I still have nightmares about failing my graduate portfolio, even after a semester of nothing but studying and rewarding myself with “reading for fun” breaks. Regardless, my presentation was met with congratulations and passed with flying colors. I almost missed my graduation ceremony when I face-planted into the grass in my rush, because I was running late. I, however, still walked across that stage (wheezing, since I’m asthmatic) and received that pretty empty maroon diploma holder. I called Gaily the night of my grandpa’s funeral weeping the following…

“My grandpa’s dead and everyone’s sad and I’m never going to be a Librarian!”

… into her voicemail. The next day I got a panicked text asking if I was alright. Four days later, I got the call from Human Resources inquiring about the last position for which I’d interviewed. I had been quite frustrated with the lack of “thanks, but no thanks” E-mail. I’m pretty sure my Gramma is still hard of hearing after I screeched “I’m a librarian!!!!!” in her ear.

So here I am: boys. I did just start my job, so I’m a little overwhelmed, but I’ve definitely been half-assing any online dating efforts. Fortunately for me, I’m not the only one and that also gives me blog material. Here are my latest online dating pet peeves.

Take a Hint.
I try really hard not to be bitchy when I’m dating online, which is ironic, because I totally fail at that when I’m dating in actuality. The thing is, when we’re awkwardly walking to my car, I can’t just block his screen name and be on my way. I have to actually, you know, interact with a man in whom I’m not interested… and I’m terrible at it.

That’s some of the beauty of online dating. If I read a guy’s profile and he’s just not for me, for whatever reason, I just don’t respond. No big deal. He gets it… usually. Every now and then, I’ll get someone who sends a second or a third message and I usually just block them. So that’s what I did when I got the third or fourth message from the guy who’s profile opened with “I LIVE WITH MY PARENTS!!!!!” There was no explanation. He wasn’t getting his life together after his divorce. He was able-bodied and worked full time. He wasn’t taking care of someone disabled. He was just one of the characters from Step Brothers, only less funny… and that’s fine for him and his family if they’re cool with it. I’m not dating him, though… ever. A few weeks after I blocked him, I got this message from his new profile:

Him: Remember me?
Me: Yeah. I blocked you.
Him: Why?
Me: “College educated or passionate about learning, have your life and career together and you’re happy, but want to add to it.” That’s a direct quote from my profile. You live with your parents at 28 and have no intention of ever leaving. You’re not for me. Don’t message me again, please.”

What?!? He asked.

Can’t we just all agree that the initial lack of response is the most polite way to say “nah”?

Less is more.
This is not your blog, yo. If I’m in a reading mood, I’m… you know… reading. Tell me how you pay your bills, what you do for fun, and how close you are with your family. Then stop typing. This rule still applies once we’ve started messaging each other. I was talking to a nurse, at one time, and the conversation was going alright. We’d traded a few messages when he sent me this:

I almost could not get that to screen cap and those are all him. The basic gist of that message is a lot of useless information, but some other key phrases were “So far what do I think about you?” “Answers to my own questions.” “It looks like the last paragraph got cut off. Here it is, may not be word for word.”

Dude, give me a chance to ask about you and Plenty of Fish cut you off for being weird!

The best part was his in depth description of his last relationship and the reason it failed. Apparently, his girlfriend of one year had been cheated on in her two previous relationships and it damaged her ability to grow and trust in future relationships. When he asked her to see a therapist about “her wall”, she said she would and then blew him off.

Don’t worry, pal. She’s just confused at how to work that lamp in your apartment. You know, the one made of human skin.

“But I’m wearing my best suit!”

I have not even met you!
Recently, I was messaging a guy I felt was a bit young for me (24), but this is the Midwest and Catholics are few and far between. Message number two from him included the intensely off topic “So did you get an annulment for your divorce?”

Wha???

I addressed the rest of the message and curtly replied that I wasn’t married in the church the first time. The next message included “What happened in your divorce if you don’t mind me asking?”

Duuuude. I don’t know your name. You cannot ask a stranger to regale you with stories of that time their ex-husband burned the house to the ground with all the pets inside! I know that’s not always the case for divorce. Even I want a brief explanation to make sure it’s not “Eh. She put on like 17 pounds. For realz.” I also don’t ask until we’ve been talking awhile and it comes up. That’s not a fucking opener! I responded with:

“I do mind. That’s a very personal question and I don’t recommend you ask it so soon if you speak to divorcees in the future. I feel like it’s too big of an issue for you to keep messaging. Best of luck, though.”

My profile also expresses my interest in guns, something boys around these parts like. Every now and then, I’ll get:

“Wanna go shooting?”

Do I want to meet up with an armed stranger and $2000 worth of guns? Um… no. Actually. I need to go. I think I… left my house on fire.

Then… there are the penises. There are men on dating sites who open with something vulgar. I once had someone include the word “pussy” in his opening line. I did not accept his offer. Then there are men who just casually bring up their junk. I had been texting one guy briefly (less than three hours) when he asked what I was looking for in a relationship. I gave him an honest answer about needing someone with a sense of humor, but who has their life together. I returned the question and got “Someone sweet, funny, intellectual, naughty, responsible and clever.”

Ummmm….

Do you think I missed that one? Double ewe tea eff, dude?

Another:

“Nice pictures! You look incredibly beautiful! I’m Michael, recently single, confident, educated, clean, honest, well endowed, lots of fun! Did you do anything fun this weekend?”

Ummmm….

Do you think I missed that one? Double ewe tea eff, dude?

I’ve also gotten the opposite, self-deprecating comments.

“I am not a very experienced lover or relationship holder.”

At least the other guys were trying to sell themselves. This reminds me of that time when I sold generic Warheads in high school with the pitch “You want to buy any of these? They taste like crap, but they made my friend’s tongue bleed.”

Sold every single one.

This is your introduction. Make it count.
Oilfieldtrash is not an appropriate screen name. Neither is anything with the number “69”. That is my very first impression of you, followed closely by scrolling down to see what you do for a living. I’m not being a snob, here. I don’t care if you make shit as a teacher. I care that you care about your career and that you have one. That being said, don’t put “I work” or “ask me” or “does it matter?” Also, actually spell shit out. Don’t tell me I look “cute n sweet”, you lazyass. Certainly don’t open with:

Him: You caught my eye. You look so cute and innocent.
Him: You look so cute and innocent too.
Me: You said that already. It was creepy then, too.

I got a message from one guy, prompting me to view his profile. He wasn’t unattractive, but didn’t have a profession listed and his entire first few paragraphs were about how none of this mattered, because women are all too shallow to get past looks.

Me: I feel like I should respond, based on your profile. You’re not unattractive, but I’m not interested because you refuse to list your profession and your profile is incredibly negative. You should revamp it to be more positive or delete the whole thing.
Him: Don’t judge me based on a rant. Get to know me.
Him: I’m a lube tech, by the way.

On what the hell am I supposed to judge you?!?!? This is the only impression I have!!!

Don’t be a bag of dicks.

Him: Do you believe being divorced at 25 bodes well for future dates with you? You’re the information theorist; enlighten me please. Librarians are my choice for dates…they strike me as demure ladies in the streets but utter freaks in the sheets. True?
Me: You’re an incredibly offensive person, you live in Arkansas and you’re 102. Those things don’t bode well for YOU.

How much do I NOT want to be a princess?

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Thiiiiis much.

Every little girl wants to be a princess… or, in my case, an Olsen twin. I also wanted to be Belle, though, since she had talking dishes and furniture. I was so disappointed when they all turned into humans in the end. True story. Despite everything I’m about to say, honestly, I’d still totally let Beast inflict emotional abuse and trauma on me for that kickass library. I’m tellin’ ya, Anastasia Steele did that all wrong.

Fuck your iPad, Christian Grey. Chain it up and fuck it with a pool stick.

For Halloween, playtime, birthdays, a Tuesday, we all went as princesses, because as Americans, we were raised to view a monarchy as magical and, perhaps, even mythical. My surprise when I discovered princesses really existed was almost as profound as when I discovered little people did. What?!?! They existed alongside witches and fairies!!!! It was a perfectly rational conclusion!!!!

Blame him.

Eventually, however, we grow up and rewatch all of those movies and, if we’re lucky enough to have been born in the right decade, we watch a woman our own age live out her own princess fantasy… and we realize (if we over-analyze always)… it sucks.

For the most part, I think the idea that little girls get any truly negative messages from Disney is horseshit. However, even as a child I thought it sucked ass that poor Jasmine wasn’t even allowed to choose her own husband. I also wondered why she wanted a liar and a thief, but who am I to talk about that one, amiright?!?

Hmmm… maybe Disney did cause my divorce.

When I was nine years old, I got my second indication that princess wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. It was in the form of a roar of discussion and debate on the death of Princess Diana and how her prince had her murdered… or didn’t. Who knows? Either way, she died way too young and wasn’t brought back by True Love’s Kiss. The princess gig was sounding less and less appealing.

As a teen, I went back and watched all of those other Disney movies about how Cinderella marries a man she barely knows; Ariel has to go from being an awesomefuckingmermaid to a boring ol’ human just for her prince; Snow White has to friggin’ die to be with hers; Belle has to develop Stockholm Syndrome to be with hers. What the fuck?!?! Being a princess sounds horrible!!!!!

Today, I am 25 and there’s Kate Middleton, a completely un-animated “Princess.” I’ve met a lot of women who love to follow the “fairytale romance” of Prince William and a commoner. It’s just “soooo romantic!” Well, for starters “commoner” my butt. Maybe her great-grandparents were cloth merchants and miners, but the Middletons founded their £30 million company in 1987, when their eldest daughter was six years old. I admire hard workers who carved out their own place in society, rather than just taking what the taxpayers hand them, so frankly, the Middletons are the bomb. Those folks started out as friggin’ flight attendants and now their mail order party supply business is worth so many U.S. dollars that I can’t find a currency calculator to tell me how much that even is. My point, though, is that their daughter was not a “commoner” in any sense beyond her lack of royal blood. She was poised and privileged for the majority of her life and could hardly relate to your average middle-class American woman watching the royal wedding at 3:00 in the morning, raw cookie dough in hand. After all, she did go to the same college as the future KING.

Now she was a true commoner.

So yes, technically Catherine Middleton had no royal blood, but were there a whole lot of other options? Marriage between cousins is sort of frowned upon these days, yo. Fun fact: it wasn’t when Queen Elizabeth II married her third cousin in 1947. Regardless of the recent lack of inbreeding, here are the reasons I don’t even kind of want to be the Duchess of Cambridge.

Prince William
I’m divorced and jaded. Having admitted that, I honestly just don’t buy the whole “… and they lived happily ever after” fed to us, about this couple, by the media. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think this is some kind of set-up or scheme. I just don’t think that this couple would even have been able to truly fall in love with all that was at stake. We’re talking about dating the future King of England, y’all. Kate’s an intelligent gal, so there is no way she missed that her future late mother-in-law (did I get that right?) was “tested for virginity.” No one gave a fig if Prince Charles was pure as the driven snow. They just didn’t want him sullied by Diana’s rotting womb in fucking 1981.

Okay, officially channeling Gail. Anyway, that’s a lot of pressure. Even if Kate and William truly did fall in love, can you even imagine the trust exercises involved in that relationship? Normal people fall back and hope their future spouse catches them at the marriage retreat. William had to hope Kate didn’t go to the media about how big his tinkle was and Kate had to hope he eventually got over his tendency not to let her get too long of a look at his tinkle. No wonder they dated for eight years. I hope they are in love, now. I genuinely do. I just think there’s a good chance that they were just really good friends and William felt Kate was the only trustworthy “candidate” (see above animation); that Kate felt a responsibility or obligation to her good and loved friend (romantic or not) and her country. I hope it’s the former, but I wouldn’t want to be Kate on the off-chance that it’s the latter. Additionally, Prince William was so damned handsome when he was younger. I remember thinking how cute he was when I was a little girl and lamenting that he was six years older, because that’s why we wouldn’t work.

Oh, my…

These days, he’s still six years older, but…

Oh… my.

… now he looks like a Family Guy skit.

The Eyes
There is a whatkatewore.com. That sight fucking exists. That is how much people give a shit what this woman does. In addition to opinions on her bedroom traffic and clothing choices, there are articles on Kate’s pregnancy, diet, and even her topless sunbathing. Photos are included in that last one. I, a Southern American Librarian have seen the future Queen Consort’s boobs. That’s royalty. Within hours of pushing a human being from her much-speculated vag, a hair dresser showed up to get a tired new mom photo ready. That’s royalty. Ariel combed her hair with a fucking fork and Kate Middleton isn’t allowed a ponytail?

You lied to me, Disney!!!!!! Mickey Mouse will die aflame and screaming!!!!

The Parenting
Let’s just ignore the sexism inherent in the birth of an heir. Okay. Let’s not.

Would the fountain have been pink? Would it? Yes, yes, I’m channeling Gaily again. Men and women are different and have different strengths and should be valued for those. Clearly, however, their ability to run a country isn’t one of them. Before writing this article, I could not have told you Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh’s name with a gun to my head. Again, Southern American Librarian here. I’m on another continent and I’m not in politics, but I could probably still tell you we were on our second Queen Elizabeth… because she’s Queen and the ruler of that country. Would we have seen such enthusiasm for a female heir, though? I mean, there’s absolutely no way to tell at this point, because the next royal child will be fourth in line and quite unlikely to ever run the country, so the enthusiasm will be lessened regardless of gender. While I know a future queen would be celebrated, I can’t bring myself to believe it would be with the same exhilaration. Everyone wanted a boy. I’m not sure I’d want to raise my child in such a traditionally sexist family. I’d like to note, however, that Queen Elizabeth II has been making strides in this, having declared in January that all children of the eldest son (not just his eldest son) be granted the title of Royal Highness.

The fountain was indeed blue, however, so we’ve welcomed Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge into the world. What if Kate wanted to name him Michael, after her father? I’m not talking about giving the kid an American suburb name. “Introducing King Brantlee!” I’m talking about a biblical, respected name. Maybe she wouldn’t even try to use it as a first name, but rather a second middle. Psh. Let’s just name the kid Prince George Alexander Michael Louis of Cambridge. Who the fuck is going to make fun of the future King of England, anyway? Oh. Right. She wouldn’t get to do that. Ever. She did not even get to name her own baby.

So, she’s raising Prince George the future King of England. When I was in Kindergarten, I was going to be a pilot, because they could fly. Then I was going to be an Olsen twin… then a veterinarian… then an actress… then a lawyer… then a witch… then a psychiatrist… then a marine biologist… then a nurse… then a pharmacist… then a home-ec teacher… then a nurse… then an English teacher… then a home-ec teacher.. then a librarian. If I wanted to change my mind tomorrow and go to medical school, I could do that. Prince George, however, gets to be King. That’s it. Of course, the British Military is always an option, like his father chose. Prince Harry was in the military, also, but was pulled from the front lines in the Afghan War, because people found out about it. If Prince George decides he wants to be a psychologist, a math teacher, a veterinarian, anything other than King of England, tough shit. At best, he may get 77 days on the front lines. I want to tell my babies that they can be anything they want to be, as long as they’ve the aptitude, ability, and drive (participation trophies are for pussies). I don’t want to raise them without choice. That sucks.

The Lack of Choice
Not only is the future of Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge (last name Mountbatten-Windsor… maybe) set in stone, so is that of Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. Kate Middleton is just as educated as her royal husband. Starting in late 2006, she was an accessory buyer for a clothing company, also working part-time for her parents’ company as a cataloger, photographer, webpage designer, and marketing officer. The article just says “until January 2011.” You know what happened in April 2011? Kate became a wife. That’s all. Ten years earlier, she had such dreams of a career as to attend a college fit for a King and take a position as a buyer. She took the job in November of 2006 and quit in January of 2011.That’s four years in a career for a woman who wanted a career. She doesn’t get to be Duchess and buyer, though. Now, she just gets to wear pretty clothes and dress up her little Prince. I’m not saying that can’t be satisfying. I’m saying that it sucks that the woman doesn’t have a choice anymore. Unless she wants to create a scandal the likes of Diana’s and Charles’s divorce, Kate will continue her life as the future Queen Consort and Royal Baby Maker, with charity work as the only reasonable option for outside fulfillment. She will behave and she will look pretty while doing so. Fuck that. I went to school to help people one-on-one. I want to be a librarian. I would rather have the option of being a middle-class librarian and a wife and a mom one day than to ever be “Princess.”

Really. I‘d rather be a badass librarian.

Wikipedia is technically just as valid as most sources.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Philip,_Duke_of_Edinburgh

http://www.eonline.com/news/235464/will-kate-middleton-have-to-prove-she-s-a-virgin

Kate Middleton: How She’s Maintained A Healthy Pregnancy

http://www.thefrisky.com/photos/kate-middleton-topless-photos/kate-middleton-topless-closer-04/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catherine,_Duchess_of_Cambridge

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Harry_of_Wales

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_William,_Duke_of_Cambridge

http://www.royal.gov.uk/thecurrentroyalfamily/theroyalfamilyname/overview.aspx

Real-Life Photoshop: How Cosmetic Surgery Resonates 10 Years Later

Posted on June 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

As a kid, I had small moles on my face. By the time I reached middle school, they were prominent and I hated them. I once took Biore pore strips and placed them strategically, only to cry my eyes out when they didn’t remove moles. I took pictures of pretty actresses and drew brown dots on their faces to see if they were still pretty and showed them to my mother. When she wasn’t hitting me, the woman was terrified of being anything other than my best friend, so she caved and throughout seventh and eighth grade, I had five moles removed from my face, in a series of outpatient procedures. I was too young to make this sort of decision, but I don’t regret it.

A half-naked 14-year-old who had never even been kissed, I was mortified by the instructions “bend over like you’re diving” as Polaroids were taken in the plastic surgeon’s office. I asked when I’d get the pictures back and teared up when I learned they’d be kept on file for insurance purposes. In short, I was waaaay too young to be getting a breast reduction.

Despite this, my mother was a nurse and used her pull to find someone who would agree to do the surgery. The doctor tried to talk my mother into waiting a few years, or at least until I’d lost a little weight, but I insisted and she agreed. The insurance claim was sent after my fifteenth birthday, in September. By December, I was excited for my first ever surgery, which just happened to be both cosmetic and elective.

I had claimed shoulder pain and the insurance company decided they’d save money in the long-run to just nip (pun only realized during proofreading) this problem in the butt. I did not have shoulder pain. I was humiliated by breasts that nearly sagged to my belly button and was forcing them into a size DDD bra that did not even fit. Those monsters don’t come cute. I’ve never regretted the decision. I have scars and can’t feel the underside of my breasts, causing sores from broken underwires to go unnoticed until looking in the mirror… and I still don’t regret it.

In fact, these procedures changed my whole outlook on plastic surgery. Previously having been one of the many individuals who consider plastic surgery to always be fake and self-indulgent (at age 11?), I soon realized that it’s just about the person undergoing the changes in themselves, and no one else. It’s hard to say someone should be happy with who they are when you were purchasing granny bras at age eleven while tearfully declaring you “look like a chocolate chip cooke!” I had parents who were too busy screaming at each other to make sure I bathed properly or washed my clothes regularly; forget about dressing cute, listening to the right music, or you know being nice to people. Fitting in wasn’t really my thing and the self-consciousness that came with facial moles and Big Mama breasts did not help.

For realz. Change into that in the locker room before sixth grade gym.

All that having been said, my mom made a bad decision on both counts. Ell oh ellsies. My mom made a lot of bad decisions…

the time she offered to buy us beer at 15
letting me and other people’s children jump off the roof onto the trampoline at age 12
kicking me in the stomach when I didn’t clean the litterbox
using the knowledge that I was a cutter as leverage to threaten me with therapy when I argued with her
giving me the “just be home before I go to work in the morning” curfew at sevenfuckingteen

Today, I’m a relatively confident adult. I’m fairly comfortable with who I am and how I look. I’d like to be about fifteen pounds lighter, but I’d rather have hips and red gummy worms than no hips and no red gummy worms, so… meh. Whatev. I am of perfectly sound mind to make the decision that I’d like to have the mole on my back removed, because I’m generally kidding when I tell Gail I’m going to do so with a cheese grater… or a blowtorch like that scene from Sons of Anarchy. I’m also twenty-five. I cannot fathom letting a child choose elective surgery. Regardless of the fact that the insurance company considered the above procedures to be necessary, I wasn’t afraid of cancer, nor did I actually have any shoulder pain. My issues were all psychological. Rather than destroying my view of therapy for the rest of my life by threatening me with it to get her way, my mother should’ve acknowledged the whopping self-esteem issues I had and arranged for me to speak with someone every couple of weeks, while putting me in social groups that were relatively free of teasing and judgement, like a church youth group. If, by age 16, building my confidence still did not fix my issues with the moles on my face, fine. She could schedule a consult with a dermatologist. If, by age 18, building my confidence did not fix my issues with the nipples at my bellybutton, she could schedule one with a plastic surgeon. Waiting three years seemed like an eternity at 15… which is why my mother should’ve helped me to see the big picture and made certain I could handle the decision I was making. Honestly, that time wouldn’t have changed my mind on either issue, especially the breast reduction (a pound and a half was removed from each), but it would’ve lessened the chances that I’d regret choices I made in utero.

“Hey, you up there! This nose seems a bit squished. Schedule a rhinoplasty.”

This problem, however, is not limited to youth. The “mommy makeover” has taken even the middle-class by storm. One plastic surgeon reports that mothers are his largest customer base. According to the American Society of Plastic Surgery (ASPS), 36% of the 9.9 million surgical and minimally-invasive cosmetic procedures performed in 2006 were on patients between the ages of 30 and 39; 29% of them were aged 20 to 29.*

I’m not knocking a tummy tuck if you just can’t fix it with diet and exercise. I will criticize the people who couple it with liposuction, without first losing the weight and keeping if off, though. What is the point of taking on thousands of dollars worth of surgical bills if you’ve no guarantee of an ability to maintain the results? I never wash my car. Like ever. So, despite the faded doors and banged up front bumper from my recent fender bender, I’m not paying to have it painted. I may as well light that money on fire, because I’m not going to suddenly start washing my car. Getting liposuction and a tummy tuck and then getting fat again is the same.

If you’ve done the sit-ups and counted the calories, joined that Zumba class, and bought the push-up bra, though, I get it. I do. That doesn’t even apply to just the mommy makeover customers, but also the women who hate that bump in their nose, or the skin hanging from their chin, or those paper-thin lips. I understand how they feel. Trust me. I’ve had breasts that swing.

However… ten years later, I’m acknowledging that I may not have been in the best psychological place when I made the decision to surgically alter my appearance forever. Perhaps, rather than flocking to have ourselves physically Photoshopped, we should spend some time trying to come to terms with who we are and consider that our issues may be psychological. Maybe it’s not so much the wrinkles in your forehead that make you uncomfortable, but rather aging itself. Maybe that loose skin at your stomach isn’t the problem, but instead it’s just that your marriage is lacking some romance and you don’t feel attractive. Maybe you’re just insecure and your nose makes you look unique and distinctive and changing that will just make you look bland.

The constant photo altering and image filters we see on Facebook aren’t helping this body dysmorphia trend, either. Grown women are enhancing their own clavicles, presenting a slimmer vision to the world, only to be disappointed when they don’t see that in the mirror, even if the real thing is perfectly healthy. I fear for the generation of kids who grow up with “corrected” photos hanging on the wall. The real world will never be as colorful or as unblemished as that photo shoot and they will never actually look like that. If it’s fucking with the heads of adults who are doing it themselves, they… are… screwed.

Also… maybe I’m completely fucking wrong. Maybe the sagging skin at your forehead is far more severe than you should be seeing at 35. Maybe your husband calls you sexy every day, but you just can’t find business suits that look right. Maybe you more resemble Tucan Sam than Jennifer Grey. I certainly know that I don’t miss the feeling of the underside of my breasts sweating on my stomach. I greatly prefer that barely noticeable scar on my face to the Austin-Powers-worthy mole. Isn’t it worth some introspection, though? Because if I’m right, those problems aren’t going away with a little visit to the doctor. I didn’t suddenly become the awesome and fucking hilarious gal I am today after the stitches were pulled, when I was fifteen. That took years of personal growth. If there are deeper issues that aren’t being addressed in addition to/instead of cosmetic surgery, you’re still going to be having trouble facing your own mortality and changing body. Your marriage will still be suffering. You’ll still be insecure and uncomfortable with the idiosyncrasies that make you who you are. Because, regardless of how content that makes you, that last bit is fact. We are exactly who we were in the womb. We, as a society, should take more pride in that and give serious consideration to its alteration. We should stop this constant catering to insecurity and discrimination with invasive procedures, “repairing” the slightest blemish. We should start practicing what we preach when we tell our little girls that they are beautiful just as they are…

… and if, after trying to come to terms with our individuality, we still hate that fat around our midriff that just won’t fucking DIE, then thank goodness for modern psychology and modern medicine.

Sources

http://www.webmd.com/beauty/treatments/mommy-makeover-a-plastic-surgery-trend

The “Ideal Woman”… probably isn’t drunk at 4:00 on a Wednesday.

Posted on June 14, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Wednesday was my day off and, as the result of some Hellmouth-level bizarre occurrences, the fates lined up and Gail and I actually had the chance to hang out… in person! Usually when we spend time together, it’s via phone, text message, or the occasional surprise Facebook annoyance of her ex-boyfriend until Gail deletes the damn conversation just as it was starting to really piss him off. Bleeding hearts of the world unite, Jiminy Fucking Cricket.

We met up after Gail got off work, with the full intention of laying out by the pool at my apartment. I didn’t press that plan, because I’d been doing so for two hours and could later prove it with the spots I missed when putting on sunscreen. It’s not truly summer until you’re rubbing aloe into your ass, wondering why exactly your ass was showing at a public pool, amiright? Since it was 93 degrees, Gail works outside, and I had been laying out reading for long enough to end up in the ER again – being yelled at because that’s apparently “not text message news” (true story) – we decided to lounge in my living room, in our bathing suits, enjoying air conditioning… and liquor. We truly are classy Southern gals, so I supplied ice cream bars and Gail brought Taco Bell sodas and Patron. She refuses to drink cheap liquor, even if it is just going into cherry soda. For realz… it’s like drinking with the Queen… of the trailer park.* She won’t drink anything out of a plastic bottle. Fucking princess.

Oh, unhappy marriage, how I miss you. You can’t even taste the tears through this stuff and it’s like eight bucks a gallon.

* I’m totally allowed to make this joke, since I spent my first eight years in a trailer. Fucking disclaimers. There. This entry is no longer offensive.

Gail has always been a hopeless lightweight and my prime drinking days took place when I was about 90 pounds heavier, so after just a a few sips, we were both giggling maniacally in my living room.

It was at this point, I began reading OKCupid profiles. You see, Gail and I used to browse the Craigslist personal ads for entertainment, because they are fucking hilarious. Seeking serial killers is actually how she came across Terry (see above photo). Advice: don’t open the ones with pictures… or wait… maybe I totally want you to open the ones with pictures. I can’t decide.

Drunkenly, I suggested informing individuals on the site exactly why no women responded to their messages. For example…

“I’m not like, interested in you or anything. Just so you know, though, you aren’t getting any attention on here, not because you open with ‘Hi, how are you?’ but because the first paragraph of your profile is a lecture about how I shouldn’t be so picky about my prospects because of their openers. Change that.”

Even drunk, Gail is all gum drops and lollipops and the Spirit of Fucking Christmas and kept telling me this would be mean. Frankly, I’m sober now and still think it would’ve been a great idea. Maybe that’s why she calls me “The Instigator”… or maybe it’s because I wanted to mail her creepy sex toys from Terry just to see what she’d do. Who knows, really? The girl’s an enigma. Ultimately, she managed to talk me out of it, only because I decided to blog about the following instead.

Me: shouting for some reason “Okay, okay, okay! This one is for you! ‘Ideal woman’.”

Then Gaily’s feminazi head exploded and I just cleaned my fucking carpets. FYI, one of those industrial rental carpet cleaners will totally survive a tumble down a flight of stairs… and if it doesn’t, you don’t have to tell the clerks at Lowe’s. Wait. Where was I? Ahem…

The following is copy and paste (complete with oddly placed punctuation).

Ideal woman:
Please note: This is not his ideal woman, but rather the ideal woman and you should probably just print this out and staple it to your to-do list.

She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go for it;
Translation: She’s adventurous in bed… early and often.

she likes her man to be a man but still be able to show his emotions.
There’s his very first contradiction. Don’t worry. Even if you disagree and think men should be able to comfortably cry at sad movies and ultimately turn into walking vaginas, there are many, many more contradictions to come. Also, what the fuck, Google Chrome? How is “vaginas” not a word? Is it like “deer”? Is the plural of “vagina”… “vagina”?

Balance is important to her; she works hard enough but her job doesn’t consume all her energy. She enjoys the nice things in life, but is also spiritual and doesn’t get fully caught up in the quest for material goods.
Okay. Here’s my big issue with this little tirade of his. Who is going to describe themselves as any of the negative things he’s listed? How many profiles say “My job consumes all of my energy, but when I am awake, I’m the most materialistic person you’ll ever want to hit”? Even Carrie fucking Bradshaw would’ve described herself as simply “enjoying the nice things” and all that woman ever did was demand things she didn’t deserve from people she didn’t deserve.

Remember when he hit her? Sigh. He was the best.

She wants a man in her life, but doesn’t need one.
I could totally get on board with this declaration if it weren’t for…. wait for it….

She knows that she and her man will be worth more together than apart.
Well, there’s part of it. If she doesn’t need a man, how/why is she to be convinced that she’s not worth as much without him? That’s sort of the definition of needing a man.

She enjoys the simple things in life but can also be spontaneous.
How is that a “but”? Those two are completely independent of each other. That’s like saying “she likes macaroni and cheese, but also enjoyed the movie Ferngully.”

She likes to travel to far-off places, relax on sandy beaches under a hot sun, and then cool off in the sea, but she also likes the hustle and bustle of a busy city.
That’s the deal breaker for me. You see, I hate traveling to far off places (particularly when they include a superfluous hyphen) and I’d rather swallow my own tongue than relax on a sandy beach under the hot sun. Whew. It’s a good thing he was so specific in his requirements. Many women hate exotic vacations.

This contrast and balance are part of her character. She is centered and content, but being with people that she cares about is important to her. She is kind and considerate and would like to be her naturally caring self with people who have earned her trust.
Wait. She’s supposed to be caring, right? Also, isn’t it sort of a given that his description of her character should be a part of her character? For realz, yo. That whole thing is just redundant.

Me: still shouting for some reason… I’m a loud drunk “Well. I certainly don’t fit the bill then. Kind and considerate, I am not. I’m kind of an asshole.”
Gail: guffawing on my floor “Yes, yes, indeed you are… but we love you anyway.”

She wants a man who understands her–one she doesn’t need to tell what she wants, but who just knows.

This was the most obvious lie to get Internet poontang (one word… I checked). I’ve hung out with a lot of guys. They hate “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should just know.”

A man who can be the closest person to her, to help her make decisions, and to always be there and offer her his strength when she needs it. She doesn’t expect to find him right away, but she’ll know when she does.
Aaaaand…. there it is. He actually fucking used the word “needs.” I thought she wasn’t supposed to need a man, yo? What’s up with that? Also, just reading that sentence made me claustrophobic. That sounds like Christian Grey putting tracking devices in my phone, battered wives shelter crap.

Oh, let’s start this love story now!

The Amazon in My Corner

Posted on June 8, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Abigail the Passive Assertive is how she’d go down in history if passive assertive people went down in history. They don’t, but you get the point. When we met, I was the mouthy one and Gail was the doormat. We seem to have leveled each other out, more or less, over the past ten years, as I’ve taught Gail the value of standing up for herself and she’s taught me the value of doing so without a screaming match in Algebra class. True story. Every now and then, though, people push Gail just an inch too far and it’s always Feed-the-Gremlins-After-Midnight awesome.

Scene: at a bar, where Crooked Teeth has been begging her all night to come out to his truck with him, actually trying to pull her to the parking lot at one point.
Crooked Teeth: “I just want to show you my truck.”
Gail: “Really? You just want me to see your truck?”
Crooked Teeth: “Yeah. I swear.”
Gail: suggestively “Well, what if I just wanted to go out to your truck, pull down your pants and suck your dick until you cum in my mouth?”
Crooked: “Uh… what? Is this a trick?”
Gail: “Uh… yeah…duh.”

The Musician was a phase (THANK GOD) and they were never exclusive. He, however, desperately wanted them to be… on Gail’s part, while he had a mirrored headboard and multiple brands of tampons under the bathroom sink.
The Musician: “So, what? You’re out at a bar trying to pick up other guys?”
Gail: “I’m going to let you go, so you won’t have to talk to such a whore anymore.”
The Musician: “I’m just trying to get to know you and that’s hard to do when my lady is getting to know other men.”
Gail: “I’m not YOUR lady, I’m MY lady.”
The Musician: “It’s just a figure of speech.”
Gail: “So is ‘nigger’.”

See that. Gail’s a regular little Amazon when you push her too far. Overall, however, she’s a pretty passive person. We both had somewhat absent parents in our teens. My mother was busy eating candle wax, while Gail’s parents were busy bragging about her little sister. Don’t get me wrong. Gail and I both understand that they just have more common ground with Sadie and that’s why she was their favorite. It’s not that they love her more, but that they get her more. If there is a crime, it’s that they aren’t all that subtle about their preference. For example, I’m not even kidding when I reference the birthday card Gail saw displayed in Sadie’s bedroom declaring her “the best daughter two parents could ask for.” I cringe, not because of the obvious favoritism, but at ending a sentence with a preposition.

As adults, Gail and I find this hilarious. We know they love her just as much as Sadie. They just don’t connect as well with the daughter who truly had to be talked out of living in her truck a few summers ago, for no reason. As a teenager, however, Gail felt rejected and mistreated and, as is still the way of Gail, she said nothing, because familial conflict is a lot more difficult than telling off Jethro Clampett in a bar. So… enter teenage Belle, who felt abandoned and abused, and could therefore totally relate. Ultimately, we clung to each other, fumbling our way through our formative years with only another clueless teen as guidance. Considering we were both divorced by age 23, that may not have been the best path, but it was certainly better than going it alone.

Having been through all we have, Gail and I can both be accused of going Mama Bear on each other at one time or another. After I posted a blog about how overwhelmed I was with grad school, I got a text message demanding “You’d better be kidding about the cocaine.” I was. When Gail told me she met Terry on fucking Craigslist, she got an angry text message “That was wreckless and dangerous. You could’ve been super murdered and then I’d be all alone to deal with how much that sucked. Fuck off.”

“Eloquence” is the word you seek. I should be allowed to address the masses.

Despite the must-be-fated-in-our-blood connection, Gail and I are far from the same person. As a reader of Red Pill blogs (though I don’t subscribe to the ideology), I love to call Gail “Captain” when she does any traditional male activity, just to piss her off. It’s even more fun than “Rosie the Riveter”. She generally responds with a comment about how I should be churning butter or vaccuuming in pearls. You see, we are the victims of identically broken marriages to men who weren’t men or adults in any traditional sense. Both refused to work and resorted to tears as manipulation tactics. Neither took any pride in supporting themselves and were happy to let the woman of the house do it. Gail took it for less than two years. I took it for just over four. Our reactions were exact opposites. Gail wants to take care of herself and doesn’t need a man’s help. More importantly, she doesn’t want to support a man financially. I can take care of myself as well, but I want to be with a traditional guy who understands what role a man is supposed to play: breadwinner and spider killer. I’ll gladly slip into some pearls and vaccuum in the meantime. Ironically enough, Terry, Gail’s beau, is mighty traditional. I always knew she secretly wanted a man to take care of her.

Insert condescending head pat :here:.

You see, Gail has a mothering tendency that is beyond normal or healthy and the death of her infant daughter three years ago didn’t help. We once had the following textersation, in true keeping with our humor-cancels-out-emotion arrangement.

Me: I was watching this documentary on penguins and thought of you. “When the female penguin loses her young, she is quick to adopt any stray and will often fight another female penguin over rights to the chick.”
Gail: Shut it, stray.

So, when Gail dates a… oh, just for fun we’ll go with musician… who smokes a ton of pot and lives a wreckless lifestyle, she can’t help but worry (despite her own tendency to fuck Craigslist truckers). She feels like the babysitter, whereas I would just feel like it’s his fucking problem when he gets arrested. In completely different ways, we have both washed our hands of men who don’t act like adults. She avoids them and I encourage them to put pepper spray in their eye: another true story and one that demonstrates this perfectly.

About two years ago, Gail’s on-again-off-again (they still said “I love you”, but didn’t sleep together) boyfriend, Cam, was at my apartment with Gail. I had just begun a new job in a different part of town than my white, wealthy, suburb, where I walk the golf course at 2:00 a.m. with no worries, and my Gramma had insisted I buy pepper spray. My Christmas tree is hot pink, y’all. When I saw pink pepper spray, I was sold. Gail has this theory that there are some things that you just don’t buy in pink. I fully disagree since my tree and my hammer and both of those guns all work fine, Captain.

Gail, however, kept insisting that the contents of my pink pepper spray were “lemon juice and glitter”, to which I responded “I don’t want either of those in my eyes, so we’re good.” I must state that Cam was about two years younger than we were, putting him at 21 during this story. Though he worked three jobs, he was pretty much 12 years old forever in a lot of his antics. The pepper spray debate continued so I jokingly asked Cam…

Me: “Hey, Cam. You wanna test my pepper spray?”
Cam: “Sure! I’ll try it!”
Me: “Seriously? I was kidding. You probably shouldn’t do that.”
Gail: “NO! Do not! We’re going to have to take you to the hospital.”
Cam: “Oh, it’ll be fine.”
Me: “Alright. Here. It’ll be a story either way.”
Gail: “BELLE! Don’t encourage him!”
Me: “What?!?! He wants to do it. Let him do it.”
Gail: “Ugh! This is a terrible idea.”

So Cam took out his knife, cut open the package, sprayed a little bit of pepper spray directly into his palm, rubbed his finger in it and touched his eye.

Then… all hell broke loose. Cam immediately declared “It works! Oh… it burns!” and leaped up to run to the sink while Gail frantically ran water… forgetting about the open knife on his lap. As he was bent over the sink, blood gushing from his nose due to his clotting disorder and high blood-pressure from the pain, I took a moment from my uncontrollable laughter to ask “Is your foot bleeding?” as blood dripped onto my floor. Only then did we realize, he’d dropped the knife on his socked foot… and that was even funnier. In my defense, Cam thought this whole thing was hilarious as well and part of the problem was that he was laughing while Gail yelled at us both that this was serious, while shoving tampons into Cam’s nose, partly to shame him and partly so he wouldn’t die.

Me

Cam

Gail

That story pretty much sums up Gail’s entire relationship with Cam.. and the musician… and our friend Malik… and pretty much every irresponsible person she’s ever met. I just declare them to all be adults and let them do as they will. Worst case scenario, I know that’s not lemon juice and glitter.

Scene: Cam lies on my floor with an ice pack over his eyes, a bandaged foot, and tampons in his nose. Gail stews angrily while washing the bloody towels and sock.
Me: “Well… at least we know the pepper spray works.”
Cam: groaning laughter
Gail: groaning laughter “Damnit, Belle.”

Gail and… well, the majority of the relationships she has with people.

Since the Great Pepper Spray Incident of 2011, Gail has pretty much steered clear of Adult Children and I credit that to the actual stray she took in, Ginger.

Gail’s all “I don’t remember her taking this picture and this is the second time she’s posted it” as she reads this, because coincidentally enough, the sewer rat Gail insists is a dog looks just like this.

I comforted Gail during her divorce. She held my hair during mine. She listened to me cry during my miscarriage. I helped her make Valentines to leave on her daughter’s grave. Maybe we’re both pretty broken, but it’s beyond amazing to have someone there who will read everything I write and send me encouraging comments, come over and cry to me when a boy uses her, listen to me rant and rave about my lunatic mother, and call me when she’s having a hard time dealing with the fact that her little girl, Grace, would have been four today. Told you she was an Amazon, because fuck I don’t know how she’s retained her spirit through that. Lucky for me, though, because it’s pretty awesome that I always have an Amazon in my corner.

Belle of the Library

… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.

Category Archives: Women

We B*tches Be Crazy: Women of PoF

Shelving the Stereotypes: When I say I’m a librarian…

The Week of 1004 Dates: Insurance Salesman

“I’m not lying about how many people I’ve been with…”: A Speculum and an Epiphany

… and then I died alone: My latest online dating pet peeves.

How much do I NOT want to be a princess?

Real-Life Photoshop: How Cosmetic Surgery Resonates 10 Years Later

The “Ideal Woman”… probably isn’t drunk at 4:00 on a Wednesday.

The Amazon in My Corner

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: