That Time I Tried to Fake a Master’s Degree

Posted on April 17, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I’m going to open with a secret. I’m a little high-strung when it comes to school.

Jump back and gasp!

Growing up, my dear ol’ dad used to look at my report card and sternly say “Now, why do you have a 92 in math? You need to quit talking in class and get that up.” I was in the second grade. This resulted in two extremes. There’s my brother, Bo, who is constantly talking about the waste of time that is college, because he’s a successful electrician with no formal degree and… me.

Last summer, I had the assignment to create an online resource guide for my library over a subject of my choice. I chose sewing and hand-picked every title listed in the Wiki, including color photos matching the cover art of the specific copy housed in the library and an explanation of difficulty level. I screen capped shots of the online public access catalog, explaining how to use it and described, in detail, system requirements for a library card. This wasn’t part of the assignment. I’m just insane. All of my classmates told me they hoped I’d leave it up for their future use and how they loved the name: ”SewResourceful”. The professor commented to say she thought it was wonderful, creative, and appreciated the obvious extra effort. Then she gave me a 98.5%. A fucking 98.5%!!!! I read and reread that Wiki 15 times and added elements that went above and beyond the requirements and she gave me a 98.5%?!?!? Why doesn’t she just come over and personally shit on my computer?!?!?!

After this…

I’m going to tell you another secret. Being a little high-strung when it comes to school, occasionally makes me an exhausting friend. Gail and Jay were both recruited to talk me down from the absolutely devastating loss of that 1.5%. I couldn’t discuss it without my bottom lip trembling. I am not embellishing even a little, here. So… fast forward one semester to last fall.

If you’ll recall from A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver’s Test, back in November, I “did not pass” my graduate school End of Program Assessment portfolio for the Master of Library and Information Studies program. I don’t think I’d be exaggerating to claim that it was the greatest tragedy in the history of time. Had Nostradamus foreseen this, he’d have just destroyed the earth preemptively, himself. As it was, there was a mushroom cloud over the campus, when I delivered a completely off the mark presentation. You know that scene in Legally Blonde where Elle Woods dresses as a Playboy Bunny to attend a Halloween party, only to discover that it wasn’t, in fact, a costume party? That’s pretty much exactly what happened.

Wait. This is conference room B, right?!?!

What actually happened was that I had a program advisor who was on her way out. She retired without telling her students and had never given me any clear constructive criticism on my portfolio progress, instead giving me a semesterly thumbs up. This woman was tough to pin down, particularly for a student who worked two jobs and took every class (save for one hybrid course) online, never really trying to meet up with her advisor. When I got a new advisor, I didn’t take the opportunity to make sure I understood the portfolio requirements. Dr. Black’s gentle criticisms went ignored, because I didn’t have the time to change things that weren’t important enough to strongly emphasize. The same attitude was employed when she suggested I practice my presentation beforehand. I’ve always done well in school, pretty much without trying. I thought I could wing it on the End of Program Assessment. So, it was ultimately all my fault when I showed up to the party in a corset and plush ears.

I’ve exaggerated a lot here, for the sake of hilarity, but I truly think that the presentation I delivered in November had to have been one of the worst the committee members had ever seen. I wasn’t even completely sure what I was supposed to do. I actually told my Gramma that I was sure they wouldn’t fail me, since I’d completed all of the coursework. I somehow just missed the dire importance of the entire assessment. Approximately one minute into my presentation, however, Dr. Snyder’s expression gave away that this was not at all what was expected. I didn’t have a change of clothes, though, so I had no choice but to continue with the party in my cotton bunny tailed panties. I plowed through, becoming more and more flustered and by the time I got to the Q&A portion, I was just grateful I hadn’t thrown up.

Dr. Black: “Well, what was the reason for removing the reference section?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Dr. Black: “What is reference?”
Me: “… I don’t know.”

“Books is neat, y’all. Give me a master’s degree.” I’m embarrassed just thinking about it. As the committee deliberated and scratched their heads over how in the fuck someone made it this far without being able to define reference, I texted Gail about how my life was over. She told me she was sure it would be fine and I didn’t respond, because I was certain it was not fine. Reference, by the way, makes up the books filled with specific tidbits of information that can be difficult to find without the help of a librarian. Included in this are almanacs, dictionaries, and encyclopedias. I knew that then, but when I tried to explain it, I fumbled and used the word “obscure” instead of “specific.” Hellz yeah. Tell the reference librarians that their position is pointless, because the information they’re finding is “obscure”. Maybe just jump to “murky”, “unintelligible”, “vague”, “ambiguous”, “doubtful.” When I walked back into the conference room, the first words spoken were “We’re disappointed.” My first thought was “No shit. Can you pass me anyway?”

No. The answer was no.

I was so excited to graduate last semester, that I purchased a class ring and a t-shirt and sweatshirt that read “Alumni.” I even sent out graduation announcements. There are not a lot of things that are more embarrassing than sending out graduation announcements only to respond to the congratulations with “JK!” I think the only thing more humiliating would have been that time I married a crazy person and got divorced at 23. So, having failed my graduate portfolio, I packed away the ring and the shirts and told myself I could have them back when I deserved them. Just like when I burst into tears in the third grade over my first B on a midterm, I didn’t even need my dad to shame me. Only difference is, this time he didn’t. Regardless, I was absolutely inconsolable at dinner with Gail, but as always, emotions are icky and I coped by making exaggerative and somewhat offensive jokes.

“They kicked me out of college and made me ride the short bus home!”

“My dad’s going to hate me. I’m the slow child now.”
He, in fact, thought I was being completely unreasonable and told me he could never be disappointed in me. Today, he regularly tells me it doesn’t matter what the grade is, so long as I graduate. How fucking ironic.

I would sometimes start with a joke, only to convince myself that I was speaking the truth and end up in tears.
Me: “I’m going to have to buy World of Warcraft! I can’t afford World of Warcraft! It takes a monthly subscription and I don’t even pay for my gym membership!”
Gail: “What?”
Me: “My life in the real world is over. I’m never going to be amazing or impressive here, so I’m going to have to establish an influential presence in the virtual world. It’s either that or I have to join the military!”
Gail: “Why the military?”
Me: “Because I could be impressive and have a real career in the military, even though I can never be a librarian! I don’t want to join the military! I hate being yelled at and I’m an indoor girl!” :Legitimate tears:
Gail: “What the fuck are you even talking about?!”

To fully grasp how irrational I was being, it’s important to remember that this is a master’s degree. I have a bachelor’s degree. I could easily teach and just have no desire to do so. That’s hardly World of Warcraft status, y’all. Thank God, himself, for Gail’s patience and insight.

Gail: “You have a semester to fix this. It’s not over. So get out your laptop and fix it.”

Advice I did not immediately take.

After Gail dropped me off at my apartment, with my promises not to harm myself, I cried myself to sleep. I hid in fiction for a couple of weeks and then I put on my big girl panties and got to work. In the MLIS program, at my University, you get two tries at the End of Program Assessment, regardless of whether you choose comps or portfolio. You just have to be enrolled in two hours to present, so I took a one-on-one course with Dr. Black… and went full-on Emily Dickinson hermit for six months. I deleted my online dating profiles, only to recreate them out of procrastination and boredom, but completely gave up any actual dating. I didn’t shoot my guns. I continued working out, because getting fat again isn’t going to make me a librarian. I worked both jobs… and I studied. I reread several textbooks, along with every assignment I ever completed. I wrote my required essays for my professor, read books on leadership, and rewrote my portfolio from the ground up. I practiced with Dr. Black twice before my actual presentation. I did not sleep for six months. That’s not true, because I’m not from Krypton, but the only way I have been able to crawl out of my own head in the last six months has been by reading for pleasure and even that was often interrupted with “homework breaks”. Sleep just allows for nightmares. I have had to talk myself down from numerous panic attacks, usually taking place sucking my thumb while fully clothed in an empty bathtub. They all went something along the lines of:

I guess I could be a mechanic. I don’t know anything about cars. I’m good with my hands, but that’s really technical. I don’t like grease or getting dirty. This is a terrible idea. I want to be a librarian!!!! I don’t want to join the Air Force!!!!!

It looked just like that.

Even Dr. Black told me I was overdoing it, when I presented her with my course by course evaluations. In these, I found the syllabus to every course in the program, copied the description and objectives, wrote a paragraph of where I was before the course, a paragraph of where I was after the course, and one to two paragraphs about what I learned from the specific assignment I chose to reference.

Dr. Black: “It’s really not necessary to do that for every course. You’re overthinking it.”

Gail: “What’d your professor say?”
Me: “She called me a rabid pit bull and told me to calm the fuck down.”

My graduation photo…

Gail was the only one who knew that I was presenting my portfolio yesterday, just in case I failed, because as Donnie Darko taught all of us Mellenials: “Every living creature on Earth dies alone.” This time, however, I delivered my final graduate portfolio and the first word I heard after the committee deliberated was “Congratulations.” Dr. Snyder told me he enjoyed attending a presentation where he actually learned something. Dr. Black teared up and hugged me. The committee member from a public library gave me her card. I called my Gramma afterward.

Me: “Guess what.”
Gramma: “What?”
Me: “I just passed my graduate portfolio presentation!”
Gramma: “Really? So that’s why you’ve been so secretive! I thought it was closer to the end of the month.”
“Secretive” to my Gramma means not talking to her three times a day, because that’s how close I am to her.
Me: “Yeah. I purposely led you to believe that, because I knew you’d stress out and then say shockingly unsupportive things to stress me out and I couldn’t deal with it.”
Gramma: “Well, you’re probably right. That was probably for the best.”

I wore her pearls to the presentation and I’ve been asking her to give them to me for graduation for months, but she’s said no every time. When I asked if she wanted them back, she just told me to keep them. See. My Gramma won’t even give me her prized pearls with any kind of ceremony, because emotions are inappropriate, y’all. That’s where I learned this shit.

This is her proud face.

Gail bought me a congratulatory dinner and a mall cookie. We both made fun of my initial presentation and the fact that I actually had a nightmare about the zombie apocalypse and failing my portfolio, only to wake up and hyperventilate over school. I did it and it was totally worth not sleeping for six months… which is awesome, because it has suddenly hit me how incredibly overwhelmed I’ve been and I am absolutely fucking exhausted from working two jobs and finishing graduate school while researching Air Force recruitment requirements. I keep reminding myself that substituting is almost over and in a month, I’ll be lounging by the pool, only working at the library in the evenings. I’m not even going to consider a PhD. I’m gonna go T. Swift on this and just say that college and I are never, ever, getting back together. This seven year adventure, complete with abusive marriage, miscarriage, divorce, Gail’s dead daughter, losing 90 pounds, dating, moving ten fucking times in four years, and accidentally creating a secret identity at work has just worn me the fuck out.

My other graduation photo. It’s all about the lighting.

All the Children Left Behind: Why I Lost Faith in Our Public Education System After Just Three Years

Posted on March 6, 2013 by Belle of the Library

When I graduated college with a Bachelor in Science and Education, emphasis in Family and Consumer Sciences, I imagine my thinking was the same as most education graduates and it went something like this:

I’ll never be rich; the paperwork will bury me; people won’t take my subject area seriously, since it’s not science or math… but I’ll make a difference.

Like a disappointingly high number of ed grads, however, I was already aware that my future in traditional public secondary education would be short-lived. During my student teaching, my lunch breaks were spent chatting up the school librarian and filling out my graduate school application. At the time, I’d hoped to teach FACS (formerly Home Economics) for a couple of years, while working on my Master in Library and Information Studies. Then I graduated… and didn’t get a job.

Feeling defeated, I entered the MLIS program, took a steady evening job cleaning weight equipment at the local community center, and signed up to substitute teach. I threw myself into school and work in a desperate attempt to support myself and ignore my crumbling Lifetime Original Movie marriage. Graduate school was going well, the community center had brought me The Guys, substituting allowed me to choose when I worked and when I wanted to lay in bed hung over, weeping about how this wasn’t what I’d had planned. It was a rough semester. The following summer, I likely would have been offered a teaching job, had I not canceled the interviews for my current position in a library. It was at that time that I realized something. I didn’t want to teach. Substituting has its downsides and it’s not the kids. I’m at the mercy of every teacher I cover and if they can’t handle their classes, I sure as hell can’t. There’s not always work and I have to be careful to plan financially for Christmas, spring, and summer breaks. There are no medical benefits and I sometimes have to teleport from the high school to the library. It’s tough… but it beats teaching, because I have completely lost faith in the Lord of the Flies experiment that is public education…. and here’s why:

College Bound Curriculum for Everyone

Make no mistake as to my feelings toward Family and Consumer Sciences. I still strongly believe in the life skills that courses such as Parent and Child Development, Personal Finance, and Nutrition instill in our students, when properly taught. One of the main reasons I decided not to teach, however, is because oftentimes, the administration disagrees. As far as most principals are concerned, I’d just be there to break up the day with a little cooking and sewing. I’m nowhere near as important as the people teaching Calculus and Shakespeare.

Why is that, when the percentage of high school graduates in this country is 85.4%, however only 28.2% of adults have bachelor’s degrees?* Associate’s degrees naturally fall in between at 41.1%.* That’s less than half of this country that’s even putting all of that Calculus and Shakespeare to good use. I was one of the 10% who actually graduated from a four-year college four years after high school. How much do I rock? None. I rock none, because I made my life choices and other people made theirs. Or at the very least, I rock no more than the man who dreamt of being an HVAC guy and made it happen. There is nothing wrong with choosing not to go to college and, in fact, many professions that require no college degree pay far more than mine ever will. My brother is a contracted electrician making six figures. I will never make six figures.

My state actually has a great Career Tech program with tons of financial support… and we still act like it’s for the kids who couldn’t make it through Algebra II. That’s not fair. I’m pretty sure I’d suck as a mechanic, because this conversation has happened more times than I can count:

Jay: “What kind of car was it?”
Me: “Red.”
Jay “You don’t know what make it was?”
Me: “It was really low to the ground.”

I know shit about cars and they bore me. I do write a mean paper on the information seeking behavior of young adults, though. Everybody has their skills and our education system not only pushes its students in one direction, but stigmatizes the other. A professor once brought up a great point when the idea of a “career path” and “college path” curriculum was suggested. “Ask a high school freshman if they’re going to college. Now ask their parents. What percentage said yes and what percentage actually do it?” That shouldn’t be the case. We tell our kids they can be anything they want to be, except a mail carrier or a plumber or a hairstylist, none of which require a degree from a traditional university. Then we send them to public school with kids from all walks of life, going in all different directions and still we tell them they have to be nurses or teachers rather than welders. We push the full 100% toward college when only a quarter of them will get any real advantage from this direction. I’ve heard the argument that there’s something to be said for a well-rounded education, but our high school seniors who want to be plumbers? They aren’t likely paying attention to Hamlet and we shouldn’t expect them to do so, just as Jay shouldn’t expect me to pay attention to his damned Chevy spiel. We have eight to nine years before high school to give them the well-rounded material.

So, perhaps these classes that break up the day with practical lessons, such as managing finances, job orientation skills, public speaking, healthy sexual choices, and basic nutrition are the only classes that truly are pertinent to all students. Additionally, maybe our administrators should stop being such snobs about the idea of accrediting students with technical certificates, when the well-being of said students is supposed to be our focus. We want productive members of society and not all of them need to be able to write a bitchin’ research paper or wow people at a cocktail party, even if the guys making the decisions on education reform can.

Blow Off Classes

We place such high emphasis on college-bound curriculum, that our kids don’t take any other curriculum seriously. When they do take practical courses, such as Healthy Life Skills or First Aid, they blow it off… because we let them. Blow off classes shouldn’t even exist. If the course is Communications, students should be learning public speaking and interview skills. They should be practicing to become sociable and charismatic individuals, taking part in service activities, writing papers or doing presentations on leadership, learning to have an educated debate without getting upset. That First Aid class should actually leave them certified in First Aid. These courses should be just as difficult as an English course, because the skills learned are equally important and even more so if these students aren’t planning on going to college.

My high school FACS teacher once told me that a student’s mother called her, angry that her child had a B in the class. “This really is the kind of course where everyone should have an A.” Why does she think that? Is it because finances are so easy or because child psychology is so easy? Perhaps it’s because nutrition is so easy. Tell me, how many calories per gram are there in alcohol? Carbohydrates? How many Americans are in debt, abuse their kids, or are overweight? Clearly it’s not that rudimentary. If these course are taught properly, they can be quite challenging and quite useful; if only everyone would stop expecting them to be easy and passing that assumption onto their children.

Parents

Why in the hell would you ask your child’s teacher why they were daring to challenge their students? I understand if there’s a concern that the work is more difficult than it should be at the assigned level. For example, if my child were in a Physical Science class that expected advanced Chemistry skills, fine. We’ll have a sit-down and maybe this isn’t the course for them. However, my high school Psychology and Sociology teacher rarely handed out A’s, and I will totally brag that I got two. This was an elective, which is often, by definition, a blow off class. I had more homework in this teacher’s Psychology and Sociology courses than I did in my AP classes. He had high expectations and he got great results. He also got in trouble for mouthing off to parents.

Why would a parent make excuses for their child? What benefit could there be in doing so? Why do we allow it? I know that these parents pay the taxes that fund the schools, but they’re doing so with the end result of lazy and ineffectual members of society. You give an inch and they take a mile. If you allow the parent to talk the child’s way out of detention or a low grade once, they’ll do it an eleventh time. Yes, teachers should be held accountable, but we’ve gone too far. Where’s the accountability for the parents and students? What option do we have? We can expel the offenders. I’m not suggesting expulsion for being tardy for class, but if the parents and students refuse to adhere to the rules and punishments for doing so, fine. Kick them out for the remainder of the school year. The parents can have a grand ol’ time finding them a new educational environment. We do have a right to a free education in this country and that’s wonderful. Why does that education have to take place alongside the kids who do respect the rules and consequences for breaking them? Free internet access is available in 98.9% of public libraries and k-12 education is now offered online. If that sounds like a pain in the ass to pursue, then pick your kid up from detention or make sure they follow the rules.

Mine is a secondary education standpoint and I know there are other issues in early childhood, like parents getting angry that their kids have homework. A common question: “I’m paying you to teach them. Why do I have to help them with their homework?” Because you brought them into the world. That’s why. Perhaps they wouldn’t struggle so much if you worked with them for thirty minutes a night. You don’t have time, you say? Horseshit. Turn off the T.V. The average American spends more than 34 hours a week watching live television and that doesn’t include your DVR time.* Even if you genuinely just cannot manage this, teach them to employ YouTube tutorials or check out helpful materials from the library. You know… give a shit.

The Props

That 34 hour statistic is referring to the average American over age two. The average age for first cell phone is 11.6 years old.* Our kids are so saturated with media that they can no longer disconnect. Because of the aforementioned parents, we’re not allowed to make them, either. So in a typical classroom, students are texting, watching videos, listening to music, posting pictures on Instagram, Facebooking, and doing anything but learning the subject content. Having completely castrated the teachers in this country, we can’t touch a student’s property, be it a cell phone, tablet, music player, or hat. We’ve told them they have the right to dress as they please and have been rewarded with the distraction of fish net stockings and yoga pants with words on the butt. In a private school, a parent agrees to follow the rules or get their child an education elsewhere. Why not in public school, though with less strict guidelines? You want to show your camel toe in English class again? Fine. Get your education online. This is just another issue of power and how the teachers have none. If we tell a student to put up the phone, he moves it to his lap. If we take it from him, his parents call and yell that they’re the ones who paid for it. If we send him to the office, he “forgets” about detention. WHY THE FUCK ARE WE EVEN HERE?!?!?! Oh, yes. I remember. They need someone to blame for this child’s failing grade.

Skewed Priorities

Tip: Turn on the safe search…

I’m no longer the girl who chose to skip every single high school football game to watch Varsity Blues and mock the popular kids. I get that high school sports bring in money and enthusiasm. Go team go. However, in the hopes of making said money and claiming fame, we spend $60,000,000 on a stadium to seat 18,000 for Texas high school football.* Weren’t we just having trouble buying new library books and computers?

It’s not just the money. It’s the fact that we whore out our children in slutty costumes to sell tickets. My high school actually had a pep rally where the cheerleaders put on a frozen t-shirt contest. I shit you not. Rarely, do we expect our little girls to follow a dress code in uniform that is (ideally) enforced when they’re out of it. What the hell kind of message are we sending children when we tell them that they don’t have to follow the rules as long as they’re hot? Furthermore, what kind of impression do we give by telling them their sport is only valuable if we can see some bare thigh? This is disgusting and it’s all for the love of marketing athletics.

Where we could be emphasizing team work and loyalty and physical fitness, we emphasize money and sex appeal. We turn a blind eye when a football coach gives obscene bonus points for the question “Who won the Super Bowl?” FYI, the answer was not “Tell me what it has to do with our state’s history and I’ll tell you the answer” and that coach didn’t like me very much. Instead, we could hold our football players up as role models who keep their grades high and our cheerleaders as leaders who work hard and practice modesty. I promise their legs go just as high if they’re wearing longer skirts and/or opaque tights. Perhaps we could even put them in sparkly shorts and sequined tank tops? We don’t have to sexualize them to show their form.

My Solution

My personal solution is that I hope to send my kids to Catholic school, where I’ll agree to uphold their rules or take them elsewhere and so will the other parents. If my child is being cyber-bullied, all I have to do is talk to the principal/priest (in some cases) and it stops. There’s no discussion about the “rights” of children outside of the school. I don’t have to worry about the kids with “juicy” written across their ass when there are rules about whether or not they’re allowed to wear a scrunchie on their wrist. I used to think it was all too strict, but my Catholic-school-going cousins are all adults now and they’re plenty well-functioning. Frankly, they’re more normal than I am.

Maybe for some the solution is homeschooling. I don’t have the patience or the desire for that one, but I can see how it would be promising. If you’re the one in charge, you know your daughters aren’t being prostituted for a few corn dog sales. You can smash their phones with hammers if you like… or just not buy them their own.

Shopping around for a good, strong, public school district is, of course, an option. These complaints don’t fit all schools ever. There are good districts and I can even name a few. Shetland’s district isn’t even that bad, save for a couple of colorful stores. Asking parents in the district and attending a few events are great ways to get a feel for the morals and values behind an institution. Hell, Google it and find out if they’ve made the news in negative or positive ways.

Undoubtedly the best solution… and this one is pretty far out there… is to give a shit. Talk to your kids about what they want to do with their lives and listen and respond by putting them in the courses they require. Hold high expectations and firm consequences for failure within those courses. Don’t push your own dreams on them and always uphold the school’s rules. Stop blaming the teacher and take your kid’s cell phone away when he uses it to act like a jackass. Don’t buy the pants that say “juicy” and write your superintendent a nasty letter about the pasties he wants your baby to wear to the football game.

In the meantime, despite my adoration for teachers and my love for students, I have completely given up on the general public education system in this country. I will never be a classroom teacher.

Citations

http://www.bizjournals.com/bizjournals/on-numbers/scott-

http://completionagenda.collegeboard.org/about-agenda

thomas/2012/12/wyoming-and-dc-are-leaders-in-new.html?page=all

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/24/national/24library.html?_r=0

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

http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/tv-movies/americans-spend-34-hours-week-watching-tv-nielsen-numbers-article-1.1162285

http://www.cnbc.com/id/100001024/High_School_Sports_Have_Turned_Into_Big_Business

… but superheroes do it.

Posted on February 12, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Coworker B: “But sometimes in a marriage, you’re 80/20, 60/40, or 90/10. Everyone has days like that. You’ll learn.”

Coworker B has never been married. I was married for four and half years of Hell. Therein lies the downside of accidentally creating a secret identity at work. I know right? You wouldn’t think there’d be one.

Most days it looks like this:

But some days it looks like this:

Sidenote: The Google Image search for “fun at the circus” turns up a lot of pictures of clowns. I felt that would give the wrong impression. Rarely is it ever scary as fuck.

I’ve detailed the whole secret identity thing before, but the short version is that my coworkers know me as a country girl from a wealthy and super functional family. They assumed. I let them. They’ve no idea I was ever abused, married, pregnant… none of it. It is fucking awesome. I’m like Clark Kent with boobs.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand, logically, that this is unhealthy and totally insane. For one, I have Jiminy Fucking Cricket as a best friend and Gail is perpetually willing to tell me I’m a lunatic for creating the persona she calls “Winifred”, even if it was by accident. I think she’s more concerned that I totally intend to keep this up even after moving to another branch one day. She’s so irrational. Just like a woman. Head pat, Gail. Head pat.

Honestly, at this point, I’m pretty amazed that I haven’t run over Winifred with a truck yet. I almost slip at least a couple of times a month, such as when I was talking to Coworker S just the other day about my brother’s jealousy over my weekly lunches with my dad.

Coworker S: “But your brother’s also married and that makes a big difference.”
Me: “Yeah, but when I was… at lunch with my dad…”

I’ve no idea what the rest of that sentence even was. I just remember a roaring in my ears as I almost plowed right over Winifred.

Me: “If I ever get married ag…:cough:…”

No one’s caught that… any of the 27 or so times I’ve done it. It’s like I have some kind of guardian angel protecting my secret identity.

Sometimes, it’s super funny to encourage this… “misguided image” my coworkers have. My personal favorite:

Coworker S: “Well. I just don’t think I’m fond enough of marriage to ever try it again, anyway.”
Me: “Yeah. Me neither.”
Coworker N: laughingly “You never tried it in the first place.”
Me: hearty laughed tinged with a little madness.

Other times…

Coworker B: “You don’t know how to make mashed potatoes?!?”
Me: “Why would I? I don’t like them.”
Coworker B: “What happens when you get married and your husband wants mashed potatoes for dinner?”
Me: “Then he can make his own danged mashed potatoes.”
Coworker B: “That’s not how it works girl. You’ll learn.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ve been wondering what the secret to saving my marriage was! If only you’d gotten here sooner!

When blended just right, I hear they’ll pay your rent and bring all your pets back to life.

Yeah. Winifred was almost viciously gang raped and left to bleed out in a ditch that day. You can never accuse me of lacking in imagery.

Other times, of course, I wonder if I should just come clean, much like how Clark Kent doubts whether or not he should just come out as Superman. There have been entire movies based on it. How did they usually end, though?

With a dead Lois Lane. That’s how. So really, this is for the good of all mankind… or um… just Lois Lane… only the library version. I’ve had this job for a year and a half. Even if I didn’t tell them to call me Winifred, they did and I’ve kind of been responding to it for all this time. I’d just look crazy if I admitted it now.

Shut-up, Gail. That one’s too easy… like you.*

*She loves those jokes. She thinks Hallmark should use them.

Fortunately, no one has ever caught on about how defensive I can be of divorce, thinking my negative marital views stem from my parents’ divorce, which I’ve barely mentioned… cuz that’s the saddest thing that’s happend to me. :Giggle:

Coworker S: “It depends on why people get divorced. Some people get divorced just because they don’t want to be married anymore.”
Me: “You never know what’s going on in another person’s marriage. There could be plenty they aren’t telling you.”

You see, though. I’m defending divorcees all over the world… undercover. I’m like some special Amazonian heroine…

You’re fucking welcome y’all. You’re fucking welcome.

Excuse me while I rock in the corner and chew my own hair.

Posted on February 5, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I’m gonna let you in on a little secret….

and this is super privileged information, y’all…

I’m a little high-strung.

I’m a smart person… book smart that is. That being said, I can become so single-mindedly obsessed and tightly wound about something that I become phenomenally stupid.

Tonight, I left work at 9:00. There’s a strict rule about walking out together as employees, not just because the handbook says so, but because I work in the ghetto. Within the last few months, there have been multiple shootings around my workplace. Jay once texted me to ask what the zip code was for this location. I told him and he confirmed that I was in prime rapin’ real estate for the city, in a much more serious tone than that. It is bomb.

So, I drove home, chatting on my phone to my dear paranoid Gramma, who has taken up calling me every night to make sure I got home safe since I work “in a bad part of town” about 20 minutes down the highway from my wealthy horse-themed suburb.

I told her I was safe and she went to bed. I went upstairs, got undressed, microwaved some vegetables and got out some lunch meat for dinner (thank goodness for that bachelor’s in home-ec) and grabbed my Kindle to sit down and read while I ate.

What!?!? Where is my Kindle?!?!?! It’s in my bag, right? It has to be in my purse. Maybe I left it in the car. Maybe I should put on pants before I check. It’s not here! I must’ve left it at work. I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THAT BOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m also in the middle of two other paperbacks, that I totally could’ve read. I’m really not sure what possessed me to do this, but I threw on my dress pants, the heels I’d worn to work (sans hose), a hoodie over my nightshirt, and my ID badge, tossed my food in the fridge and bolted out the door like my life depended on it. Telling no one where I was going, I spent the last two dollars in my checking account (until I get paid tomorrow) on gasoline and started the twenty-minute, all darkened highway drive to work… in dense fog… going ten to fifteen over. I was convinced that the key fob that allows me in the door couldn’t be set to no longer allow access at immediately 9:00, since we sometimes have to stay later. There was a slight possibility that it was set for 10:00. I was absolutely sure that I had to get there by 10:00… to enter the building without permission and get my Kindle. (In hindsight, I’m lucky I have a laidback manager.) I sped the whole way, looking for lights in my rearview mirror, not even considering what I’d say were I pulled over. I turned into the parking lot, actually seeing a speeding cruiser behind me, and not even acknowledging the confirmation that this was a terrible damned idea when he sped right past me, because this is the fucking ghetto. I parked right next to the back door and bolted out to try my key fob. Red lights informed me that access had been denied. I was crushed. I’d have to make this drive again tomorrow, even though I don’t work, because there was no way in hell I’d leave my Kindle for two days. I planned to get up early and hope to get there at 7:50, bolt in with the first arrivals, and somehow teleport to my local high school to substitute. It was a brilliant plan. As I passed the front door, I started to realize how insane this had been… but was immediately interrupted by the sight of the cleaning man washing the windows, on the other side of the shady guy camped out beside the door.

Well. I came all this way. I doubt shady guy will do anything. There’s a non-English speaking witness right there.
“Excuse me, Sir. I just left my Ki… uh… my gun. I just left my gun.”

Yup. I did. I parked the car again, ran across the parking lot, flashed my badge and entered the deserted building alone with the cleaning man to grab my Kindle.

OH! I left my Diet Coke, too!

On the way home, I realized I was out of gas again, but thought it would be unwise to stop at the 7 Eleven next door so late. Yes. That would be unwise. I tried to calm myself on the way home, adrenaline still pumping from The Great Kindle Emergency of 2013.

Slow down. Breathe. You have your Kindle now.

I drove at a far more reasonable speed through the pitch black and fog.

I got closer to home and pulled into Wal-Mart to get gas. That’s when I realized…

I didn’t have my wallet. No money. No ID. No gasoline.

Luckily, I did make it home and the wallet was on my couch, though it had managed to give me almost as bad of a shock as realizing I didn’t have my Kindle. On my way to get gas, so I wouldn’t run out in the morning, I began to think of what I’d have told an officer had I been pulled over for speeding… and not had my wallet.

“Well, I’m trying to get to work. I left something and I’m not sure when the doors will automatically lock me out. It’s important…”

“Well… um… my Kindle…”

“Were I lying, don’t you think I’d come up with something better than that? Kindles are expensive and you see, I substitute teach in the morning and that’s a whole day of doing absolutely nothing and I was right in the middle of this new book and I didn’t even finish the last chapter and it stopped in a… this is only sounding lamer and lamer as far as excuses go, isn’t it?”

The fog began to lift… figuratively, it’s like a fucking B movie out there…. I started to see the light…

That’s the new photo on my ID badge.

Note: Photos used were exaggerative.

Seven Reasons Why I Avoid Working With Children

Posted on January 14, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I have a confession to make, y’all. I’m Catholic. It’s kind of our thing.

Here goes…

I don’t like children.

Yes, yes, a substitute teacher who doesn’t like children. Could I be more of a Hey Arnold character (or more of a child of the 90’s)? Let me clarify. I don’t like young children. Teenagers, the ones everyone else hates, I adore. They’re funny and sarcastic and I don’t have to worry that I’ll crush their little souls when I snap at them, which I rarely do, because I actually enjoy being around them. I know how to deal with them. I have an undergraduate degree in them. Children, though? Children make me wonder how the species has survived this long when they are so fucking annoying.

Public education looks a little something like this.

While I look forward to teaching middle school and high school, I do everything I can to avoid substituting elementary school, short of not paying my rent or starving. I have literally and purposefully waited until the last minute a job was posted to accept it so I could get paid the same money for less time with young children. I am not cruel to them, by any means. I’m actually quite sweet to them and would never wish them harm. A bystander might even dare to think I’m good with them and maybe I am. I wouldn’t know, because as they’re hugging me and I’m hugging them back, I can only think “Ew. Stop touching me. It’s cold and flu season.” I, of course, love the children that I’m required to love by blood, but I still avoid them between ages seven and eleven and here’s why:

1. They all like me.
Not only do they all like me, they actually care whether or not I like them. This means I have to be super conscious of my temper when they are driving me fucking insane. If I slip and snap at them, because I’m in a room with 22 attention starved human puppies, I could absolutely crush their little egos. I swear there are people who go into early childhood education, just so someone will love them, because these kids do. They want you to compliment their coloring (it’s just fucking coloring), they want you to listen to their stories, they want to draw you a picture, they want to hug you.

2. They have boundary issues.
Yeah, that’s right. They want to hug you. People are dropping dead of whooping cough (somewhere, I’m sure) and this little seven-year-old wants to sit on my lap and wrap his arms around me. Sweetie, I’m calling you Sweetie, because I don’t even know your damned name. Get off me… and why are you sticky?

3. They’re disgusting.
Seriously, kid. Why are you sticky? No, I do not want to see where your stitches were. Please stop wiggling your bloody tooth in front of my face and wash the hands that you just had in your mouth. Now wash them again, because you just wiped snot all over them.

I would rather have teenagers inquire about my vagina again than be faced with a hoard of young children who desperately want to show me their wounds.

4. They’re hypochondriacs.
If they don’t have wounds to show me, that’s quite all right. They’ll make some up.

“My head hurts. I can’t breathe. My neck hurts.”
“Mine does, too. Yes you can. That’s because you’re squeezing it.”

This went on for the whole damned day. The eight-year-old hypochondriac actually exists and it’s even more obnoxious than the twenty-eight-year-old one, because of the added whine and the fact that they’ve said it 93 times. Maybe this just works really well at home and they get coddled and kissed for it, because they’re all spoiled.

5. They’re all spoiled.
I live in the same white suburban middle class town I grew up in and it’s only gotten wealthier. Just recently, four eight-year-olds told me they own a Northface. Why the hell do you own a Northface?!? That’s a $150 coat and we may get snow this year! I own a Northface, because I work two jobs and I’m not going to outgrow it in the next year. You, however, are growing up in an obesity epidemic and about to hit a growth spurt. It makes about as much sense for you to own that coat as it does for you to own that pair of Uggs. Those are $200 boots, worn by someone who doesn’t even know what $200 is.

6. They’re repetitive and redundant and they just say the same thing over and over again.
Yes, I know you have a Northface, because you told me 14 friggin’ times! Your little friend there has told me five times that you went to P.E. yesterday. The girl to his left has told me seven times that you saw your teacher at lunch. The child with her hand in her mouth has mentioned her loose tooth forty-six times. Please go sit back down before my frustration inadvertantly showers you all with my brain matter.

7. They are little jackhammers of inquiry.
“Where’s our teacher? Why’s she gone? Is that your phone? What time do we go to lunch? Are we having indoor recess or outdoor recess? When do we go to the library? Can I leave my paper on my desk? When is lunch? Is that a Nook? Are we going to music today? Are you going to be here tomorrow? Is our teacher coming back tomorrow? Why is she gone? When is lunch? Why does it say we have P.E. today when we had it yesterday? Are we taking AR tests today? Can I read my book? When do we go to music? When do we go home? Why do you keep rubbing your head?”

Don’t worry. If you just stop answering, they’ll make sure to repeat it at least thirty-nine times.

Maybe one day I’ll get over my whopping committment and baby issues and I’ll have my own kids, because I’m stupid and think babies are cute. They’ll be absolutely fucking adorable until age seven and then I won’t love them anymore until they’re eleven. My Gramma has actually suggested I “farm them out” once they hit this point and take them back a few years later. I always knew she was brilliant.

In the meantime, note to self: Do not substitute elementary school on the first day of your period.

I’m sorry I ate your Christmas candy, but I’m joining the Marines.

Posted on December 23, 2012 by Belle of the Library

If you’ve spent five minutes either with me or reading my blog, you know I’m wound as tightly as a fucking slinky, when it comes to school… and lots of other stuff.

Yesterday was the last day to substitute teach before Chirstmas break and the end of my three week Perpetual Work and Homework Kill Fest. It was also the day I awaited the opinion of my professor on the first essay I wrote for my Directed Reading course, which focuses on preparing me for my re-Portfolio.

So, I anxiously substituted 6th graders who were super mega-on-crack excited that Christmas break was coming. Their teacher received several Christmas gifts, which I paid little notice and set to the side. I glanced at the ziplock bag with chocolate in it and wasn’t even sure what it was.

The day wore on. I checked my e-mail. I checked my e-mail through the internet instead of the app, in case all apps were broken. I checked to make sure my original message had sent. I made sure my follow-up “I really did try to find more supplementary literature” e-mails had sent. Yes. That was plural. I re- read my essay. I re-searched for supplementary literature and verified that it wasn’t available. Then the third class of the day hit.

Student: “That candy’s probably going to go bad. Are you going to eat it?”
Me: laughing “I’m not going to eat your teacher’s candy.”

Is that chocolate covered peanut brittle? I didn’t even know that was a thing. I guess it makes sense. It sounds good. Well. Maybe just one piece. It’s not like she’s going to notice.

So I did it. I stole one piece.

I checked my e-mail again. I read my book, which was about a woman who was an ex-marine. I say that as if it wasn’t just more werewolf porn with a tertiary plot, so you’ll think I read deep literature.

Text Message
11:33 Me: My professor has had 13 hours to read and respond to my essay. I so failed it and will never be a librarian.

Perhaps she hasn’t read it. No, no. She always responds early. Likelier, she’s grading it. If it’s taking that long, she must be pretty unhappy with it. Oh, God. What if she hates it? I didn’t find any supplementary literature. But there wasn’t any! Maybe there was. Maybe I’m just implementing poor searching tactics. That’s what a librarian is fucking FOR and I can’t find anything?!?!?

I quietly comforted myself with a miniscule piece of peanut brittle.

Text Message
11:41 Me: She so thinks I’m an idiot with no knowledge of information theory.

Oh, God. What if she’s trying to properly phrase her e-mail explaining that I’m really just not cut out for this and should probably consider another career path? What if she wants to give me my rejection over the phone?!?! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What would I do? I could teach. Teacher’s do get Christmas candy. This peanut brittle is really good. I wonder if I could make peanut brittle. I’d likely end up in the E.R. and I can’t afford that. I only have healthy insurance for son long, though. May as well try now. Oh my god, what if I can’t be a librarian?!?!?! I won’t have healthy insurance, either! I could join the military. I could make a career out of that. I already own guns.

11:42 Me: Oh my gosh, I’m making myself sick over this.

But we’re at war. What if I join the military and I get hurt in some kind of fire fight? I don’t even know what a fire fight is, but I read it in that book and it sounded really bad, like it involved flame throwers. I doubt that’s the case, though. It’s a little irrational to assume the U.S. military employs flame throwers. I doubt that would be a sanctioned fighting tactic. It probably wouldn’t be terribly effective. It could maim me, though. I could lose a leg or an ear or they could have to fashion me a new pair of lips from my groin skin. I wouldn’t even have a vagina anymore! You can’t have sex without a vagina. No one would ever date me or marry me and I would die alone!

12:08 Me: It’s been 13 and a half hours!
12:13 Gail: Chill! She is running late!

Summary: It’s been 13 and half hours since I sent my paper. I am legitimately concerned that this means I’ll lose my lips in a horrendous accident and therefore die alone.

Oh, my god, I’ve got to calm down. I’m going to throw up or cry and I’m working… sort of. Substituting is really undemanding. One more piece of candy won’t make any difference.

Another excruciating two hours passed, where I looked up several peanut brittle recipes, read a little, and was just about to Google the U.S. Marines requirements. Ha. Like I could pass the psych tests? I noticed I had an e-mail. It simply announced that her comments were attached, along with the suggestion for my next paper. No encouragement, no defecation. The attachment, however, began with “Well done!”

Oh, fuck. She’s using the sandwich method. She’s going to offer a compliment and then criticism and then another compliment. This is bad.

Gail: mocking me “You have really nice hair. You should never be a librarian. I really like how into your computer you are.”

One: that was an odd compliment, there, Gail. Two: I was wrong, of course. She loved the paper and appreciated the literature I did include. There was no criticism at all, just a few recommendations for databases I could search next time. Finally, I could breathe easy and enjoy my piece of peanut brittle.

Fuck. I just ate 3/4 of her candy. It’s really unlikely this teacher is going to think a student left her 3 pieces of peanut brittle. Should I throw it away? No. Then she won’t thank the student. It doesn’t say who brought it to her, though. But what if they ask her about it? She’s probably not going to notice how little is in there. Besides. Her name wasn’t on it. I mean really. It’s unlikely she’ll notice and more unlikely she’d blame me, because who the fuck eats someone else’s Christmas candy!?!?! Maybe I could leave her a note saying there was some, but I spilled soda on it. Maybe I could make her more and sneak it in here on the first day back.

Gail: “Okay. If you just happened by and saw this bag, would you think it was new or that someone had been snacking on it?”
…..

…..

Me: “Yeah… I should’ve just taken it.”

I did, indeed try to make peanut brittle.

When it turned out poorly, I put it in bags and gave it as gifts to coworkers. I may as well get a pat on the back for the consideration behind my crap cooking skills. It was so chewy, you had to pick it off your teeth. My gums are literally still bleeding.

My coworkers won’t be getting any of my second batch. I suppose they won’t be taking my vagina away just yet. At least not before my military fire fight days.

How I Took the Sexy Out of Cooking Naked

Posted on December 6, 2012 by Belle of the Library

9:00 – I begin my 20 minute drive home from Library. The sun set three hours ago. I saw maybe one hour of it after Substituting.

9:20 – I preheat the oven and throw some sweet potato fries on a pan.

9:30 – I inform the dog that he’s disgusting and nobody poops but him before letting him off the leash and excitedly shouting “Go, go Gadget Beagle!” as he runs up the stairs.

9:35 – Fries in the oven, I strip in the kitchen so I can throw my clothes into the hamper. I toss ground turkey into the microwave to defrost.

9:48 – I finish my shower with 7 minutes to spare until the fries are done. Wrapped in a towel, I put the ground turkey in a pan and begin cooking it, taking short breaks to dry and comb my wet hair.

9:52 – I throw some frozen vegetables into the microwave.

9:53 – I stir the meat in the pan. The towel falls off. I leave it, because I live alone and no one cares.

9:54 – I bend down to excitedly ask the dog if he’s the prettiest boy in the kitchen. He is, indeed, the prettiest boy in the kitchen and ecstatic about that fact. I almost lose a nipple to his claw.

9:55 – The fries are done, so I grab a sock from the clean clothes and use it as an oven mitt.

9:55 – I burn my hand using a sock as an oven mitt.

9:56 – I grab the vegetables from the mivrowave.

9:57 – I put the Easy Mac in the microwave and take the meat off the stove. I salt the pan of sweet potato fries and pick it up to shake it… still naked.

9:57 – I burn my hand on the pan of sweet potato fries, dropping a quarter of them. They are promptly eaten by the prettiest boy in the kitchen.

9:58 – I yell at the dog to get out from under my feet after tripping over him while he eats his sweet potato fries. I am now an angry naked person.

10:00 – I take the Easy Mac out and mix in the diced canned tomatoes and cheese powder.

10:01 – Dinner is ready. I grab a t-shirt and some underwear, quickly dressing, because it would be weird to just eat dinner in the nude.

Pictured: Not me.

That time I told a lie…

Posted on December 4, 2012 by Belle of the Library

While everyone at my work may think my name is Winifred, that’s not because I told them my name was Winifred. It’s because they called me Winifred and I responded without correcting them. As a general rule, I do not lie. I may carefully phrase my truths with the intention of misleading someone at work, but it’s never an actual lie. When I do lie, I get nervous and trip up or it just makes me so uncomfortable, I end up blurting out the truth anyway.

Frankly, even when I should lie, I don’t think to do so. For example:

One night, about a year and a half ago, Gail and I were driving around town in my hatchback. We drove by a building owned by a local church, a sign in the middle of a clearing with small print we couldn’t read. I just decided to drive up to it to get a better look (against Gail’s protests)… and then remembered we’d had heavy rain… after my little hatchback SANK into the ground with a loud slurp. So, naturally, we tried to drive forward… then backward… then (less naturally or reasonably) dig out with a Dollar Tree broomstick before the people leaving the service next door noticed us trenching their church yard. “Trenching” was not even kind of an exaggeration. We destroyed this lawn and just wanted to escape as quickly as possible, muttering about how we weren’t 17 anymore and really couldn’t get away with this crap. Shockingly enough, the broomstick did not work in digging out a couple tons of Suzuki and the pastor soon approached. He didn’t look happy, but luckily, it’s in his job description to be nice (particularly with his entire congregation behind him) and he happened to have instant access to a suped-up pick-up with a gigantic chain on it. Welcome to the Midwest, y’all.

As he brought over the truck, Gail asked what I was going to tell him. I told her I was just going to say we wanted to see what the sign said. Apparently, “I wanted to read this sign and that’s why I’ve done hundreds of dollars of damage to your lawn” was a terrible excuse. Gail insisted we claim that we were trying to turn around and had started to sink, so we quickly went forward and just sank further. I told her she had to do it, because I was pretty danged sure you go to Hell for lying to a man of God. She pointed out that I had just (jokingly) called Protestantism “pretend” a few minutes earlier, but I stuck to my guns. They didn’t seem happy with us for it, but they also didn’t send us a bill. We got a brief lecture on how rain works, which admittedly, was well-earned.

Regardless of the fact that Gail was 100% right about the necessity of the lie in the above story, I still had to put in a great deal of effort not to blurt out the truth and apologize for lying in the first place. I wasn’t even the one speaking. However, in the following conversation, I didn’t tell a single lie.

Me: referring to J.K. Rowling “She’s a great author, but she took advantage of welfare to write her novel. If it hadn’t worked out, she just would’ve been another person taking advantage of welfare.”
Coworker: “Her husband had just left her. She was horribly depressed. You don’t know how that feels.”

I’ll admit, Winifred came precariously close to death that day, but I remained silent. I let my coworker continue in her assumption that I spent my college years going to parties, getting a little too drunk, and eating ice creem at home after bad breakups. It’s not my fault she chose to believe I grew up in a 7th Heaven episode, nor is it my responsibility to correct her. I did not lie.

When taking my dedication to carefully dancing around the truth into consideration, the following story makes me sound even more broken as a person and psychologically unstable, which is what makes it such great fun.

I substitute teach, because I have a teaching certificate, essentially get paid to sit there, and I love teenagers. One day, substituting for a history class, I heard a student complaining about her job.

Me: “Where do you work?”
Student: “The new movie theater in Yukon.”
Me: “I used to work there!”
Student: “Really? What’s your name?”

I don’t know why I admitted this. The people at the theater hated me. They thought I was a suck-up and a bore. They were right. I’d have done anything for a management position, because it was a dollar more an hour, more hours a week, would look good on a resume, and I was married to a man who refused to get a job. I hated working there and they hated me working there. So why did I excitedly declare that I had? I have no fucking idea, but I put these pieces together just a little too late.

Me: “Belle.”
Student: “You’re Belle?!”
Me: shit, shit, shit “Yeah. Why?”
Student: “They talk about you all the time!”
Me: shit, shit, shit “Really? Do the same people even still work there?”
Student: “Yeah, some of them. Did you used to fill up a tray with popcorn every night and go to home to your husband?”

Student had inadvertantly hit a sore spot, because I had indeed done this. The reason I did was because I couldn’t afford to buy food that summer. I lost 12 pounds on the popcorn and tears diet. So did my beagle. My life sucked and though Student had no idea about any of that, I still felt the need to protect myself from the connection of who I am today to who I was four years ago. So before I had any time to think about what I was saying, I heard the following words come out of my mouth:

Me: “Oh. No. There must have been another Belle that worked there. I’m not married.”

What. The. Fuck?

I immediately processed how incredibly damaged as a person I had to be for this to come out of my mouth without any forethought. I have detached myself so greatly from who I was and clung so dearly to Winifred that I’m flat-out lying about who I am by accident?!?! At least my technical truths at work are presently arranged as carefully as landmines. I am in complete control of the misconceptions I weave today and when they started, they were truly just the product of thoughtless omission. “There must have been another Belle that worked there. I’m not married.”?!?!

My head was spinning as I continued to talk about how there must be a different Belle, because I’m only 24 (at the time) and I’m still in school. The last part was true and intentionally phrased to sound as though there’s no way I could be married, but not even a small part of me thought another Belle worked there. I just didn’t want this seventeen-year-old complete stranger to connect me to a past that might have been relayed by people who worked at a movie theater, regularly used the word “crunk”, and hated me for good damned reason.

Realizing this was disturbing and probably a story for a therapist I’d never see, I immediately texted Gail. She giggled like uncontrollably and joined in while I made jokes about rocking in a corner chewing on my own hair. Even she agreed that Winifred may be comprised of perfectly mapped out truths, but at least it’s intentional (now). Despite this tale, I figured I’d never have to face this lie again and could just move on and pretend I’m entirely psychologically sound. Student would probably ask her manager if another K had ever worked at the theater and realize I was completely insane, but I never go to that theater, it’s a big high school, and teenagers are self-absorbed. I told myself she wouldn’t remember me if I was her substitute again. It was unrealisitic, but I’m great at denial. CLEARLY.

In an odd twist of fate, a month or two later, Gail wanted to see Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter and so did I. I say odd, because usually Gail wants to see movies that tell the tale of a woman and her three best friends all getting cancer and then discovering that their true value lies in the men in their lives, whom they kiss in airport terminals at the end. She’s the worst feminist ever. This time, however, we both had shit taste in movies and wanted to see the same one… which was playing at the Yukon theater. When we bought our tickets, I recognized one of my old managers, who is now GM. She didn’t, however, recognize the 90 pounds less that was me. It was a free pass, especially considering the fact that I saw Student selling popcorn. Then, without thinking, I asked if GM remembered me. She said she didn’t, so I actually prodded her and made sure she knew that I was one of of an apparent several Belles that had worked at the theater a couple of years earlier. She remembered me and I facepalmed myself on the way into the theater.

That movie was quite possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to me. When I had to pee during it, I took it as a blessing from God to escape for even just a few scenes. During this time, I saw Student very obviously looking at me and whispering to her coworkers, undoubtedly about the crazy-ass substitute teacher who just walked by. That was the first and last time I told any lie of any merit in two years and now I can’t go to one of only two theaters in town without feeling like I have to hide from a group of teens who think I’m a pathalogical liar. Not even Aesop could further pound the moral of this story into my brain.

Pathological Liar: person who tells lies frequently, with no rational motive for doing so

Well, they’re half right.

Mushroom Cloud Over Madison

Aside

I’ve been feeling a bit agoraphobic for the last day or two. Gail tried to diagnose me with social anxiety disorders that she Googled* and I told her to shake her rat bones at someone else, insisting that psychology is a bunch of voodoo witchcraft. In actuality, I completely believe in the effectiveness of psychology, which is why it freaks me the hell out. I don’t want anyone cracking open my skull and taking a shit in it. Despite my discomfort, I went to Mass today, wearing jeans and a pink t-shirt, which I never do (dresses, usually). I huddled into my coat the entire time thinking about how if I transformed into a lion, I could run out. I’m not sure why that required being a lion, since I did, in fact, leave immediately after Communion.

*She majored in pyschology for the most annoying week and a half, so that’s an exaggeration, for which she’ll call me a bitch. As a matter of fact, she’ll call me a bitch for this side note too.

I’m just still not in a good place over my academic set-back. I’ve convinced myself, somehow, that this lessens my chances of ever being a librarian, regardless of my future success on the portfolio. The rational part of me knows that the job market hasn’t changed in the last week and won’t in the next six months. The irrational part of me, however, is still crying in bewilderment over a ridiculously large Old Chicago cookie about how the only life left for me must reside in the virtual world. Huh. Just made the connection from that to this blog. Ultimately, I know that I’ve been in worse places in life. Gail herself said “Hey. Look on the bright side. You’re not married.” Damn. Fucking. Straight. But it’s still a crushing blow for me. I don’t fail at things. I do a little less than expected and cry my eyes out over it, but I don’t actually fail.

Yeah. He did.

If it seems exaggerative, that’s a text from my friend, Ward, who has seen me in tears over a B or the infamous 98.5% assignment. I still haven’t told my guy friends about my delayed graduation. I kind of plan to avoid telling them and then just swear it was May the whole time. They’ll know something happened and that I can’t talk about it without crying and making them uncomfortable because they have penises. Win/win.

After a day of laying around in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, reading blogs and trashy supernatural romance novels, I got this super encouraging E-mail from my professor. He told me he looks forward to my re-presentation (word I made up) and that he’s sure I’ll do great. Either my portfolio defense wasn’t as bad as it seemed, or my instructors think I’m about to swan dive from the top of the college library after E-mailing to promise them that I’m going to re-read everything ever. It’s likely the latter, because I’m absolutely certain that a mushroom cloud went up over Madison as I gave that awful presentation. Then, first born sons mysteriously died. There was even a run on the banks for some reason. It was really bad.

Regardless, my professors don’t want to kill my spirit, and that’s what I took out assloads of loans for, am I right?!?! Honestly, I think they have faith I’ll do well. They wouldn’t be encouraging me to present in March if they didn’t, when I can have up to a year to prepare. Even I know I’ll fix this, deep down. But I still have these fits of “WHAT IF I DON’T?!?!?” Being a librarian is all I want. I went through so much to get here and I might lose it. I have no backup. I want no backup. The idea of not being able to do this job breaks my heart.

I feel like my whole life has stalemated until I pass this. I’ve decided to give up dating until I’ve graduated. That’s partly an excuse, just because I’m REALLY bad at it, but it’s still a distraction I can’t afford. I don’t have time for funny bad dates. Nor do I have time to hit it off with someone who demands a substantial chunk of my life. School. Career. Then boys.

That time I tried to be sexy…

I wish I could just cope with this adjustment and move on. I wish I could just get excited that I only have one more class left. I wish the stress would stop taking root in the form of feeling naked when I’m in public. Tomorrow’s the start of a new week, I suppose. At least I’ve come down from my promise that I’d only dedicate an hour a day to entertainment and the rest would be to studying. I’m too obsessive a person for this.

Gail: “Get out your laptop and fix this.”

I’m clinging to those words.

Winifred, the Accidental Alter-Ego

Posted on November 25, 2012 by Belle of the Library

Open with a distantly related anecdote.

When I was 12 years old, I spent one week out of the summer before the 7th grade at our local Catholic Diocese’s camp. It was six days of non-stop wholesome fun with constant supervision and I hated every minute of it. Once my parents divorced, I grew up in what I like to describe to strangers who I don’t want to make uncomfortable as “a hands off environment.” I pretty much did whatever I wanted and it sure as heck didn’t involve church on Sunday mornings. So, for six days, I was combative, moody, and uncooperative with people who were nothing but nice to me and who came from homes with 12 other children who also thought camp was the greatest thing ever. I refused to swim, explaining that I’d done the math and there were too many people in the pool for it to be sanitary, drew a picture of a burning cross during crafts, brought up the birth control thing with a bunch of 11-year-olds, and called a girl a bitch and threatened to push her out of a canoe. Yeah. I’m lucky an exorcism wasn’t involved. Surprisingly enough, I wasn’t the most difficult person in my cabin, for a few bunks down, there resided two girls with the last name Hill. They claimed they were sisters and told elaborate stories of family events where they were bestest friends for four days until one of them flipped out one night, because she was away from home for the first time and couldn’t handle it. When the camp counselors pulled her sister in to comfort her, she hysterically started screaming that they weren’t even related. I slept through the whole thing and got this story secondhand and I have no idea why I remember it.

A part of me, however, must have done so with the intention of storing the occurrence for future reference, because at 23, newly divorced with the whole world having watched my life fall apart, creating a pretend identity was an apparently irresistible subconscious desire. Having aged far past the camp stage in life, I really didn’t have the opportunity to plan out an intentional week-long charade. At the time, I worked at the local community center, where I had met some of the most supportive and reliable friends I’ll ever have. They knew all of my secrets and loved me just the same. But they knew all of my secrets. They’d received the drunken phone calls, seen me burst into tears at random, and heard about the days at a time I’d spent throwing out all of my belongings in an insane life purge. This was on top of my dear, dear sisterfriend Gail, who had been with me since we were 15 and knew all of my mommy issues and details of my marriage I won’t even tell a therapist. Though it’s beyond comforting to know that these people have seen the most fucked up parts of my soul and still want me in their lives, nothing will ever make me feel quite as raw as having known so many people were just recently worried about the massive amounts of Everclear I’d been consuming. So, when the opportunity arose for me to get a job in my field, where I could work my way up, the last thing I wanted was for these people that I would be working with in a professional capacity, to also know what I looked like inside out. And so… Winifred was born.

Oh, the times I went to the fake beach with my color-coordinated family…

To clarify, my coworkers know me by my actual name and Winifred is just the codename Gail has given my work persona to make it clear that she not only disapproves, but thinks I’m completely insane. I maintain that Winifred’s creation was unintentional. When I got the job at the library, I’d finalized my divorce months earlier and had barely gotten all of my documentation put back in my maiden name. I just didn’t feel like talking about the event that had so thoroughly broken me when I had barely begun to pick up the pieces. Luckily, as a 23-year-old graduate student, it never came up. Even at 25, no one ever asks me “Have you ever been married?” unless I’m on a date or filling out a form. I assume it doesn’t occur to people that someone with such academic tunnel vision could have had the time to fit in a failed marriage. I look quite young as well, often mistaken as a student when I substitute teach, with most guessing 21 or 22 on an average day.

In addition to my age and academic standing, I had just recently moved back to my hometown of Shetland. It was a place to lick my wounds and, as much as I hated it at 16, it is home and I’ve taken comfort in my view of the city water tower from my patio. Most of my coworkers live in the city and Shetland is an outlying wealthy suburb. Because women are catty and competitive, my elation at returning home was taken as a challenge. I couldn’t simply be happy where I was without comparing it to where my coworkers were, or so they assumed.

Finally, I come from wealthy, self-made people, who worked their asses off for everything they have. I greatly admire this and I’m proud of them for it. So, I’ve said so. Combine these factors and my coworkers see me as a spoiled and sheltered 25-year-old who’s truest hardship was her parents’ divorce, goes to lunch with daddy every week, and has everything handed to her in her wealthy little hometown. They think I’m conservative in my views, because I’ve never struggled. In actuality, it’s because my ex-husband used to try to get me to go get him food stamps when he refused to work and had already stolen all of the money in my wallet. They think my contentment with Shetland is a reflection of my being “uppity” (direct quote) when it’s just the place that welcomed me back after life kicked my ass.

One time, pre-Winifred, I shared the story of Grace, Gail’s daughter. Precious, perfect, with the lungs of an angry baby elephant, I sat by Gail’s side as she died at 8 months, 5 days, and 15 minutes. I was Aunt Belle and my heart broke as I watched Gail shatter. It was truly awful. It took me one year to share this with my coworkers. It was Gail’s heartache more than mine, and therefore the perfect tester. S compared it to losing her son’s girlfriend, which she repeatedly said was the most pain anyone could feel.She said Gail owed it to the children of the world to track down every woman her ex-husband ever dates and make sure they know he was interested in little girls. It was the first and last piece of myself I shared.

When I discovered the beginnings of Winifred’s existence, she had not yet been accepted or named. A coworker simply told me that everyone felt that I thought I was better than they are because I live in Shetland (ironic, since I started a hate website based on this town at 16.) I spent a week or two mulling this over. I’ve been through my own Hell and worked my butt off to get the things I have, but they don’t know that and give me no credit for it. I didn’t mean to lay the foundation for a new identity. I saw it two ways, though. I could A) correct this misunderstanding and give them undeserved information on my life, with which to gossip or B) run with it.

I think it was here that the issue became psychological. I have this tendency to think that there’s a point where I may as well make things worse. If there’s really no coming back from something, why not just go with it? At least it’ll make for a good story. My coworkers are never going to shake that feeling that I’m entitled and full of myself. Why bare my soul in the attempt to change that? Finally, I heard a coworker make a joke that is apparently regularly spoken at my expense: “It’s always 85 and sunny in Shetland.” My mind was immediately made up.

Once my psyche truly fissured and I fully embraced my alter ego, I began to encourage the misunderstandings. ENCOURAGE THE MISUNDERSTANDINGS. Not lie. A coworker and I argued over marriage.

Me: “I just don’t think that I ever want to give anyone that much control over my happiness.”
S: “I don’t feel like I’ve given my husband any control over my happiness.”
Me: “Yeah. Because he hasn’t taken advantage of it.”

It’s funny, because she thinks I’m talking out of my ass about things I don’t understand. She thinks I base this on my parents’ issues, at most. It’s likely she doesn’t even give me that qualifier, because I never talk about my parents’ divorce either. She just knows I have step-parents.

S: “Well. I just don’t think I’m fond enough of marriage to ever try it again, anyway.”
Me: “Yeah. Me neither.”
N: laughingly “You never tried it in the first place.”
Me: hearty laughed tinged with a little madness.

Later, I discovered that N thought I was a virgin. I don’t know why he thought this. I never said that, because there’s no way that is even a carefully laid truth.

Me: “I’m not saying yes or no either way, but I never said that.”
N: “Yes! You did! It’s not a big deal or anything.”

He thinks I’m embarrassed that I’m a virgin. I was married for four and a half years and have managed to accidentally convince a coworker that I’m pure as the driven snow. I’m assuming I mentioned that I was “inexperienced” and he concluded an exaggerated version of that. However, upon realizing this, I’d fully accepted Winifred and thought it was funny, so I encouraged it. It’s not like I owe him clarification. On another occasion, I verified that I could count on one hand the number of people I’d kissed. It’s true. It supports his assumption. It’s funny for me.

As time goes by and I tell stories of happy family moments, I purposefully skip over the tragedies with complete truth.

S: “I think the house fire was probably one of the worst days of my life.”
Me: “I can imagine. That would be awful.”

N: “Did you know women who miscarry actually blame themselves sometimes.”
Me: “I bet that would just be heartbreaking.”

S: “Well, my mother was really abusive.”
Me: “Oh. I’m sorry.”

I have a degree in education and therefore the required basic understanding of psychology. I have, indeed, done some introspection in regards to Winifred, at Gail’s prodding and insistence that this is unhealthy. I realize now, that what started as an accident has become a defense mechanism and an escape. I recently read a memoir in which the author talked about wearing a red wig to help with anxiety. That’s Winifred. I slip behind her and pretend my life is made of family dinners and apple pie. If my coworkers don’t like me, it’s because they think I’m uppity, not because I grew up in a trailer house, in my brother’s hand-me-down clothes and have whopping mommy issues. Winifred is the uppity one and I don’t have to face rejection if I don’t let anyone get to know me. When Belle fails her graduate portfolio, I get to put on the mask of Winfred, to whom everything comes easily. When I’m under attack, Winifred is the one who gives calm and professional responses, rather than getting weepy, my eventual reaction to every strong negative emotion.

Not pictured: Tears

I’ve also realized, however, that some things cannot be escaped with a fiery red wig. I can’t truly be Winifred and it hurts every time I’m forced to acknowledge this when I just want to pretend. When I’m overwhelmed by the fact that I still can’t sleep through the night without experiencing a pulsing of terror and nightmares about marriage, I break just a little, because I’ll never be the girl with the apple pie life. I am suddenly the shattered 23 year old sitting in a judge’s office alone, asking for a divorce, a little hungover. In reality, I’ve actually begun to develop some of my made up characteristics. I work hard and refuse to get angry in a confrontation, clinging to passive commentary such as “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy. I’ll pray for you.” I feel making actual changes for the better must justify the illusion.

Sometimes, it’s tempting to kill off Winifred’s character, such as when a coworker told me that I’d never be successful at marriage if I couldn’t make mashed potatoes. But I swallow the urge, because how funny is that? Yes, THAT was the gaping hole in my marriage. Mashed potatoes.

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: Work

That Time I Tried to Fake a Master’s Degree

All the Children Left Behind: Why I Lost Faith in Our Public Education System After Just Three Years

… but superheroes do it.

Excuse me while I rock in the corner and chew my own hair.

Seven Reasons Why I Avoid Working With Children

I’m sorry I ate your Christmas candy, but I’m joining the Marines.

Mushroom Cloud Over Madison

Aside

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: