Growing Up Professional: Mistakes I Can’t Believe I’ve Actually Made in Job Interviews

Posted on January 31, 2014 by Belle of the Library

So, yesterday I had a job interview. It was sort of a big deal.

My best friend was positively useless.

Me: I don’t think I could be more prepared for this interview, but I’m terrified they’ll ask some question I just haven’t considered.
Gail: “Do you fidget at work and, if so, is it a result of meth use?”
Gail: “Yes. I mean, I fidget. I don’t do meth. I don’t do any drugs. I mean, I’ve taken prescription drugs, but they were mine. I mean, they were prescribed to me for conditions I legitimately had. I don’t steal prescription drugs or do meth, but I sometimes fidget.”

Those who know you best, mock you best. Congratulations Gail. You’ve been replaced by a houseplant. You know, the one you gave me and I facetiously named Blaylock, after the redheaded gay vampire warrior from that paranormal romance novel, but now refuse to plant in soil, because I’m afraid I’ll kill it and cry, because I named it? That one.

Anyhoo. I was prepared for this interview, y’all. I created my own workbook of possible interview questions, filled it out, and quizzed myself for a week. That kind of prepared.

That kind of prepared.

I didn’t substitute teach for three days this week so I could obsessively go over everything from “What don’t your coworkers like about you?” to “Wait. Should I wear silver or gold jewelry with the pearls?” The latter was part of a text/photo message conversation with Jane, in Vegas, that started with “Good friends stay local for I Have Nothing to Wear! crises!!!!”

But why? Why would anyone prepare for an interview on such an extensive level?

No. Besides that.

Here’s why. These are mistakes that I have actually made in the past… and that I can thank the good lord I didn’t make yesterday.

That time I showed up with a mangled neck…
After I graduated with my bachelor’s degree, I was desperately trying to save my marriage. Certain that getting a teaching job would provide the finances and security to do so, I applied for every applicable job… including one 80 miles away. This was going to finally fix my husband, y’all!

It’s just that exorcisms are so expensive.

In hindsight, the whole thing was stupid, particularly the part where my ex-husband gave me a gigantic hickie the night before. Now, do not misunderstand. I know I exaggerate a lot, but this was hardly the kind of mark that could be covered with concealer. Seriously, it was like what Old Yeller looked like after the wild boars got a hold of him. At the time, however, my hair was nearly to my waist, and I felt I could hide it. So, off I went, for the two hour drive, to the high school in a town of 2,000, with no concrete plans as to what I would do about the distance were I offered the position.

Lucky me, that last detail was never something I had to consider. Halfway through the interview, the snaggle-toothed principal left me to write a short essay, and I heard him discussing the gaping wound on my neck, with his secretary. They were talking about size. At that point, there really wasn’t much to be done, so I sort of just blew off the essay and left. Not only did I not get the job, but I never got any kind of acknowledgement that I had even interviewed.

That time I wore a fairy princess costume...
Just a few months after I started working at my first library, I had the opportunity to interview for a 3/4 time position, as opposed to my half time one. Having recently lost a lot of weight, I really didn’t have many clothes that fit me. Even the dress I’d worn to my interview just four months earlier had been given to Gail. Not long before this, though, I’d bought a flowy, strapless, black dress with an uneven Tinkerbell-style hem. It was adorable and comfortable and sexy… and entirely inappropriate for an interview.

I really wish this were more of an exaggeration.

In my defense, I did pair the dress with a black shrug, to conceal the fact that it was strapless, but I also referred to it as “not-much dress” when Gail wore it in Crawfish and Smarmy.

Bee tea double ewe, Gail, thanks for taking my hand-me-ups. It makes me feel skinny.

In addition, I only had one bra, at the time. Seriously, y’all, losing weight is expensive. You have to buy new everything, and a black bra didn’t make the list, when I was in grad school and working two jobs. Unfortunately, the only one that did was a white racerback bra, that practically wrapped itself around my neck, so there was just no way to keep from repeatedly flashing bright white bra straps from beneath my black prom dress. I don’t know that the outfit was the sole reason for my not having gotten the job, but really, I can’t see how it wouldn’t have played a part. I would not have hired someone wearing that costume.

That time I couldn’t walk in high heels…
As I worked my way through school, I applied for each and every position that opened in the library system. When an associate librarian position was made available at my location, I jumped at the opportunity, even handing my boss a copy of my resume, personally. Although I wasn’t done with school and it’s rare to hire librarians without a master’s degree, my boss still gave me a shot… and I blew it. Desperate to look professional, I bought new shoes for the occasion: four inch heels.

Like every little girl who repeatedly wished someone else was her mommy, I never had a woman to teach me how to walk in heels. As it was, Gaily and a Youtube video taught me to apply eyeliner at 23. Not wanting to mess up my pretty new houndstooth heels, I didn’t walk in them much prior to my interview, either. I also wasn’t sure how heels were actually supposed to fit.

Hint: not like this.

Not only were the heels too high to walk in, but they were also excruciatingly painful. Realizing, too late, how incapable I was of wearing these foot vices, I speed-hobbled into my manager’s office and tried my hardest not to have to walk in front of him. Zetus lapetus. I’m having hindsight embarrassment just picturing how I refused to move to the left or right to grab something and just leaned way over.

Beyond the shoes, I really just wasn’t ready to be a librarian. It’s a much more difficult job than people think and I’d yet to realize just how involved it is, so I don’t blame my old boss for not having chosen me. I also, however, wouldn’t blame him if he decided that taking off my shoes the second I left the office, and running through the library and the parking lot barefoot, was an inappropriate exit. I’ve since sold the heels to Gail. Joke’s on her, since they’re filled with my blood.

That time I didn’t know my boss’s name… or who was interviewing me…
Okay. There’s an explanation. It’s just lame.

Despite all of my panicked and tearful phone calls to Gail, where I insisted that I was going to have to join the armed forces, because I was “never going to be a librarian!!!!!”…

… just one day before my MLIS graduation ceremony, I received my first call for an interview. Unfortunately, said interview was given during a truly busy and exhausting time. I had been working about 55 hours per week, in addition to finishing up the last of my graduate coursework. I was also still coming down from the stress of presenting my portfolio, upon which the future of mankind rested. I was overwhelmed. I was just so very tired. Just parking downtown for my interview had me near frustrated tears during the elevator ride.

The woman giving the interview was my boss’s boss. I had read her name in print and had possibly met her in person, but I was mistaken on the pronunciation of her name. You see, a nearby branch manager was named Maria. The woman interviewing me was named Mariah. In my head, I’d been pronouncing them both Maria. Not only did I say this woman’s name incorrectly in my introduction, but I continued to mispronounce it throughout the interview. I corrected myself each time…

“Maria… I mean Mariah.”

… but it got to the point where the other interviewer was laughing. No really. That happened. My interviewer laughed at my awkwardness. That deserves a fucking trophy, not like that means anything these days, but come on!!!!!

Aaaaaand, speaking of my other interviewer…

I wasn’t aware, upon entering the room, that Mariah was going to be the primary interviewer. She’s the manager of the managers, and as far as I understood, she was just supposed to sit in on the meeting. So, the entire time she was asking me questions, I was addressing my answers to Chuckles McGee. Only later, did I realize that Chuckles was the interim manager of the hiring branch. He was supposed to sit in on my interview with Mariah, not the other way around, because he wouldn’t be the one making the decision. So basically, I turned the interview into a conversation with the ventriloquist’s dummy. To make matters worse, I started to get nervous, realizing that this interview was going horribly and my answers quickly deteriorated. Recently, an unstable coworker had yelled at me for not breaking policy for a customer.

Mariah: “What don’t your coworkers like about you?”
Me: ::to Chuckles:: “I tell everyone no.”

As I left the office, I did one thing right. I thanked my interviewers.

Me: “Thank you. It was nice meeting you, Maria.”
Mariah: “Mariah.”
Chuckles: ::laughs out loud::

“KARMA IS NOT A THING!”: The biggest lie they told us in high school.

Posted on January 24, 2014 by Belle of the Library

So, I know that I am not supposed to take joy in another’s misery. I get that. I also know that I am flawed, as are all human beings.

When I was a kid, I was bullied a lot. I’ve told you before, but I was just an easy mark. My parents weren’t giving me any guidance on how to treat people, or dress, or even wash myself there for awhile… so school pretty much sucked. While I was, indeed, a target for many, three bullies stuck out, in particular. Starting in the fourth grade, there was Sal. Sal was the boy who threw chunks of brick at my dog and I, while screaming obscenities daily, as I walked by his house. When he had friends over, they were extra sets of hands. If they took up for me, he accused them of having a crush on me, so they’d hurl a rock extra hard to prove him wrong. Ah, childhood.

Along with Sal, there was Chuck, who joined him on the roof several times, once middle school started. You know that bully that just doesn’t quite fit? He’s short and goofy looking, but still a mountain of dicks? That was Chuck.

In general, after the 9th grade, the bullying tapered off. My friends and I had our very own lunch table in front of the auditorium and none of the cool kids wanted to join our spinning contests or learn how to knit, so they mostly let us be. I’m telling you, if we’d just been born five years later, after being weird was cool…

Ugh! I have an exact fucking copy of this picture from when I was 16. Only I looked a lot less hot and the black framed glasses and that film camera I carried everywhere were just “nerdy.” Suck my dick, pop culture.

Anyhoo…

There were still a few scattered moments, but I don’t even think Sal bothered me come 9th grade. He sort of just faded away. Chuck, though? Chuck was quite the persistent little shit, and decided to go free agent, as he spent our entire 10th grade year taking things from under my desk and hurling them at my head, in Geometry class. Every. Single. Day. Even in our senior year, it was not unheard of for Chuck to continue his antics. It wasn’t just me, either. Six years after Gertie Lake wet herself in our 6th grade reading class, Chuck still called her Gertie Leaky Lake. That’s not even clever for an eleven-year-old, and I’d be willing to bet money he calls her that at the 10 year reunion.

Speaking of which, what are Sal and Chuck up to, today? Because I research for a living and I’m an epic Facebook stalker, I can say that Sal and Chuck are living the lives that all of those teen movies swore to me Sal and Chuck would live. Sal is a felon, who does little beyond recreational drugs and Chuck is working as a cook with no plans to move forward, if the last eight years are any indication. I don’t know that they’re miserable, but I certainly don’t envy them. Now, Carl, the guy who used to fool around with Malik on the weekends, then call him a fag and toss his CD’s all over the school parking lot? He’s a registered sex offender who’s lucky to have finally been transferred out of that Texas prison. Indeed, Rachael Leigh Cook would be proud.

Do not even get me fucking started.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I understand that we all had our bullying moments. I know I sure did. I don’t care if you were sweet as pie, there was at least one time when you made someone else feel less about themselves, even if it was just for not being sweet as pie. You know what, though? We grew up. I am fully willing to admit that the girl who had a screaming match with me in Algebra class is an adult now. She’s a Facebook friend and I like seeing her happy. The friend who turned on me in the eighth grade and intentionally made my life hell? He’s close with his family now and has a full time job, which he enjoys. The girl who mocked me for dressing as 2020 on decade day? The last I heard, she was a dance major. The girl who threatened to cut me at the seventh grade dance? Okay. Maybe I’ll just stop there.

My point is, I don’t wish bad things on every single person who ever said something mean to me. I’m happy that they’re happy. I’m also making a disclaimer, because I’m about to Dramatic Rant… about Nate.

Nate was… hmm… how shall I put this?

Nate: age 2.

Sal and Chuck, while walking penises, clearly didn’t have the best of home lives. I get that now. I mean, really, what parent lets their son sit on the roof with his friends and hurl rocks at passerby? At the very least, these people didn’t play an active role in their children’s lives. Neglectful parents, or parents who reward meanness with laughter, create bullies. It sucks, but that’s the way of the world. Nate, though? Nate was a child of privilege. He was cute and funny and made good grades. Everyone loved Nate.

Except me. For the last two years of elementary school, just as Sal was working up a sweat, Nate just hit the ground running. Living on the outskirts of town, I was the third to last stop on the bus route, meaning I spent about an hour a day on it. Through some misfortune, though I never recalled seeing Nate live nearby, he was the very last stop, so he spent that entire hour with me… calling me fat… and ugly… and stupid. The kid would sing songs about my weight. He’d get the kids who lived near me, who’d known me my whole life and played with me when we were little, to sing along. It was epic. One day, after overhearing me confide in a neighbor about my parents’ pending divorce, Nate acted concerned and asked “Your parents are getting a divorce?” When I sadly told him yes, he got right in my face and laughed hysterically.

I kid you not. The truly disturbing part of all of this was that no one believed me. I told friends about the bullying, even the guidance counselor, and they all swore that he was just the nicest guy. It was bizarre. Looking back, the idea that this kid could go from All American Boy to the fucking Chucky doll… it’s really kind of creepy. Like, “Honey, where’s the kitten and why are you covered in blood?” creepy. My kid would be in therapy. Maybe he should’ve been. Maybe he was going through something.Who knows?

So, the other day, just out of curiosity, I decided to look up Nate. I knew he’d come from fairly wealthy and supportive (apparently blindly so) parents, so I doubted his fate would be teen movie worthy. I assumed he’d be dating someone seriously, probably just beginning his career, maybe married… you know… normal.

But no. Facebook done me wrong, y’all. “I HATE SOCIAL NETWORKING!!!!!” screamed the blogger… in a restaurant with Gaily.

Me: “I want you to guess what his wife does. Just guess.”
Gail: “I don’t know.”
Me: “She’s a fucking model. The boy who tormented me, for two years, is not supposed to marry someone whose Facebook profile has the words ‘Ended work with Miss America’ on her profile! Freddie Prinze Jr. fucking lied!!!!”
Gail: “So he married a hot chick. Who cares? What does she actually do for a living?”
Me: “I just told you! She’s a model!”
Gail: “I thought you were kidding.”
Me: “NO. She was seriously in the top five for the state. Her profile actually said ‘Ended work with Miss America Company.’ KARMA IS NOT A THING!!!!! Ugh. At least he grew up weird looking.”
Gail: ::looking at picture:: “He looks totally normal to me.”
Me: “It says he’s a builder. Maybe he’ll fall through a roof or something. No. That’s terrible. I don’t actually wish harm on him.”
Gail: “You do know that a builder isn’t the guy who builds the houses right? My uncle’s a builder and…”
Me: “Shut up! You’re such a bitch! I need more supportive friends!”
Gail: ::laughing:: “I mean, he does dry wall and he’s really unattractive.”
Me: “He does too look weird. See?”
Gail: ::looking at new picture:: “Yeah, okay. He looks weird there.”
Me: “So, how much does a builder make?”
Gail: “You don’t want me to answer that question.”
Me: “NO. He is supposed to be making mid-range wages, bitching about his wife, and longing for the glory days from high school. Your elementary school bully is not supposed to be fucking Christian fucking Grey and married to Miss America!!!!”
Gail: :laughing:: “Calm down. Is that all she does, though? She doesn’t have another job?
Me: “I don’t know. Let me check. … It says she works at a retail shop.”
Gail: ::looking at phone:: “Huh. The good news is, this dress is half off. The bad news is, it’s still $542.”

So, there it is. That’s the biggest lie they ever told us in high school. All those movies where the wealthy popular guys become losers? Horseshit. They take the charisma and charm that convinces elementary school guidance counselors that they can do no wrong, and they rule the fucking world with it.

* Disclaimer: I wish this guy no actual harm. Freddie Prince Jr. and Rachael Leigh Cook, however…

So, um… what’s the DOWNSIDE to dying alone?

Posted on January 16, 2014 by Belle of the Library

Alright, alright, despite the January 1, 2014 milestone, I’ve not been trying that hard to secure actual dates. In part, I can’t really muster up the desire. I know I should want to date, because in a month I’ll be “panic dating” as Gaily puts it. My entire New Year’s resolution was to date consistently, which means no longer spending alternating months yelling “Fuck it! I’m just going to buy boots and have Gossip Girl marathons in my underwear for the rest of my life!” and “… then, I’m going to be in a horrible car accident and you won’t even be at my deathbed, because you’ll be on a fucking couples’ cruise!”

Fuck you and your happiness, Gail!

In my defense, though, there has been some effort. Since just before the New Year, there was some promise with one guy from Match. I realized, however, that he was the guy who spoke only in $$$. Don’t get me wrong. I want a man who makes decent money, but did he seriously have to mention it every single time we texted? I really gave this one a shot. I promise. I didn’t even flee when he told me about how the “love of his life” died, but he was ready to find someone again, after we’d texted for like a minute and a half. Really, dude? I’m sorry and all, but you should probably stop opening by calling someone else “the love of my life.” Just sayin’, nobody wants to be Dick York.

Really, what did she see in either of them?

Buuuuuut, I realized that there’s just not an ideal for that situation and he had no control over it, so I’d see how it progressed. If he couldn’t stop mentioning her, big red flag, just as with any past relationship. He never did, though… because he was too busy counting. Like most Southern online dating males, $$$ worked on oil rigs. He lived an hour away, sent me like nine random selfies (not an exaggeration), and this…

$$$: Catholic church is kinda boring. Lots of up down kneeling and sitting lol. I’ve been to other churches that get straight to the point and not in 1 1/2 hours lol.

No. No loling about my Church. My profile makes that clear. It’s your fault if you didn’t freaking read it… but I was still willing to see how things went. See! I totally tried!

Ahem…

I get that oil is lucrative. I’ve seen the’ Beverly Hillbillies. After the initial statement of decent pay, though, you shut-up about it! You certainly don’t pepper all conversation with…

$$$: I’m pretty excited about this job now we are gonna make about 8 grand in bonus have about 600 hours on overtime and 700 bucks in per diem each of us!!!!
$$$: Basically for 1800 bucks a day you get to be the head honcho over everything that goes on out here
$$$: One of my best friends made 418k his first year
$$$: Bought a 300 dollar cell phone booster today… it better work lol
$$$: We’ve been going on about 2 hrs of sleep every 24 hrs. Anything for a 12k check in 2 weeks.

I changed the subject each time, trying to make it subtly clear that I wasn’t interested in how much money he makes, but he would stop responding and text another time, only to bring it up again. Um… no. I’m done. He’s in Texas for at least two more weeks, anyway. I am not messaging him about the gospels of Bank of America for two whole weeks, on the off chance that he won’t talk about nothing but money in person… and refuse to respond when I change the subject. Soooo, what seemed promising was another bust, before even meeting. It’s just like the Power Lifter who opened our text conversation by asking me if I thought Chris Hemsworth was attractive, because he was also super built, somehow coming off as both insecure and arrogant. Then he immediately ranted for several texts about how much he hates Miley Cyrus and never messaged me again. Sorry I don’t feel the need to berate a lost 19-year-old with no guidance. Best of luck to them, I suppose. Lid to every pot and all that. In the meantime, it’s back to pretending I want to date and considering trying ChristianMingle, because it will at least be funny, where CatholicMatch was completely ineffective. The prospects aren’t looking so great, though. Men, listen up, because this is what’s wrong with your advertising, since I’ve already told you what’s wrong with ours.

Fill Out the Damned Profile

The purpose of your profile is to express yourself in limited characters (if you’re doing it correctly and not writing a novel that no one will read). This is really the perk of online dating, period, not having to wade through small talk to find out about whether the other person’s been married or votes Democrat. From the beginning, you know if the fundamentals match up, or if you should both keep looking. That is, unless the other party has refused to actually answer any of these questions. I’m not talking about the important details two people share once they start dating. The problem is not the lack of explanation as to who the baby’s mother is, but rather, whether or not there is or ever will be a baby. There is no reason for ambiguity in these responses, either. If you don’t identify with party politics, “some other viewpoint” is a choice. If you don’t really go to church or pray, but consider yourself a believer, “spiritual but not religious” and “agnostic” are listed as well. If you haven’t really considered kids, “not sure” is a great response. Just fucking pick something.

Furthermore, when you have to type out a response, stop being so damned vague. “Sales?” You can tell me that you sell medical equipment without saying for whom. “Law enforcement?” ‘Police officer’ hardly gives away a precinct, but clarifies that you’re not the guy driving the security car around the Wal-Mart parking lot. “Other profession?” What? Pot dealer? Concert pianist? Mime? “Student?” THAT’S NOT A FUCKING PROFESSION!!!!!!

Ahem….

Regardless, “I’ll tell you later” pretty much guarantees that you’re not going to get the chance. I already asked the question. You refused to answer.

Get Your Ex-Girlfriend Out of Your Profile Picture

I get that men don’t just have hundreds of selfies in their phones or posted to Facebook. I practically had to draw pictures of my step-brothers in Grandma Kay’s Christmas photo album, because there are almost none on Facebook. I admire men for this. It’s really quite healthy. You are, however, using your online dating profile to seek a realtionship. So, if you don’t just happen to already have a current solo photo, make arrangements. I don’t care if you have to take a selfie on the golf course or if you want to post that picture of you and your grandma at Christmas, but your last Facebook photo with half of some chick’s cheek in it, isn’t gonna cut it. Worse? You left her whole cheek in it and you look deliriously in luuuuuv. I once actually saw the caption, “me and an old girlfriend.” No. No one wants to see a photo of the last vag you tasted, so get off your lazy ass and use your forward facing camera phone to take a new friggin’ picture. If you do post a picture of you with your hot sister at Thanksgiving, that’s totally acceptable, just clarify the relation.

Another unacceptable caption: “Me. A couple of years ago, but basically the same.” If it’s basically the same, then there will be no hardship to take a current picture. You know what, though? It’s probably not basically the same. You see, people age. A picture of Belle at age 24 is inaccurate. If I posted it, a man would be disappointed and rightfully so. I may still be able to pass for 21, but my hair, my weight, my fashion choices, are all completely different than what was expressed in that photo where I excitedly presented my fully loaded gun magazine. In short, for whatever reason, I look like someone else. Photos are the only thing we have to go off of, when it comes to physical representation. Just as you should be updating your education or profession or age, you should be updating your photos to give the most accurate depiction of who you are, so we can avoid that awkward moment at Starbuck’s where I’m doing a double take, because the man in the photo was 20 pounds lighter and had a lot more hair.

Obscure Movie References and Humor

If I met a man at a bar and he recognized that I was wearing a golden snitch necklace, I would drop to my knees, then and there, performing glorious Stranger Fellatio as camera phones flashed. Really. As someone who spent her middle school years in Roswellian RPG chat rooms, I totally get the appeal of finding someone who also loves that random thing you love. In person, though, if a guy doesn’t get the reference, it just looks like I’m wearing some kind of kitchy golden ball with wings around my neck. There’s no need for comment, because that’s hardly the focus of getting to know each other. When you make your headline “Cellar Door,” however, you don’t just attract Donnie Darko fans, as I’m sure was the goal. You scare away every single woman who does not get that reference. Seriously, dude? Cellar fucking door is the headline of your online dating profile? Did you not think this through at all?

Not only can these references be misunderstood, but when you make “I love lamp” the sentence with which you identify yourself as a person, you risk an otherwise interested woman deciding that you just must have different senses of humor. You may really click one on one, but she never starts a conversation, having already realized that Anchorman was the worst comedy in the history of time. Bee tea double ewe, Gail, you’ve yet to return the $2 I spent renting that on your recommendation. Bitch. See? It’s totally possible for two people to get along, even though one recommends shitty movies. Why not just name it among a handful of favorites, rather than introducing yourself with it? I certainly don’t immediately tell men in bars that I have a replica of the cross Angel gave Buffy.

On a similar note, your primarily text profile is not the place for sarcasm or subtle humor. I once saw a man write “I used to have ‘often’ under drug use, but clearly some people are too stupid to get the joke.” Um, why would I assume you’re joking? I don’t know you. There are people who use drugs often. Until we adopt a sarcasm font, as the Internet has suggested numerous times, I have only your word to go on, here. You were asked a multiple choice question. It’s no one else’s fault that you don’t understand that there is a time and a place for your humor. If you feel humor lightens the mood, that’s great, just make it clear that that’s what’s taking place.

Man the Fuck Up

One of the most frustrating things about online dating is sending 11 messages to 11 different people and getting back three messages from three other people, who still think the “sexy librarian” comment is clever. I am seriously about to change my online dating screen name. You know how I know that’s so discouraging, though? Because it happens to women, too.

Often, I’ll see a man’s profile state something like this…

“I know you get a lot of messages from a lot of douche bags with their shirts off in the bathroom mirror, so here’s how it’s gonna go. If I like what I see, I’ll favorite you and you can send me a message if you’re feeling it.”

Marry me. Marry me, now. You see, I had to ask, because all he’s willing to do is favorite my profile.

Online dating is a different world than meeting in person. People think the same basic rules apply and they don’t. Here in the South, most women would agree with the statement that a man not paying means no second date. In fact, while I would be perfectly polite to a guy in that scenario and just feel we had separate views of gender roles, a lot of women would be downright offended. Obviously, this practice doesn’t really transfer well to online dating. If a woman never sends the first message, she’s not going to get a lot of attention, so I’m hardly saying a man should always do so. However, rejection is a part of the dating scene and online rejection is about as mild as it comes, so let the testicles descend and message a gal when she catches your eye. Don’t tell her that librarians are sexy because they’re so uptight (cough:: suck my dick ::cough), but don’t just send “hey,” either. Put in a little effort, just as would be expected in person. Say hi, ask how she is, throw in a question about something more specific, like the vacation depicted in her photos. If she doesn’t answer? Don’t be a little bitch about it. I guarantee she just got ignored by someone, too. Move on. She’s not even real until you meet in person, anyway. But don’t just send the next gal a wink, hoping she’ll take the bait and open the conversation. Certainly don’t refuse to eventually send a message if she winks back. Even if she contacts you first, you don’t have to wait for her to ask to talk on the phone, or meet, or what have you. You’re still the boy and if you consider yourself chivalrous, that’s the place for it in an online setting: effort. If she says no, fine. As I’ve said, there’s a lid to every pot…

… or at least that’s what I tell myself when I decide it might be best to let the maggots eat my face, postmortem, until the neighbors complain about the smell.

Why I would make a better mobster than Tony Soprano.

Posted on January 10, 2014 by Belle of the Library

Me: I want to buy a motorcycle and shoot my guns from it!
Gail: Turn off Sons of Anarchy.

Me: I just found a Shake and Bake Meth Recipe on Google! All I need are the batteries.
Gail: Ugh. You’re going to blow yourself up. How many episodes have you watched?
Me: Like one. Breaking Bad isn’t really doing it for me.
Gail: Your search history is going to get you on some kind of list.

You know, good friends support each other, GAIL. Just this last week, you were appallingly negative about my attending a simple party.

Gail: “Well, for one, judging by how often you leave your drink unattended, I would say you definitely should not go to a frat party. Two, while I’m sure you could pass for 21, no one’s going to talk to you when you excitedly open with ‘Hi! I’m Belle and I’m 21!'”

Ugh. What am I going to do with you?

Recently, I’ve decided to break up my Gossip Girl marathon with The Sopranos. I had actually planned to watch the latter first, but I couldn’t find it to rent and I’m too cheap to purchase anything I haven’t seen. Because libraries are the coolest, I was able to get it from work, through Interlibrary Loan. After two episodes, Gail, once again, decided to crush my dreams.

Gail: Surely you’re not the first person to think ‘I’m a librarian.That’s practically Al Capone.’
Me: Was Al Capone technically the mob? Hmm… I’ll need to catch up on my trivia.

I can’t wait until you have kids, Gaily. They’ll run in and joyfully share their desire to be an explorer…

“Oh, honey, that’s not practical. Everything’s been discovered already and you’d probably just be bitten by some kind of exotic bug and die. Also, keep the desire to leave the country under wraps. The president can hear you right now.”

So, despite obvious Mean Girl Sabotage, I plead my case for exactly why I would not only make a good mobster, but in fact, a better mobster than Tony Soprano.

I could carry out a vendetta, without getting caught, at a very young age.
When I was in the second grade, I got a cool new kind of glue, with a sponge applicator. Everyone thought it was the neatest… until it went missing. A few days later, as I was walking by Sammy’s desk, I noticed a suspiciously similar brand of glue. Of course, I promptly declared that she stole it and told the teacher. Ultimately, Sammy confessed, Mrs. Green made her apologize and return the glue, and likely issued a reasonable punishment… as I seethed. An apology and some missed recess, when the little bitch wronged me?!?!?

Naturally, in a lawless society, I took matters into my own hands and meted out justice like Batman. I waited two weeks, to throw off suspicion, and graffiti’d the bathroom stall with Sammy’s name during recess… first and last, so no one would be mistaken. Mrs. Green was livid and all Sammy’s friends thought she was lying when she said she didn’t do it. Not only did she have to scrub the wall clean, but she missed a lot more recess, as well. I actually managed to earn her a greater punishment, and also completely discredit her as a person, exactly as the little thief deserved.

Lord help me when I have children, because that was just plain awful.

I can cuss better.
No, really. Isn’t the seventh “fuck”, in a sentence, a little superfluous, Tony? I mean, there are a lot of things I could suffer from while being held at gunpoint: rape, robbery, blackmail, torture. Do we really need to add redundancy to the list? I’m not offended by your usage of the word “fuck”, but it’s a little tired, what with the 13-year-old in the corner using it. The key to swearing with impact is to mix it up a little. Not everything has to be HBO-worthy. “Mountain of dicks” is totally prime time appropriate and still gets the point across. It doesn’t even have to be that adult. You throw in a “zetus lapetus” or an “oh em jingles” and those f-bombs really pop.

“I’m gonna drape your intestines over the trees like Christmas garland!” See. I win.

I know where feelings belong.
Say it with me now: “With the last fucking Horcrux.” Now, I’m not too far into this show, but I feel it’s in poor judgement for Tony to see a therapist. So some ducks flew away? Bee eff dee. You don’t talk about your feelings. This is an HBO crime drama, not a sitcom about a recently widowed father raising his three young girls. Get your fucking genre right, dude. I mean, were I a therapist treating the mob boss of Jersey, I’d shut my cakehole and all, sure. The thing is, all it takes is one time for this chick to talk. Yeah, you’ll cut off her arm and rape her with it, or whatever mob bosses do, but the FBI will still have proof that you’re the guy laundering money, selling coke, moving stolen DVD players, and cutting off people’s arms and raping them with them. The therapist will be dead. It will have hurt. It will still be all Tony’s fault for being such a vagina. Need to vent, but find you’re a crime lord? DON’T. That’s part of the fucking gig. Just hide in fiction until the problems go away.

Overall, I would be a lot more discreet.
Okay, seriously dude, I know you’re like a household name in this world, but maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t be if you didn’t wear that mobster costume every day. You’re a chubby Italian man with a thick accent, obvious anger problems, and an income level that’s completely incongruent with your claimed profession? Wow. Your Etsy store must be doing great! I, however, have pink guns, denim dresses, pearls I actually wear, and country music blaring from my car. The only indicator I might give of my mob involvement, would be that I’m Catholic. Granted, this is a bit more brow-raising in the Midwest than it is in Jersey, but I assure you, the flowered dress, peep-toes, and usage of the word “y’all” will more than conceal my secret station and crime ring.

“Hello, there, Sir. I’m here for my gats.”

Looking Back: The Men I Didn’t Date in 2013

Posted on January 2, 2014 by Belle of the Library

Today, my Facebook newsfeed, like many others’, is equally filled with photos of newly healthy meals and bitching because the gyms are crowded. I, myself, am a goal-oriented person. I set goals weekly, so it would just be poor characterization if I missed an opportunity to set them annually. This year, I’m keeping it simple with the following five:

1. Perform more service work. Dedicate a minimum of one day, per month, to helping someone else.
2. Attend church more consistently… and punctually.
3. Swear less… or more creatively, by cutting back on the more universally unacceptable words.
4. Lose twenty pounds… because it’s New Year’s and you have to choose a cliche.

and finally…

5. Put some actual and legitimate effort into dating.

Numbers 1, 2, and 4 have clear guidelines. They’re pretty attainable. Let’s face it though; in regards to number 3, “suck my dick” is a pretty universally unacceptable phrase, from a woman. It’s likelier that I’ll lose twenty pounds by next Tuesday than it is that I’ll suddenly be a Sesame Street extra. I do, however, tend to mix dorky Disney-worthy swears with the worst ones in my vocabulary.

Me: “Zetus lapetus! Fuck. Do you think it’s been long enough since Zenon: Girl of the Twenty-First Century for me to use that?”
Gail:

So, I’m half there. Which brings me to number 5.

2013 was a year of sporadic dating, vacillating between the two extremes of “I CAN FEEL MY EGGS ROTTING INSIDE OF ME!” to “My next wedding will take place ON A SNOW-COVERED MOUNTAINTOP IN HELL!”

Before I got my promotion to librarian, I really hadn’t been dating at all. Sure, I claimed to be putting in effort, but I just didn’t have the time, between finishing graduate school and rocking in a corner, chewing on my own hair. I went on a couple of dates, but that’s about it. So, this year, I’m going for consistency. For the past couple of months, I’ve really had no interest in meeting anyone, because the holidays are busy for losers who crochet their own Christmas presents; and every single guy who tells me Christmas Vacation is hilarious, is just plain wrong. I feel like, if I’d hit the dating scene with half the vigor I hit that bottle of bourbon on New Year’s Eve with Gail and Terry, I’d be madly in love in no time.

::drunkenly discussing Charlie Hunnam::
Terry: “He’s okay looking, I guess. He looks like…”
Me: “Like he fell from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? I know. I would give that man a rim job in front of my grandma. Admit it. You would totally go gay for him.”

Facebook status New Year’s Eve 2013:
Let’s get CRUNK! It stands for crocheting while drunk.

Note to self: don’t drink on any future dates.

In my defense, however, it’s not like the prospects have been great, lately. In fact, I’ll treat you to some of the guys I didn’t date this year.

Aerospace
I’ve briefly mentioned Aerospace in previous entries. He was 27, educated, enjoyed his big boy job, and never sent me a penis picture. He seemed promising through text message… for six weeks. After three, even I had decided it was time to be a little forward. I mean, I didn’t actually ask him to meet me, because I don’t posses my very own set of testicles, but I did ask what his normal time constraints were. When Aerospace said he usually talks to someone for about a month, before meeting, I decided to give it a bit longer. He regularly messaged first and encouraged conversation. He seemed interested. During week six, however, I was just tired of receiving news of how his day went, when I’d never even met him and he was showing no inclination to change that. If I’m not worth meeting, fine. Find someone who is, because I’m not looking for a fucking pen pal. I’m not your chat buddy, when there’s nothing on TV. Suck my big fat furry dick.

There goes number 3.

Clingy Catholic Engineer… because there was already a Catholic Engineer
If Jane were not an engineer, I would seriously be judging this entire profession. It seems every engineer I’ve dated is batshit. CCE was a year or so younger than I, and after having discussed that issue with Jane, I decided to give him a chance. We messaged for a couple of days online, before trading numbers. The next day, after quite a bit of text messaging, I didn’t respond after work, because I was working out. We’d been texting all day, and I’d messaged on my break, to tell him why I couldn’t talk, so I figured that was fair. The next morning, I woke up at seven o’clock to…

I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.

The voice of Gail sounded in my head and it was stronger than my fight or flight response, so I kept chatting with him. At one point, he asked me to send him pictures. I wasn’t sure what kind he meant, and I’m thinking that was the point, to allow for my own creativity. I told him there were current photos online and I wasn’t sending more, but I was a little creeped out by the vague request, coupled with his… enthusiasm. Then, the next evening I got home from work, after having traded a few messages…

CCE: You make it home okay?
Me: Yeah. I have a friend coming over. We’re going to hang out and watch Netflix.
CCE: Ah. Sounds fun.
CCE: You still want to talk, right?
Me: Sure. Just not right now, since I’m about to have company.
:: two hours later ::
CCE: Watching the game?
Me: Nope. Watching Netflix with a friend.
CCE: Oh. A marathon. Cool! Watcha watchin?

First, aside from the obvious issue of clinginess, who has someone over for less than two hours? That’s not a thing. Second, “Nope. Watching Netflix with a friend.” was a nice way of saying I was busy, he knew that, and he needed to leave me alone. That was his chance to feign forgetfulness and apologize. Still, I heard Gail telling me to give him a chance… until the next night.

CCE: You wanna watch the game and maybe have dinner tomorrow night?
– dude, you’re coming on strong right now and that’s several hours together, making it super awkward if I’m still not feeling it –
Me: I’m cool with meeting, but why don’t we do something low-key, like coffee?
CCE: Coffee Sunday sounds great!
– okay, he’s receptive to just coffee; good sign –
Me: How about Monday, since the weather is supposed to be bad on Sunday?
CCE: Sure. We can work out the details then.
– whew… I really was reading into things –
Me: I’m disappointed by the weather. I really don’t want to miss Mass again.
CCE: Oh! We could go to Mass together.

… aaaaand scene. I tried. I did. But the guy asked me to meet him at the chapel. Fine. I’m intentionally wording it dramatically, but we had only been chatting for a few days and he wanted to meet at church, after I’d told him dinner was too much? Dude, calm down, you are making women uncomfortable. I sent him a text telling him that he seemed to want something much more serious, much more quickly and that I wasn’t interested in meeting. Then I spammed his number. Later, I saw he’d responded, but didn’t read it past the “Okaaay. You said…” There was nothing to say. He made me uncomfortable. It wasn’t happening. A week later, I got a “Hey, how are you?” message in my inbox, like we’d never had the “thanks, but no thanks” conversation at all. Um… no.

Kinda Sorta Catholic
KSC and I had been messaging on and off for awhile. I don’t think either one of us saw the other as a real prospect, but we couldn’t pinpoint a reason to blow each other off. We’d each send an “Oh, sorry I didn’t get back to you… blah, blah, blah” type of message every 10 days or so and try to pick things up again, over the course of a couple of months. He had a real job and his profile said he was Catholic, so despite the mutual lack of interest, I decided to give him a chance when he gave me his number. Naturally, since his common religion was a main appeal, I brought it up.

KSC: I’m Catholic because my dad was. The topic of religion is a fun one for me, but I’m not sure where I stand. I think it’s really personal and those beliefs are private.

Um… well, for one, if you’re Catholic, because your dad is, you’re not really Catholic. Unless you go to Mass and receive Reconciliation and Communion and all that jazz, the Catholic Church does not consider you a practicing Catholic. That’s fine and all, but know where you stand. Two, if we’re talking about dating, I think it’s a fair question to ask what someone’s general beliefs are. I didn’t sick the Quizmaster on the guy. Finally, if this is a “fun” topic for you, why are you being such a little bitch about it?

The Quizmaster. My dated references are downright nostalgic.

We continued to chat, and KSC asked to meet at the cowboy bar the next night. Okay, I’ve told ya’ll stories about the cowboy bar. One involved Gaily nearly being dragged forcibly to the parking lot and the other involved damned near nudity on the Saturday before Halloween. This bar can be fun in the summer, with the right crowd and attitude, but it’s pretty sketchy. I told my dad that I’d let Woody Harrelson “stick it in my ear” and he laughed, but the man doesn’t want to hear stories about the cowboy bar. People get raped there.

Me: I really don’t like the cowboy bar.
KSC: 😦 Oh. Well, what do you like, then?
Me: It’s not even that I don’t like the cowboy bar, really, but that I just feel like it’s a really sketchy place for a first meeting.
KSC: Oh. Well, I see it differently, but that’s okay.
Me: I’m also a woman. I have to be more careful.

We made vague plans to meet for coffee and then neither of us ever talked to the other again. That’s fine by me. If Jesus gives you the heebie jeebies, but meeting a stranger at a place I recently described as “a little rapey” doesn’t, this is what I picture…

Just… ew.
I opened the new year with this gem, from a guy I messaged a few weeks ago, but who didn’t really return a lot of interest.

Ew: I’m gonna throw this out there and hope I don’t scare you off. Would you be interested in coming over to my place and having some fun? I guarantee you will have fun.
Me: If you’re “looking for a real relationship,” you should probably keep the hook-up pleas to a minimum.
Ew: I am looking for a real relationship. I still would like to have fun though. I’m not a bad dude I just figured I’d take a chance and ask you.

Um… no. You’re not looking for a real relationship if you’re comfortable with being seen as that guy who begs for sex online, because no one looking for a real relationship will respond. His profile opened with talk about wanting to settle down. If that’s how he puts up a white picket fence, I’ll pass.

I’ll just die alone with my Christmas movies, thank you very much.

Posted on December 16, 2013 by Belle of the Library

If you’ve been following my blog long, you probably realize I have two favorite topics: dating and over-analysis. There’s been little on the dating front, besides magical moments like this opener:

PoF User: you look cute without the glasses. how are you doing?
Me: I look cute with my glasses, too.
PoF User: I prefere u without the glasses…lol…how r u doing

Yeah. That happened. I’m still swooning. I didn’t realize anyone actually used “negs.”

I have two settings when it comes to dating:

1. I’m going to die alone!
2. Hopefully.

Right now I’m on the latter, soooooo in honor of the Christmas season, I treat you to my second favorite topic, with an over-analysis of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

There have been numerous depictions of Santa Claus in the media. He was anti-establishment in the stop action film, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. He was absent-minded in Elf (how do you not realize there’s a human child in your toy bag?) He was on acid in Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. He was terrifying in A Christmas Story…

… and he was a douche bag in Rudolph the Red Nosed Riendeer.

The movie opens with newborn Rudolph residing comfortably in a cave with Donner and “Mrs. Donner,” because female characters don’t warrant their own damned names. It quickly becomes obvious that Rudolph is horribly disfigured, when his nose starts to glow.

Mrs. Donner: “Well, we’ll simply have to overlook it.”
Mr. Donner: “Now, how can you overlook that?”
Santa: “Great bouncing icebergs!”
Donner: “Now, I’m sure it’ll stop as soon as he grows up, Santa.”
Santa: “Well, let’s hope so, if he wants to make the sleigh team some day.”

No one mentions the real concern here, and that’s that Rudolph’s nose makes a high-pitched whining noise. Seriously, light up all you want, but stop that. I suppose it doesn’t matter, though, because Santa’s made it pretty clear what his sleigh team values most: conformity.

We even see the universality of this concept, when Hermey the Elf tells his boss that he doesn’t enjoy his job.

Hermey: “I just don’t like to make toys.”
Boss Elf: “Oh, well, if that’s all… what?!?!?! You don’t like to make toys?!?!.. HERMEY DOESN’T LIKE TO MAKE TOYS!”
::Immediately, all of the elves start to whisper about the Freak Elf (not a direct quote)::
Boss Elf: “Do you mind telling me what you do want to do?”
Hermey: “Well, sir, some day, I’d like to be a… a dentist.”
Boss Elf: “A dentist?!?! Now, listen you! You’re an elf… and elves make toys. Now, get to work! 10 minute break! Not for you! Finish the job or you’re fired!”

Okay, dude, first off, you asked what he’d prefer to do. Second, he just told you he hates his job and doesn’t want to do it anymore and you responded by taking away his break and threatening to fire him, though you clearly want him to stay? Also, what kind of regime is this? Elves are born and die in their station as factory workers? They’re shamed for wanting to pursue higher education? Fortunately for him, Hermey grows a pair and decides that he can’t be fired, because he quits.

Meanwhile, Donner makes Rudolph cover his disfigurement with a fake black nose that makes him sound like he has a sinus infection. When Rudolph complains about the discomfort, we get this parenting gem:

Donner: “There are more important things than comfort: self-respect! Santa can’t object to you now!”

So, like a closeted, homsexual, country boy, Rudolph dons his fake nose to make his dad happy, and as long as he’s doing so, Donner is proud.

We return to the elves, as they practice their Christmas song for Santa. As far as we’re told, this isn’t really for any kind of event. They’re just singing Santa a song to make him happy. He accepts this gift with the poise of a mom stomping on her child’s macaroni necklace.

Santa: “Hmmm… well, it needs work. I have to go.”
Mrs. Claus: “What does Papa know? It’s beautiful. You keep it just the way it was.”

See. Even Mrs. Claus is like…

Geez. No wonder my parents’ generation came up with the participation trophy.

Ultimately, both Hermey and Rudolph are shamed into leaving Christmastown, but not before Rudolph’s crush, Clarice, is told by her father

“You get back to your cave this instant! … Now, there’s one thing I want to make very plain. No doe of mine is going to be seen with a… a red nosed reindeer!”

Off they go, and in their travels, Rudolph and Hermey team up with Yukon Cornelius, prospector of silver and gold, narrowly escaping The Abominable Snow Monster of the North, Bumble. Bumble is apparently very dangerous, though he never actually harms anyone. Rudolph’s parents, however, are still quite worried about him. When Donner heads out to find the bane of his existence, Mrs. Donner wants to go as well, but Donner insists on leaving her behind.

Donner: “No. This. Is. Man’s. Work.”

Regardless, Mrs. Donner sets off to search, taking Clarice along with her, also known as kidnapping. Seriously, she’s a child and you’re taking her out, alone, into the arctic? No wonder the men belittle the women in this story.

Rudolph and Company find The Island of Misfit Toys, where everyone different has been banished. No seriously. The lion with wings, King Moonracer, gathers them from around the world and keeps them on the island, until they find homes. It’s never explained how they’re supposed to go about that while confined to a deserted island, though. Read: banishment. The truly confusing part, is that most of these toys’ problems are easily remedied. The water pistol that shoots jelly could be filled with water. The Charlie in the Box could start going by Jack. Also, who made these loser toys? Was it Hermey? I’m betting it was Hermey, either falling down on the job while daydreaming of incisors, or fullfilling some kind of God complex, while he created an inferior species.

Is that… other toys they’re burning?

Sadly, Rudolph, Hermey, and Yukon are denied safe haven on The Island of Misfit Toys, seeing as how they aren’t toys. King Moonracer still has the gall to ask for a favor, though. Rudolph is to plead the case of the banished toys to Santa, in the hopes that he’ll find them homes. They’ve already tried to find homes, so I’m guessing they’ll end up in some kind of orphanage. The elves, of course, could replace the square wheels with round ones or repaint the polka-dotted elephant, but that was apparently too difficult in the first place… Hermey.

When Rudolph returns to Christmastown, his parents and Clarice are still out looking for him. He’s now an adult reindeer. It’s been at least a year since he left, as it takes a male reindeer about that long to reach sexual maturity.* Clarice knew that boy for about 11 minutes and she’s been searching for him for over a year. That’s what I call commitment. Lucky for her, Rudolph returns this sentiment by heading out to search for the search party, where he’s held hostage by Bumble, who honestly, is only seen petting Clarice. No one’s been harmed, until Rudolph attacks Bumble and he clubs him. That, right there folks, is self-defense. Naturally, in response, Hermey and Yukon Cornelius set a trap to knock Bumble unconscious.

Okay, so I get that Yukon is supposed to have some sort of history with Bumble. He’s apparently very dangerous and that petting would have turned vicious… eventually. Here’s where it gets intensely disturbing, though. After Bumble is knocked unconscious, Hermey and his God complex pull out all of his teeth. What the fucking fuck?!?! That’s like half of the procedure used in Human Centipede, also by a man with a God complex!!!

Hermey. So I had a little free time? That doesn’t make me “creepy.”

After Yukon pushes Bumble off a cliff, “they realized that the best thing to do, was to get the women back to Christmastown.”

We all know the ending, of course. Rudolph and pals make it home. Santa finally realizes that the exact same idiosyncrasy, for which he shamed a child all along, can be exploited for use as a fog light in an epic storm… because the elves can’t make a fog light? Then again, I suppose if the task fell to Hermey, it would be a fog light that doesn’t light up, so he can feel better about going against The Regime’s demands of him, when he’s finally allowed to become Christmastown’s dentist. Seriously? The guy has no training beyond his experiments with animals. That’s like making the town butcher your new gynecologist. Speaking of animals, abominable snow monsters bounce, so Bumble is given a job… to put the star on the tree. That’s right. He can no longer feed himself, but for one minute annually, his life still has purpose. Last, as an afterthought, the misfit toys are saved by Santa… though we never do find out who wants these half-assed creations.

http://www.theanimalfiles.com/mammals/hoofed_mammals/reindeer.html

Dysfunctional relationship cards: #What is wrong with us?

Posted on December 11, 2013 by Belle of the Library

During the winter, Gail and I have limited time to spend together. It’s not that we don’t consider each other a priority, by any means. She’s just got the worst job in the whole world and she’s been brainwashed to think she loves it.

No, really. I want you think about this movie, before reading the following. It’ll make us seem far more normal in comparison.

Gail’s ecstatic about her job as a mailman. She loves it nearly as much as I love being a librarian, but it means she works around the clock during the Christmas season. So, unless I get up at 4:30 in the morning to meet her at IHOP, our face time is limited. Instead, we keep in touch through our textersation. I text her when I’m able and she responds when she’s able. There is no context or “where did that come from?” I can send her anything from:

I’m going to die alone!

to…

I hate the question “What are you reading?”
“Well, you see, it’s about the Four Horsemen, but they’re SEXY.”

Similarly, she regularly sends me appallingly offensive quotes from Christian radio and quizzes me on Catholicism. We’ve got a sweet deal going. So, it was hardly out of the ordinary when I started the following discussion last night while marathoning Supernatural, like the closeted fangirl I am.

Dysfunctional relationship cards:
“Some days, you’re as good as your brother.”
Your turn.

—– “You know, sometimes you’re pretty.” Your turn.
My Gramma actually said this to my mother once, when I was 15, because she’d dressed up. Gail was referencing that.

“I wouldn’t marry you a second time, but sometimes I don’t regret the first.”

—– “You’re just like your father.”

“If I enjoyed sex, you’d be in my top five.”

—– “I think I’m gay, but you’re close enough.”

“Thank you for helping me recapture the asexual nature of my childhood.”

—– “I thought you might professionally overcompensate for your sexual issues by choosing defense law.”

“That wasn’t my gynecologist.”

—– “Happy Valentine’s Day, Meagan.”
Gail’s musician once called her Meagan during foreplay. She went ahead and had sex with him.

“Don’t be mad at your sister. It wasn’t consensual.”

—– “Happy Birthday! I framed your ‘Missing’ poster!”

“Happy VD! It doesn’t stand for Valentine’s Day.”

—– “That wasn’t really the last of my student loans… or the other loans. Surprise!”

Bahahaha. You would compare financial problems to sister rape.

—– I thought we were just doing any unhealthy relationship issues? Lying about thousands of dollars is a real relationship issue!

“I didn’t flush the cocaine, but we have more in common now!”

—– “Your dog didn’t really run away.”

“Your daughter didn’t really run away.”

—– “I don’t actually mind your porn addiction. I’m just worried that you’ll find out I’m not really using my accounting degree at the office.”

“I don’t actually mind your porn addiction. I’m just worried that you’ll find out the kids aren’t really at daycare.”

—– “I hoard a hundred dollars every time we have sex.”

“The casket was empty.”

—– “Thanks for ignoring the basement screams.”

“I’m not really a mortician… or at least not a licensed one.”

—– “Open your legs like it’s optional.”

“She’s not my mistress. She’s my daughter. Well… I suppose she’s both.”

“Roger, will you make me a drink?”: A Christmas Perspective on Children

Posted on December 6, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I know Christmas is supposed to make me want kids… but it makes me want to wash out my uterus with bleach instead.

Me: “You know… I think she’s old enough now, that she’s gotten to the age where I really don’t like her anymore.”

My neice is four and a half and that’s apparently not something you’re supposed to say at a family Christmas party, but it is so very true. Don’t get me wrong. She’s adorable… like 50% of the time. 40% she’s midly irritating. 10% she makes me want to impale myself on something in the ovarian area.

When I open the front door and she screams “AUNT BELLE!” and runs up to me and starts ranting about the Elf on the Shelf, she is fucking precious, even if I do think the Elf on the Shelf is the creepiest Christmas trend ever. She shows me her Hello Kitty earrings and tells me about how she has to feed the reindeer with Santa. I pretend I know what the hell she’s talking about, because I don’t care and if I say otherwise, she’ll explain. She says cute and blunt things like “My momma had surgwy. She wears pajamas.” after my sister-in-law’s “mommy makeover” (an entirely different rant). She’s happy and I’m happy. It’s a pretty bitchin’ moment… for like twelve minutes.

Why does everything have to be a whine? Why can’t you just ask me to play with you? Pouting and whining “Aunt Beeeeeeelle. You said you would plaaaaaaay with me…” makes me want to kill your dog with Christmas tinsel and place the Elf on the Shelf next to it. I’m lying. It does, however, make me want to walk away without a word and ask my grandma’s slurring husband to pour me a drink.

Of course, when whining doesn’t work, just cry. A lot. And loudly. Right in my ear. You are fucking fine. He didn’t hit you that hard, if he even did in fact hit you. I want to hit you. Yes, that’s right. Go cry to grandma now, about how Aunt Belle is mean, because she insisted you were fine. I didn’t even say “fucking.”

When the kid doesn’t like the food she’s eating, she will atually make herself vomit to get out of being forced to eat green bean casserole. I mean, it’s diabolical and she’ll take over the world one day, but ew. Kids are gross. She used to be so cute and now half the time, I only love her as a biological requirement.

I have hope that it gets a little better with age, which I think my cousin’s 7-year-old boy has proven.

7yo: pretends to shoot me with his toy gun and braggingly sings “I have a real gun, you know.”
Me: intentionally antagonizing the child, because I’m bad with kids “Yeah, well I have a bigger real gun.”
7yo: “Nuh, huh! It’s like a real rifle!”
Me: “Yeah, what caliber?”
7yo: “It’s a BB gun!”
Me: “Yeah? Well, I have a .357 and BB is not a caliber!”
7yo: “Well, you know what? There are more boys in the world than girls. You know why?”
Me: “I don’t know if that’s true or not, but why?”
7you: “Because the boys have to protect the girls.”
Me: “Wow. You are a terribly sexist little kid.”
7you: Lightly hits me on the arm.
Me: “Hey now! You’re not doing a great job of protecting the womenfolk!”

Teenagers, though, I freaking love.

To step-sister
Me: “Hey, brat. Pregnant yet?”
Bea: “Not anymore.”

Children are like a fine wine. They only get better with age. Except then, they aren’t children anymore, and wine is always wine. I guess they’re not really like a fine wine. They just make me want to drink fine wine… or cheap liquor from a plastic bottle.

* Reblogged, with more amusing Gifs, from December 24, 2012

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

Posted on December 5, 2013 by Belle of the Library

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

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

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

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

The third reaction? This one is deeply disturbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This shirt fucking exists.

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

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

Sick and Tired: The Worst Day to be Single

Posted on November 27, 2013 by Belle of the Library

There are a lot of things one could say about a 26-year-old professional who still sucks her thumb. “Emotionally broken” or “product of abuse” are probably the most fitting, in my case. One that’s hardly ever mentioned, however, is the bomb immune system that comes with the habit. Considering the fact that I will find a way to discreetly sanitize my hands after the “Peace Be With You” during Mass, it’s probably for the best that I’m subjected to germs through less common means, anyway. Otherwise… I would die. Mysterious ways, yo.

I use the term “discreetly,” quite loosely.

My point here, is that I rarely get sick. When I do, however, it’s always with something strong enough to break through the immune system of Achilles. About once a year, I get the opportunity to dramatically post Facebook status updates about how I am Patient Zero and everyone should say their goodbyes, because we are all going to die. I may even quote Hocus Pocus with “This is the end. I feel it. We are doomed. I feel the icy breath of death upon my neck… Goodbye. Goodbye cruel world. Goodbye to life.” It all depends on the amount of energy I have, since I spent about eight hours sleeping on my couch, yesterday. No really. I took breaks to sleep while writing this. You’re welcome.

This year, it all started with ice. You see, we don’t really get snow in my area.The weather app on my phone called it a “wintry mix,” but that just meant “lots of fucking ice.” So, I prepared. Niki came over Thursday night to marathon American Horror Story with me and we interrupted the ramblings of a group of broken souls to go get deicer. We each bought two cans and I figured I was set. That stuff works like magic. The company doesn’t specify, however, that it only does so if you put it in the car, as opposed to leaving it on the kitchen counter. Someone is going to be getting an angry letter.

So, on Friday, I left my substitute teaching job during my planning period, to get a salad for lunch. I ended up with a pack of Reese’s Bells, as well, but I’m a member of the Participation Trophy generation, so it still counts. When I got back to the school, the roads were still clear and dry. Five hours later?

Fine. I’m lying. It still, however, was far too much ice for my sad little scraper, which was proven when it snapped in half. I started the car and wondered how long it would take for the ice to melt as I regained feeling in my fingers. Then I saw the blood. I don’t even know what happened. My best guess is that the ice scraper cut my finger when it broke. I went inside, got some bandages, came out and took another try with the remaining pieces of the scraper. After a bit of struggling, I was rescued by a Big Strong Man. Suck my dick, modern extreme feminists. I take care of myself every day and I even tried in this instance, but I was thrilled to be the damsel as another teacher insisted I get in the car where it was warm, while he cleared my windows. I thanked him kindly and decided I’d go straight to the gym, because I knew I wouldn’t be getting out again, after I’d gone home. Besides, what could a little “wintry mix” do during my one hour workout?

It wasn’t actually as bad as it had been before, but I still didn’t have deicer. My scraper was still broken and the one I’d bought at The Dollar Tree was just sad. So, I decided to walk to Wal-Mart and grab another can of magic. This wasn’t gym clothes weather, folks. I walked uphill in freezing rain, wearing nothing but knee-length leggings, a t-shirt, and my Northface. Unsurprisingly, Wal-Mart was sold out of anything and everything intended for winter weather, so I trekked back to my car, this time downhill in ice, and decided on another method of dealing with this issue: avoidance. So, for the next twenty minutes, I continued texting Gaily about my latest online dating flop.

Me: I could work to fix this problem, or I could sit in the car with the heat on and eat Reese’s Bells.
Me: I am going to die alone. Right here. In my car.
Gail: Better to die alone with a Reese’s Bell than to die with Engineer whispering “I knew you’d like it” in hot breath on your neck.

Hey. At least this time I wasn’t overreacting. Even Gail thought he was clingy. EVEN GAIL.

Every man Gail has ever dated.

Finally, I realized that the ice was melting and I was free to get out of my car and scrape the windows with ease, regardless of my near-nudity.

… aaaaaand Monday morning.

There are a handful of worst times ever to be single, such as when a family member dies, when you’re stranded on the side of the road, and… when you’re sick. I have officially done all of these this year. Despite my humorous melodrama, I am not actually that high-maintenance of a patient. I don’t need someone to sing Soft Kitty to me or clean up my vomit. There is just something uniquely awful about being home alone, too exhausted to stand up and get a glass of water, and having no one there to give a shit. Furthermore, do you have any idea how difficult child safety bottles can be to open in quarantine? At one point, I could not hold my head up long enough to read a trashy romance novel I’d already read, and which therefore required no concentration, but someone had to go get medicine and run by the post office. It would have just been nice to have someone to do that and maybe even a load of dishes. It’s not a selfish wish, as I’d be more than happy to return the favor in a week when he contracted The Black Death. Soup for soup and all that. I’d just like someone with whom to trade that favor.

I suppose part of the problem was my idea to check out a bunch of movies from work, in preparation for being iced in all weekend. If you’re ever in the position to be ill and snowed in alone, do not watch Yours, Mine, and Ours and Pillow Talk.

giphy

I couldn’t have 10 kids if I wanted to, because I’m running out of time!!! I may never get to have ANY children, because I keep turning men down! He just wanted to know if he’d done something wrong when I hadn’t texted him for a few hours, even though I’d told him I had company. What’s the harm in that?!? What if I have pneumonia and it just gets worse and worse and I really DO die alone!?!?!

They’re right! The only thing worse than a woman living alone is one who insists she likes it! I couldn’t even meet a man that way, because there’s no such thing as a party line anymore! Why can’t they bring back party lines?!?

No, really. Skip the romantic comedies. The more rational part of my brain had to talk myself out of joining another paid online dating site out of distress. Believe me, that part was not particularly present as the delirium set in, either.

I’m just trying to remind myself that these are the good ol’ days. One day, I’ll be cleaning poop out of the carpet, while a two-year-old screams in my ear, longing for the days when I only had to deal with my own sickness. At one point, I woke up on the couch, in utter despair at the quiet. When I’m sick at 35, I’m pretty sure I’ll want a time machine to kick my own ass for that thought. In the meantime, I really do enjoy living alone most days. I’m aware that yarn bombing my living room and playing the soundtrack to The Great Gatsby on repeat are activities I’ll have to keep to a minimum when I live with a boy. I have no delusions that the hot pink and teal Christmas tree will be on display when I’m not the only one who has to look at it. These years will be missed and cherished. Now, to just get well and process that fully.

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