Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Belle of the Library

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gail.

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

Malik

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

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

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

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

Niki

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah… sucking on pesticides will do that.

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

How much do I NOT want to be a princess?

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Thiiiiis much.

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

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

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

Blame him.

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

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

Hmmm… maybe Disney did cause my divorce.

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

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

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

Now she was a true commoner.

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

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

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

Oh, my…

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

Oh… my.

… now he looks like a Family Guy skit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really. I‘d rather be a badass librarian.

Wikipedia is technically just as valid as most sources.

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

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

Kate Middleton: How She’s Maintained A Healthy Pregnancy

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

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

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

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

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

A Letter to My Downstairs Neighbor

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Belle of the Library

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

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

It was like Kafka fanfic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,
Belle

I’m a Librarian, B^+<#@$!!!

Posted on July 18, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Four years ago, I had just found out that I was pregnant and that my ex-husband was lying about having a job… again. I was morbidly obese, starting my senior year of college, about to do my student teaching, and paying the bills through… well, prayer. I was petrified.

Today…

I am a fucking Librarian!!!!!!!

Suck my dick statistics, because I left the bastard and…

I. Did. It.

I followed through on all of my dreams and got that Bachelor’s degree and then that Master’s degree and now the job! My divorce didn’t lower my station in life. It opened up a universe of possibilities and opportunity.

Women who divorced between 2010 and 2011 were more likely to receive public assistance than men who divorced during this time, with rates being 23% and 15%, respectively.
Of women who divorced between 2010 and 2011, 27% reported a household income of less than $25,000.
Children of divorced parents are twice as likely to drop out of high school and less likely to attend college.
While men are financially better off than women after a divorce, they are more likely to suffer more emotionally.

I’m sorry. What was that? I can’t hear you over the sound of my I’m a Librarian, BITCHES!!! dance coupled with my ROAR OF AWESOME!!!!

A little bit o’ this…

… and a little bit o’…

.. and some nce, nce, nce.
Finally, some…

Yeah. They don’t let me dance at stuff.

Today, I talked the ear off the lady at the gym who asked why Librarians need a Master’s degree. Yesterday, I bought myself these… because I am just that cool.

Sometimes, divorce is not a failure. It is the righting of a path. I wasn’t meant to be the miserable wife of a sociopath. I was meant to be right here.

Gail: “The divorce was not the mistake. The marriage was the mistake. The divorce was just what was required to correct that mistake.”

I’m not advising you to leave your husband because he won’t try that new thing in bed or he won’t put his fucking shoes away. If there’s something to salvage, fight for it. If you’re fantasizing about a life where he dies, through no fault of your own, because you’ll finally be free… if the marriage is truly awful and he or she is a truly poisonous person… there is a better life out there. No matter how scary it feels to go in search of it, it is so very worth it.

“It’s a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.” – John Steinbeck

Yeah. I looked that up.
http://divorce.lovetoknow.com/Divorce_Statistics

My dog is the only boy I like and his longevity does not compare to mine. Commence the dying alone.

Posted on July 15, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Ugh. Maybe he’ll be an asshole so I can leave sooner. I hope I’m the first one there. I hate that moment looking around for the other person. I’m pretty sure I look like a meerkat every time.

Is that him?

Maybe I’d have more options if I’d stop mentally correcting everyone’s grammar when I’m looking at profiles. Who knows? Last night’s date wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. If I had to be unkind, I’d call Extruder Technician “a little blue collar.” He’d likely call me a little pretentious, though. He was a nice guy, who worked forty hours a week, and his profile stated that he was working on a bachelor’s in business and finance. I don’t usually date undergraduates, but he’d spent five years in the Marines, so the delay in his education and career planning was more understandable. Extruder Technician clarified that he was in his first year of community college and hoped to eventually transfer to a four year university. When I asked what he planned to do with the degree, he said..

Extruder Technician: “My brother and I are going to open a business.”
Me: “Oh? What kind of business?”
Extruder Technician: “Building guns… maybe… at least that’s what my other brother wants to do. We’d have to get the start up money first.”

Then, he mentioned how his goal is to move up into management, at his current job, in four or five years.

This is neither the administration nor the economy in which to start “building guns… maybe.” Also, dude, you’re 28. You’ve been out of the Marines for five years. How do you not have this figured out yet? This reaffirmed the “no students” rule. It relates closely to my “no fixer uppers” rule. I don’t want a work in progress. I want the end result. I want the guy who already did that and has his shit sorted. If he’s also working on a graduate degree or a supplementary skill, I’m cool with that, but the career has to be firmly set.

I wasn’t unkind to Extruder Technician. We, in fact, had a nice conversation. He was passionate about making insulation and seemed happy with his life. I, however, am passionate about my career doing something entirely different. It’s not that I’m being a snob… okay, fine… it’s not just that I’m being a snob. I was a 23-year-old divorcée . I come from divorced parents, who also come from divorced parents. My home state regularly ranks number one in divorce for statistics that don’t include Nevada, which, fun fact: most don’t. I have enough against me! It is a statistical fact that education plays a major part in divorce, including educational gap between partners. The other day, I opened my freezer and my first thought was…

Did I put the sherbet there? Has someone been in my apartment?!?!

For realz, yo. My first divorce fucked me up enough. No thank you.

A person can be quite intelligent without a formal education. Gail doesn’t have a degree and she’s one of the smartest people I know. She wouldn’t have found intellectual stimulation in Extruder Technician either. His half an associate’s degree and expressed distaste for learning is light years away from my Master’s in Library and Information Studies, but also from Gaily’s audio books on finance. He was perfectly nice and so was I. I just didn’t connect with him and when I told him it was nice to meet him and thanked him for my frozen yogurt, neither of us mentioned ever seeing each other again. He didn’t text me. I don’t have his number anymore. However… I also didn’t mark his number as spam. Points for me. It was a nice enough date that went nowhere. That, in itself, was quite nice. I’m getting better at this and learning about myself and what I need in a partner.

On that note, I treat you to a list of my worst excuses for no longer speaking to men. Don’t misunderstand. There was always some deeper issue. These statements, though, always got raised eyebrows of disbelief from Gaily, before I clarified the real reason.

“He was wearing silver board shirts.”
One: Those silver board shorts were coupled with an Affliction t-shirt. I could see my reflection in them.

Two: The man actually spoke the sentence “There is no way your divorce was worse than mine.” Who the hell even wants to compare those?!?! I don’t owe you any damned justification for my divorce. I just fucking met you. Go suck a bag of dicks!

“He had furry hands! It was like he was wearing his September mittens!”
One: All I could think about was having those plush claws on my breasts. I know that’s weird, but I kept imagining what it would feel like to be felt up by my older brother’s Teddy Ruxpin doll.

Two: The guy had very liberal beliefs, countering my personal conservative ones in regards to my profession. It wasn’t just that we disagreed on gun control (though that would’ve been a deal breaker), but he told me that parents shouldn’t be allowed to control what their children read if their reasons are stupid. For example, if a parent feels Harry Potter is “of the devil” (a common and genuine statement in the Midwest), they shouldn’t be allowed to keep their child from reading it. Who decides what reasons are valid? Him? They’re the parents. It is their call. No. Just no.

“He keeps texting me.”
One: He was an air traffic controller. He worked for an hour and would have an hour off. He texted me every other hour. No one should ever text that much unless they have a vagina, coupled with a chemical embalance.

Another one?!?! Oh. Em. Gee.

Two: He swore constantly. I just used the phrase “go suck a bag of dicks” and this guy’s potty mouth offended me. That is impressive. When I told him I wanted to buy a Schwinn, he told my I was an idiot if I spent less than $2,000 on a bike. He told a story of a time he ran over a cat and killed it and was pissed because he thought it messed up his wheel. Dude, I like domesticated fuzzy, cute shit, and the correct response to accidentally killing it is uncontrollable tears! We met at a bar and grill and accidentally stayed for 20 minutes past closing time. He did not tip. He then tried to tell me why God isn’t real. I told him I was going to Mass the next day and he responded with his speech about why God isn’t real.

“He loved the movie Christmas Vacation.”
One: I was talking to the guy on Plenty of Fish. We never actually met in person.

He’s financially irresponsible and it’s funny! Get it!?!?!

Two: He was clearly using this as a tester movie. It’s like when I tell a guy I like Seth Rogen. If he disagrees, then he’d better have money. Kidding. He loved this movie enough to bring it up in June, though. I figured, since I do not get the appeal of Christmas Vacation (or the other stupid movies he named), it was a sign of our intensely differing senses of humor… that and he didn’t like Seth Rogen!

“His grammar is too good and he called me ‘enchanting.’ I’m not even enchanting. I’m kind of a bitch.”
One: In addition to “enchanting”, he used the word “thus” in a casual e-mail, in poor context. He. Used. The. Word. THUS. BADLY. Also… who says “enchanting”?!?!

Two: He was the spitting image of Gollum and there was no connection. He was perfectly nice, but that communication was standard, because he was just so socially awkward and dull.

– My dog is the only boy I like and his longevity does not compare to mine. Commence the dying alone. –

I posted that on Facebook. Bo recommended a parrot, because they live longer. I’m terrified of birds. Perhaps an exotic turtle.

I look this shit up.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christine-whelan/pew-research-marraige-gap_b_758272.html

Tears, Giggles, and an Urn

Posted on July 12, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Me: “I don’t know. I never actually watch porn. I only ever watch pornographic GIFs. You never see any faces and just have a repeat of the good part. I don’t need a story or anything. I usually have one in my head already. He’s a werewolf… she’s a woodnymph. It’s just best not to mess with it.”
Gail: “What is wrong with you?”

Gail: “I didn’t think they were legally allowed to sell vibrators in CVS.”
Me: “It’s not a vibrator. It’s a ‘personal massager’, you pervert.”
Gail: laughingly “I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Me: “Oh, hey! I was right. It does say ‘personal massager’… and it’s ‘perfectly contoured for the female form.’ Thirty dollars?!? Mine was only thirty-four and it’s a lot better ‘contoured for the female form’!”
Gail: “Ahhh, Belle. You will just say anything won’t you?”
Belle: “What? No one heard me.”

Sunday, it was just after these conversations, that I was lying on the couch reading the train wreck that is the This Man triliogy, marveling at how trapping a woman with an underhanded pregnancy isn’t considered abusive, but sexy, when my Dirty Girl Novel was interrupted with the following text from my Aunt Dee:

Do you think you could do a reading at grandpa’s funeral? I was thinking you and Mickey both. Both granddaughters and both good Catholics. Gramps was so proud of you.

I responded without the use of the word “irony”, proof that I can control myself and just choose not to do so, Gail. I told Aunt Dee to just let me know what passage so I could practice. Now… how much did I not want to speak at my grandpa’s funeral as a “good Catholic girl”?

Thiiiiis much.

I hate ceremonies. It’s a whopping generalization, but they’re all awful… and here’s why:

Weddings: usually an expression of financial irresponsibility. A couple goes into a marriage, either in debt, or just down a couple of tens of thousands of dollars over a party that no one really wanted to go to anyway. I was bored at my first wedding and I’m sure I’ll be bored at the next one, between the dry heaves and shouts of “maccarroni!” which Gail will have forgotten is our codeword for “I’m freaking out and why the fuck am I doing this again?!?!”

Graduation ceremonies: too fucking long and made up of overly generic speeches. At my graduation for my Master in Library and Information Studies, the speaker made repeated references to how it was “only a few short years ago that we were moving into our dorms.” Psh. It was only a few short years ago that I was drinking myself to sleep to take my mind off of my wretched marriage. I can guaran-damn-tee the forty-something woman next to me didn’t relate to the statement, either. The ceremony was also held inside a kiln and I sweated for two hours just for someone to call my name. There’s not even any actual requirement that you prove your right to graduate. They will, literally, let anyone walk.

What?!? It’s practically Ambien.

Funerals: Funerals just fucking suck. Everyone’s sad and the last place they want to be is standing outside in July, wearing tummy tucker panties and heels.

Ahhh, comfort clothes.

Also… I make everything awkward and a funeral is just not the place for that. In fact, the entire drive to the church, I kept thinking…

Is this dress too sexy? Do I look like I’m going clubbing after the funeral?

I was pretty certain I was wearing a Magic Dress: a dress that can look equally professional or sex kitten based on accessories. I wore my interview heels, but had I been in the knee-high black heeled leather boots, I’d have looked rave-bound and I knew it. I just wasn’t sure about the heels and dreaded the whispers of “Can you believe she wore that?” Fortunately, Bea made a similar comment about her own simple black dress and told me mine looked great the second she saw me.

This uncertainty, however, is precisely why I didn’t want to do the aforementioned reading. I got to the chapel about fifteen minutes early and a woman in a glowing green suit jacket took me to the front, showed me a binder and instructed me to put it on the table to the left when I was done. She pointed out the steps to the podium, which were danged near invisible. I already knew I was doing the second reading and had gone over it the night before to avoid the mispronunciation of anything.

Okay. Don’t trip. Don’t forget to move the binder. I can do that.

The Mass started and my cousin Mickey immediately went up for the first reading. I did not hear one word she said, however. It was at that point, after the procession and drama and melancholy had set in, that I realized… I had no idea when I was reading. I had no Mass sheet and found I couldn’t remember the typical order and wasn’t sure how funeral Masses differentiated. My Aunt Dee was seated in front of me, so I spent the first reading whispering to her about how I wasn’t sure when I was supposed to do mine. Bea sat to my side and tried not to giggle. Mickey was finally seated and I sat with bated breath, just about to rise… then the music started.

Well, I guess it’s not now.

A Catholic Mass is a formal affair. A Catholic funeral is a very formal affair. I discreetly glanced around in hopes of spotting a neon green suit jacket, but had no luck. The music stopped, I was poised to rise… and Father started speaking.

Well, I guess it’s not now.

Father: “Geff was not a complainer or a whiner.”
That’s not true. Grandpa Geff whined about everything and everyone knew it. Why can’t we just remember the man for who he was, flaws and all? How is it respectful to make shit up? ‘Belle will always be remembered as a seven foot tall space cowboy.’ Horseshit. I shouldn’t think ‘horseshit’ in a church.

Wow. I want to get married in this chapel. This place is gorgeous.

I started thinking about how it would be funny to put little decorative stones in the wall where the angels’ toes would be, so it looked like they were wearing nail polish. I felt bad, because you’re not supposed to think about that at a funeral. Then someone tapped my shoulder and I realized Father was no longer speaking and there was a woman wearing green Christmas lights sitting directly behind me, which explained why I couldn’t find her earlier.

“Are you going to read?”
“Oh! Yeah. I just didn’t know when.”

Bea assures me that the lull did not stretch out for days and everyone thought I was gathering myself, so there was minimal awkwardness in retrospective. She claims.

Then the sad part set in, because funerals suck.

Father: “Geff was a proud veteran.”
Grandpa Geff was a veteran? Why didn’t I know that? How terrible of a person am I for not knowing that?

Father: “As we all know, Geff knew dogs.”
Grandpa Geff was into dogs? Why didn’t I know that? How terrible of a person am I for not knowing that?
Father: “Having worked for the post office for many years…”
Oh. It was a joke. Grandpa Geff didn’t know dogs. Why didn’t I know that? How terrible of a person am I for not knowing that?

I should have visited him more. I lost five years with dad’s family, because of my mother. I hate her. I shouldn’t think that in a church, during a Catholic Mass. I’m doing this all wrong. I’m failing at a funeral and I hate my mother!

I want to suck my thumb and cry and I don’t want to be in tummy tucker panties. I can’t suck my thumb in public and emotions are gross. Why are we even doing this?!?!

Me: crying and whispering “I hated his Christmas party, every year. No one liked it and a lot of times we never even went. I feel so bad. We didn’t have Christmas with him last year. How awful that we didn’t want to spend any time with him at Christmas?”
Bea: “We had his birthday party, though. That was nice.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Bea: “Oh, my gosh. I thought for an awful moment that maybe you weren’t there.”
Me: snorting and laughing “Nana nana nana.”

Oh, gosh. We shouldn’t laugh during a funeral. We look like we’re having the best time.

Gramma was the same age as Grandpa Geff.
That brought on more tears.
Oh, I’m crying because of the thought that Gramma might die one day, rather than the fact that Grandpa Geff is dead.That is so much worse than reading Lady Porn when I was asked to read a bible verse! I am the worst person!

Not only is a Catholic Mass a formal affair, it is one fraught with beautiful ritual, as is every Catholic Mass, and attended by many who do not know these rituals. Mass ended with Father raising his hands in prayer.

I looked over to see Bea and her brother Cade doing the same… alone. They only lowered their hands when they saw my cousin and me snickering.

Finally, the Mass ended and we made our way to the cemetery. My dad carried Grandpa Geff’s urn, a brass perfect square, in one hand like it was an empty casserole dish.

Cade: “Only Kent would carry an urn with one hand.”
Aunt Kendra: “Kent, I hope that’s sealed.”
Me: “My dad thinks it’s dumb that we have to bury it anyway, so if he drops it, it’s probably not an accident.”
Step-mom Lena: “Don’t joke about that. It’s taken very seriously in the Catholic faith and you might offend someone.”
Dad, Cade, Bea, Aunt Kendra, Me: simultaneous laughter

My step-family is not Catholic, if you haven’t guessed. My step-mom certainly meant well, but no one present would’ve been offended. In fact…

When we arrived at the burial plot, we found the unmarked hole, perfectly carved out for Grandpa Geff’s urn. We piled on his roses and the wreath that read “Grandpa” and gathered round as the sadness set in and everyone got quiet.

“Wait. We’re over there.”

That is right. We almost threw Grandpa Geff in the wrong hole. The hearty laugh we got out of it as a family is precisely why Lena needn’t worry that anyone would be offended by jokes about the redundancy of the Catholic decree that we bury ashes.

Other Shit You Probably Shouldn’t Say at a Funeral

Dad: “..and then father will bless us with the ashes.”
Me: “Okay. Wait! Bless you with the ashes!?!?!”

What he meant.

What he realized I was picturing.

– Debating cremation versus burial –
Bea: “I don’t want to be burned!”
Me: “You can’t feel it. You’re dead.”
Bea: “Hopefully!”
Me: “Well, if that’s the case, then I’d rather be burned than wake up.”
Dad: “We’ll just have to make sure to leave a string tied to some bells outside of your grave, Bea. That way you can ring for help when you come to, like in the 1800’s.”

– Driving to the cemetery, my step-mom holding the urn on her lap, everyone waiting for us to bring Grandpa to his final resting place –
Cade: “Ugh. I’m starving. Can we stop for tacos or something? 7-Eleven is giving away free Icees today.”
Me: ::tearing up:: “Wait. He was alone when he died?!?! That’s horrible.”
Step-mom: “Belle, he was alone, but he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there for days.”
Bea: “Wait, wait, wait! 7-Eleven is giving away free Icees?!?!“

My dad gets out of the truck and leaves the urn while he checks to see if we’re in the right place.
Cade: “Kent… I think you forgot something! You didn’t even crack a window.”

– sitting in the back of my dad’s truck with Cade and Bea , while my dad and Lena bury Grandpa Geff –
Bea: “Is my dress see-through? I feel like it’s see-through. Could you see anything in the sunlight?”
Me: “Yeah. You’re practically naked. You’ve got a little toilet paper in your ass crack, by the way”
Bea: “I hate you. It only seems see-through right here.” ::points to space between her legs::
Cade: “I don’t know what’s worse, the heat or this conversation.”
Me: “Yeah. Geez, Bea. ‘Hey, big brother. Can you see my vag?'”
Bea: “I cannot believe you just said that!”
Me: “You’re the one who said it.”
Bea: “I am not!”
Cade: ::groaning:: “Thank you for that, Belle.”

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.”

My Grandma Kay has been divorced from Grandpa Geff for near fifty years, but was at the funeral.
Me: “Hey, kid. Did you wish Grandma Kay a happy birthday?”
My cousin Mitch: “What? It’s Grandma’s birthday? Seriously?”
Me: “Yes, seriously. It’s on Facebook, if you don’t believe me. Go tell her happy birthday.”
Dad’s cousin Tina: “Aw. That’s a tough day. We should take her some flowers.”
Me: “Hey, there’s some over there in the chapel.”
Mitch: laughing “We’ll just take her all of the funeral arrangements. She’ll never know.”
Me: “Yeah. Let’s take her the wreath with ‘grandpa’ on it…”
Mitch: “… we’ll just write ‘ma’ over it.”
Tina: trying not to laugh “You guys are horrible!”

I came home and I slept. It was a tough day. I’d have been content to skip it and pretend Grandpa Geff was still alive and that I just never see him. The only consolation is that Grandpa Geff was a devout daily Mass goer. He’d have been thrilled by a traditional Catholic funeral filled with people he loved sharing the occasional laugh. There’s not a whole lot more for which anyone could ask, and if one sucky day fulfills that life goal after a painful battle with cancer… well, at least it’s all over.

You’re alone for a reason, Bridget Jones…

Posted on July 10, 2013 by Belle of the Library

… and it’s not the Ben and Jerry’s.

I am not a chick flick person. In the year 2010, all of the following things happened:

Gaily’s little girl died at 8 months old.
I did not give birth to the child that was due in March.
My ex-husband went out of town “on business” and didn’t have a job.
Gail’s divorce was finalized.
My ex-husband swore he changed the oil and the engine fell out of my car for no reason.
I learned that sometimes “I want a divorce” is met with the word “no.”
Gail made me watch the movie The Women.

Me: “I’m pretty sure that movie was the worst thing to happen in all of 2010.”

As much as I like my romance novels, I cannot watch that crap unfold on-screen. The lines are too over-the-top and emotion is gross. There’s a difference between imagining things and seeing them acted out. Just like I don’t want to watch porn, I don’t want to see people cry. What is wrong with the degenerates supporting these industries?!?

… and then, insult all of your readers.

There are, however, a few chick flicks I love and a few I love to hate. Bridget Jones’s Diary is actually in the first category and I’m just an overly-analytical person. I haven’t read the book and don’t intend to, precisely because of how much I like the movie. So, when I checked it out from the library (because I’m too cheap to rent it if it’s free at work) I enjoyed it immensely… while simultaneously tearing apart the lead. Not having seen the movie in years, it was fun to analyze as an adult and realize exactly what was wrong with Bridget Jones. I don’t claim to be an expert on men or what men want, but I don’t enjoy being around most women either, and I found many of the reasons for that personified in Chubby Zellweger. For example…

If you don’t like, change it.

There are a lot of things Bridget Jones doesn’t like about herself and her life, so she vows to change them… for like a day and a half. The main focus of this film is that Bridget Jones is a little chubbier than she’d appreciate. Renee Zellweger put on a confusing amount of weight for the part (20-50 pounds – does Hollywood even know what weight is?). Like most women, Bridget Jones wants to lose twenty pounds. Like many women, she doesn’t actually commit to doing so. Unlike most women (I choose to believe), she constantly bitches about it and blames her size for unhappiness. If you want to lose weight, quit smoking, drink less (7 calories per gram compared to fat’s 9), then fucking do it. If you’re comfortable with who you are and that person isn’t intensely unhealthy, in which case Bridget Jones should be more concerned with the smoking and drinking anyway, then stop obsessing over something you’re not going to change. I would like to be 15 pounds lighter. I really would. I also really like red gummy worms. I’d rather have hips and red gummy worms than no hips and no red gummy worms. This is the concession I make, so I’m pretty content in my size 8 shorts, rather than bitching about the 6’s in my drawer that don’t fit anymore. Bridget Jones’s issue wasn’t her weight. It was her unwillingness to change the things that made her unhappy.

If he proposes with these, I don’t need a ring. Ell oh ellsies. Just lying. The last one was surprise-fake. Gaily knows the next ring must include a diamond the size of a cow’s eye, so pure and magnificent that the blood is still actually on it.

Be nice to people.

A few weeks ago, my precious five-year-old niece, Layla, told me she doesn’t have any friends. She’s right. She doesn’t, because she’s mean. Here’s a snippet of her conversation with my brother, Bo, from her birthday party last year.

Layla: “He hit me!!!!!”
Bo: “Why’d he hit you?”
Layla: “Because I pushed him down.”
Bo: “Why’d you push him down?”
Layla: “Because he hurt my feelings! He didn’t want to play with me!”

So, when Layla told her Aunt Belle that she had no friends…

Me: “‘Be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy, and they’ll be nice to you.'”
Layla: “I’m nice to the gentleman and the ladies!”

What? It’s not like a five-year-old realizes I’m referencing a song about prostitution. It’s sound advice. It’s also advice Bridget Jones needs to take. I am not referring to the times she embarrasses herself in these movies. There’s little to be done about the fact that no one told you the party no longer required a slutty costume or fumbling your words during a speech. There is, however, plenty to be done in regards to not insulting a group of people with whom you’ve chosen to spend your time, by calling them “fat, balding… upper middle-class twits.” You can express an opinion without telling everyone to go fuck themselves. It’s also kindest not to assume that every well-poised, attractive woman is after your boyfriend. When you’re mean to people, they and others don’t want to spend time with you. Regardless of your size or ability to embarrass yourself, if you laugh about it and move on, if you’re kind to people, they’ll enjoy being around you.

There is a time and a place.

Bridget Jones was 33 years old in the first movie. She was single and beginning to feel hopeless about that fact. Despite that, she presented herself horribly in most situations. Again, I’m not talking about the embarrassing or desperate moments, like running out into the snow without pants, because she was terrified Mark Darcy was leaving for good. I’m referring to introducing yourself to someone by telling them how hungover you are, New Year’s Day or not…. about having the gall to be upset that they think little of you when you’ve done so. I’m talking about getting smashed at the company party, rather than saving it for a night out with your friends. I’m talking about slutting up to get some attention from the opposite sex at work. Bridget Jones was 33 years old and she really should’ve known better.

Value yourself.

Despite the fact that Bridget Jones was a little chubby, men still found her attractive. Hugh Grant slept with her, after removing her tummy tucker panties. Her new boss cast her as sex appeal. Collin Firth/Mark Darcy told her that he liked her “just as she is.” Regardless of all that positive feedback, she still blamed all of her problems on her weight. Bridget, you’re not unattractive, because you’re fat. You’re unattractive because of your whopping self-esteem issues. Bridget sleeps with her boss, pretty much just because he pays her inappropriate attention, which he’d have done to a floor lamp. This doesn’t just happen. She considers the option, acknowledges it as a bad decision, and does it anyway. On a similar note, she’s lamenting her single status at age 33, but she doesn’t actually try to meet anyone. She meets Mark Darcy, only by her mother’s introduction, bemoaning the fact that this is a regular occurrence. She sleeps with Hugh Grant because he’s present. Those are the only men she dates in the entire two or three years in which these movies take place. If you don’t want to be single, stop spending all of your time with your gay friend and gal pals and go date.

Gail is a brilliant gal and an amazing friend (currently she’s preening from reading that) and gave me a wonderful piece of advice a year ago.

“Go on a hundred first dates. Go on bad ones and good ones and meh ones. If you do that, eventually you will meet someone and it’ll click for you and it’ll click for them.”

She’s right. I’ve been on a dozen bad dates, because of that advice. It hasn’t clicked yet, but I’m trying. You know where I’m not going to meet anyone?

Here.

Forcing it with Gollum the Awkward Geologist

Posted on July 2, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I met Geologist on OKCupid a few weeks ago. He messaged me first and since his profile said he had a big boy job and seemed to like some of the same things I like, I messaged back, despite the fact that he didn’t look terribly attractive in his single headshot.

It was possible that he just didn’t photograph well, a recurring theme with men who date online; so I kept responding to his messages, though he wasn’t really leaving much of an impression and when he asked to meet, I figured I’d give him a chance. Then things started to get a little… awkward. I gave Geologist my phone number, figuring the communication had progressed enough to text message. Maybe then the conversation wouldn’t seem quite so stilted, because we’d be chatting in real time. The first text he sent me, however, was about how he was just going to continue e-mailing through OKCupid, because he finds letters to be more personal. I thought it was weird, but I also thought my death might one day be discovered only due to the downstairs neighbors complaining about the stain on the ceiling from the fluids evacuating my body, so whatev. I obliged. The conversations didn’t get any more engaging and I considered canceling our meeting, because this guy was dull and had a weird aversion to text messaging. Enter Gail.

While I tend to never give men a first chance, let alone a second, Gail has the opposite problem with… well people in general, but it was particularly prominent when she was dating. Gail would go out on a first date with a guy and come home with architectural drafts for the energy efficient home they would build together and information on domestic and foreign adoption. This was possible, because she completely ignored major turn-offs. Nine times out of ten, it was a highly entertaining disaster…

Gail: “Then, finally, he left the diary on his nightstand, so I figured… what the hell? I’m gonna read this fucker. So I open it to the last page…”
Me: “Wait, wait, wait… did you have to use a bobypin to pick the butterfly shaped lock?”
Gail: “No. It was leather. Anyway, the last sentence says ‘I don’t find Abigail to be particularly attractive, but I’m pretty sure I can get her have sex with me, so I will continue to date her.'”

This led to the purchase of a dollar store children’s diary filled with fake entries that went something like this…

Dear Diary,

Today, after I got out of the shower, I looked down and sighed sadly. But then I remembered that I am a beautiful (butterfly sticker) no matter how small my wings are.

XOXO,
Zaccc

You’d think that the tenth out of ten times would have been her boyfriend Terry, but no. The tenth time was the time Gail almost got supermudered by Post Office Mike, the man she dated for about six weeks and whose ex-wife may or may not be in stew. Post Office Mike was the only guy for whom she repeatedly ditched her best friend of ten years. For realz, y’all. I didn’t see Gail once for those six weeks and then she showed up on my doorstep covered in blood and cat fur.

Fine. I’m lying. But in all seriousness…

Gail: “So, he started yelling and I cringed away and he jutted his chest and shoulders toward me and screamed ‘Don’t act like I’m gonna fucking hit you!'”

Soooo… when I mentioned to Gaily that I was considering canceling on Geologist, she admitted the texting thing was he-has-a-secret-wife weird, but encouraged me to ask him why he didn’t want to text before canceling. His explanation was basically just that he preferred e-mail, because he’d been in the military and learned to appreciate actual letters. It was still weird, because, dude, I’m not showing my grandkids the OKCupid e-mails I’ve printed off and stored away in the cedar chest, but whatev. It was an answer that didn’t sound like he didn’t want his girlfriend to know about me. My stand-offishness leveled out with Gail’s everybody’s-made-of-rainbows-and-daisies horseshit and I met Geologist.

The first date really wasn’t bad. He was really awkward, but I assumed it was because it was a first date. Everything he said was new information on a new person, so he seemed interesting. Spoiler alert: wrong. It was actually a pretty good date with someone I had met online. He wasn’t terrible looking and I did a lot of the talking, because I tend to ramble when I get nervous…

Me: “… and I have my Gramma’s signature on my foot.”
::silence::
Me: “It’s a tattoo. She doesn’t, like, come over daily and sign it.”

… but Geologist didn’t seem to mind and we made plans to meet again the next day, because he works two weeks on and one week off the oil rigs. That’s sort of a thing here in the Midwest and a ton of those guys date online. I eagerly called Gail to tell her I liked the guy and had a second date.

Date two was at a suburban bar on a Monday night, at 10:00, because I’d come straight from the library, and since it’s not football season, it was deserted. Geologist wasn’t a drinker and I’m a lightweight and just had water while we played pool. This time, I was careful to talk less and give Geologist a chance to speak… which was a mistake. Not only was that not just first date awkwardness, but the man was… well, really dull. What he was saying was so un-engaging that I found myself looking at him and critiquing him…

What’s with the hat? He was wearing the same one last night.

Neither of us had spoken for a while, when I blurted “What’s with the hat? You were wearing the same one last night.”

Gaily is gleeful, because this supports her “broken filter” theory.

Then he took off the hat…

That’s when I realized, it wasn’t an issue of being skilled or not at taking selfies. The guy just actually looked like that and the baseball cap concealed the fact beautifully. The conversation continued… sort of… while thoughts drifted through my head, along the lines of…

He is really unattractive. Should I ask him to put on the hat again?

Stop being such a judgmental cunt. He’s being really nice… if not terribly interesting.

I don’t want him to kiss me.

… the second in the voice of Gail. I knew I was being unfair and, more importantly, I possessed the self-awareness to realize that I just do this with men. So I fought through it and chatted with Geologist… about nothing. He talked about being homeschooled a lot and told me how he was close to his family and I realized he’d said the same things the previous evening. The only people in his life seemed to be family. He even works alone in a trailer for two weeks at a time. Don’t get me wrong. I work in a public library. I’ve met droves of homeschooled people and many of them have great social skills along with superior intelligence, but Geologist explained that he’d lived in a rural town and was not a part of any teams or social groups. His whole world was only his family. He even told me his brother got his wife pregnant just because their sex education was so unbelievably lacking that they were using her mother’s old wives’ tales as birth control. That is not even homeschooling. That is intense isolation of the “MY LUCKY STARS: A NEGRO!” variety.

Listening to Geologist talk was like counting sand. Other than his family, he talked about credit and math and that is all. We’d already discussed the single T.V. show we both liked the previous night. While we played pool, he explained the geometry behind the game and seemed enthralled by it. I don’t even like pool or math and he was enthralled by the math of pool. Still… Gaily’s voice thrummed in my brain…

No one is going to be mad at you if you don’t like this guy, but give him a chance.

So at the end of the night, he told me to keep in touch. When I woke the next morning, I sent a hope-you-arrived-safely text, knowing he’d driven to the rig after we’d left the bar. He sent me an oddly formal text message…

Well, hello there. I hope you’ve had a good day. I did get to the rig safely, thank you for asking. It was lovely to see you before I had to leave town. I hope you’re well.

I assumed we’d text while he was out of town, now that we’d met in person. Then I logged onto OKCupid and saw his latest e-mail.

How’s your day going? It’s been an interesting day already for me, I’m not one to get lost easily but I admit that it was a little difficult finding the access road to this rig at 3 AM this morning. I could see the rig’s tower illuminated against the night sky my phone’s map app kept taking me to someone’s drive way. With a little time and doubling back once I was able to find the gravel road that lead to the rig. It’s by far the longest access road I’ve had to use thus far. Usually the rig is close to a main road but this time it was quite a ways off the beaten path. Also my monthly performance test arrived in my company email today. Aced it, though it was a little trickier than the others have been. I don’t think I’ve ever had a first date that I enjoyed as much as Sunday’s. Good conversation is hard to come by, don’t you agree? I would like to see you again on my next week off, I find you enchanting. How did the carpet cleaning go at your grandmother’s? Did the cleaner work fine after it’s tumble down the stairs? Off topic, do you have a favorite poet?

Holy shit. Even this guy’s e-mails are awkward and boring. I didn’t respond, because, frankly, who the fuck sends e-mails?!? I send e-mails for professional reasons and professional reasons only. Writing formal e-mails is a chore. Being with the guy was already a chore. I’d done enough chores. A day later I got…

I’m going to disable my account for now. Simply because I rather enjoy chatting with you and have no need for the account at this time. If you’d like to continue using email along with texting to touch base then my email is geologist@gmail.com.

I hope this email finds you well Belle,

Geologist

I immediately thought that was creepy. I’d met the guy twice and the second time was about as fun as dropping a carpet cleaner down the stairs onto my own head. He responded to said meeting by deleting his online dating profile? Since then, I’ve told others this story and they’ve all agreed it was crazy early for that. Gail, however, insisted it was just “flattering.”

Y’all, meet Mike.

If I don’t like someone I’ve met online, after our first meeting, I’m pretty comfortable with no longer contacting them. If he’s not interested, I’d much rather never hear from him again than get a brushoff text. I’ll get the point and so will he. I couldn’t quite bring myself to this conclusion after date two, however, in part because of Jiminy Fucking Cricket in my head going by the name of Gail.

Gail: “I understand you no longer talking to them after the first date. It’s unbelievably rude after a third date, though. Really, it’s pretty rude after a second date.”

Through the Belle filter…

Ugh. Fine. The guy knows where I work. There may be a face-to-face confrontation.

In all honesty, I know I’m bad at this and I legitimately try not to date like an asshole. I want to be respectful of the people I date, as long as they aren’t a bag of dicks. I just freak out, act, and then realize there were better ways to handle things. So, I promised myself that if I didn’t like this guy after the third date, I would tell him so, nicely… via text message. Baby steps, y’all.

It turns out, three weeks was the perfect amount of time to talk myself into never seeing Geologist again, then decide that I’m just broken and he was nice, looks great on paper, and I need to give him another shot. One good date and one bad date even out. I needed something to tip the scales and our bland-as-raw-flour text messaging wasn’t doing the trick.

Maybe he’s just not a good communicator via technology… I thought optimistically.

No. He’s just not a good communicator, which I learned on date three.

We scheduled date three for this past Friday. He wanted to take me two-stepping, which he’d mentioned during date two. I thought this sounded potentially astronomically uncomfortable, in the instance that I really just wasn’t feeling it, so I asked if we could do something else. When he asked for a suggestion, I mentioned dinner and a movie. He told me a late movie time and said we’d meet 15 minutes early to get seats. Okaaaaay. I’d mentioned dinner, because I figured it’d give us the chance to talk and recapture whatever connection we may have had, but didn’t want to press and appear as if I just wanted him to buy me a meal. I didn’t tell Gail about the date, because I figured it was best to remain entirely neutral and not freak myself out with her expectations and the requirement that I report back.

On the way, I told myself I’d exaggerated his unattractiveness and that he was just technologically awkward and we had the possibility of really hitting it off. Then I saw him and the first thing I thought was…

Oh. He does look like that.

I felt like an ass for thinking it, but I’d psyched myself up to believe that he wasn’t terribly unappealing only to realize that… well, I was wrong. I just was not attracted to the man and that hat must have belonged to Frosty the Fucking Snowman, because Geologist looked like a totally different person wearing it on the first date. I had initially described him as “well, you wouldn’t pick him out of a crowd, but he’s not bad looking” and now I’m astounded by how much the dude looked like Gollum, because I’ve never even seen The Lord of the Rings and still placed it.

Feeling like a superficial bitch, I was really friendly and charismatic and tried to get the conversation going… to no avail. The guy had to have had conversation cards or something, because he’d bring up a topic and then jump to a completely unrelated one, just like in his e-mails. For example…

Geologist: “How were your interviews?”
Me: “Oh, they were were good. I had one on Monday and one yesterday. I didn’t get the one from Monday, because of scheduling and I haven’t heard back from the other.”
Geologist: “I misunderstood when my benefits would kick in.”
Me: “Huh?”
Geologist: “Yeah, it’s not until July 1st, so I’ve had to wear broken glasses for a couple of months now.”

He just didn’t respond to any conversational cues and had nothing to talk about, because he spent two weeks alone in a trailer in the sticks. The movie started and Awkward Turtle over there had speed walked into the theater, not giving me the chance to grab any kind of refreshments, so I spent the movie thirsty. I would’ve gone to get something, but I really didn’t trust myself to come back. That’s how done I was with forcing something that just was not there. Halfway through the movie, I was dreading the end of it and simultaneously hoping time would go triple speed, because I wanted to be home, but knew the walk to my car would be tense. After, I tried to start up some conversation, while keeping my hands occupied so he couldn’t take one of them. He barely responded and speed walked to the car (I struggled to keep pace), which I hoped was because he was done as well, but no… he was just that much more of a reason for me to Google synonyms for awkward.

I showed Geologist my front end damage and thanked him for the movie. I gave him, what I intended to be, a quick hug, but he clung and started rubbing my back.. for an oddly lengthy amount of time. I had deliberately turned my face away to avoid a kiss, but in all his finesse, Geologist still leaned in a bit as I turned away from him. He, quite sincerely, told me he really enjoyed himself and I thought WHY?!?!

Then, I had my own moment of finesse. I was just searching for something to say and blurted…

Me: “So, when do you leave for work again?”
SHIT! Now he’s going to think you want to see him again in the next few days!
Geologist: “Tuesday.”
Me: “Oh. Um… you… uh… have a good time… with… that… and all.”
Geez, Belle. Seriously? You might as well scream “MY PRECIOUS!” and run, you ungainly twit.

Then I drove away as Geologist speed walked to his vehicle. I texted Gail, but she was asleep, so I recruited the reinforcement I should’ve recruited after bad date two… Jane.

Me: “I give up on dating. Clearly I just want to turn down nice guys and die alone.”
Jane: “Haha, aw. You’re not broken. He is. Someone you can’t have a conversation with, without wanting to stab yourself in the wrist, is not the guy for you. You can’t want to die alone. You enjoy talking too much. That isn’t a jab in any way, by the way. He sucks for you. That’s all there is to it.”

Gaily pretty much agreed, at this point. She said I’d given Geologist a fair chance and it was okay to not be into him. She even agreed with mine and Jane’s conclusion that a fourth date would imply some real interest in moving things forward. I wouldn’t want to lead him on in my desperation to not be a ceiling stain one day.

Gail: “So, are you going to tell him you’re not interested?”
Me: “I’m pretty sure he got it. I mean, if he texts again, I’ll let him know, but there’s no way he could not get it after my exit.”

Sunday night, via text…

Geologist: “How was your day, today?”
Me: “It was good. I worked. I should be honest with you and tell you that I don’t really feel a connection. It was nice getting to know you, though.”

Yes, it was a text message, but the only other option was apparently e-mail. Seriously, what guy, who works out of town for two weeks at a time, expects to carry on a relationship without texting?!?!

Ahem… It’s an improvement, though. This guy got a third date and an explanation. Considering my original idea was to stop talking to him, because I’d likely get a new job soon, I’d say I’m improving.

What did he say in response? Oh, I don’t know, because I marked his number as spam to avoid any unnecessary discussion or confrontation, before realizing that there was a better way to handle it. This is why I am an asshole.

ceiling stain
“Really. It smells bad and it’s dripping. We need Maintenance, yesterday.”

I’m sorry I’ve misdirected my sorry: Watching my dad watch his dad die.

Posted on June 27, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I stand by my dad’s work truck while he ends his phone call before our weekly lunch.
Me: “That didn’t sound fun.”
Dad: “No, it isn’t. Dad’s dyin’ and he’s just pitiful.”
I hug him and he grips just a little tighter than normal.
Me: “Love you, dad.”
Dad: “Love you too, baby.”
Me: “So it’s bad, huh?”
Dad: “Yeah. Like I said, he’s just pitiful, but he’s been pitiful his whole damn life so it’s just pissin’ me off even more now.”
Me: “Well, I’m sure I’ll be there with mom one day.”

When I was little, my dad had two dads. One was his step-father, my Grandpa Murphy, who died of cancer when I was five. The other, we saw so little that I once introduced him to my cousin (also his granddaughter) when I was six. I can list what I know about my Grandpa Geff in bullets…

He went to Mass every single day of his life.
The few times we saw him, he made us go to Mass, but always bought us breakfast.
For someone so devoted to God, he completely dropped the ball on his earthly obligations, such as children.
He’s been a far more influential presence in my dad’s half-sister, Sarah’s, life than my dad’s or his sisters’. She’s a self-indulgent fuck-up, though, so maybe that’s a good thing.
For Christmas, my dad’s and his sisters’ kids got tube socks or a stuffed animal. Sarah’s son got remote control cars.

My Grandma Kay once told me that Grandpa Geff would regularly promise to take my dad out after the divorce; my dad would sit on the steps waiting for him all evening and he’d never show. After she married my Grandpa Murphy, he stopped offering to help at all and my dad quickly came to think of Grandpa Murphy as his father. Grandma Kay once explained the divorce to me, how Grandpa Geff wouldn’t let her use birth control, but wouldn’t help with the kids and wanted her to take care of him as if he were a child as well. She declared….

“I told mamma and daddy, ‘I’ve been a good girl my whole life and I’ve always done exactly what you wanted, but I will not stay married to that man. I hate him.'”

For the last few years, my dad and I have been celebrating semi-weekly Daddy/Daughter Lunches. They’re one of the best parts of my generally packed schedule.

I’m almost certain it’s more of a texting issue than a spelling issue.

For the last several weeks, though, he’s talked to me a lot about his and his sisters’ frustrations with Grandpa Geff’s cancer.

Me: “I’m kind of surprised you’re all doing so much. I mean, I know you don’t have the best relationship.”
Dad: “Well, you know, what can you do? You can’t just leave him to die.”

Me: “I feel bad, because I don’t really feel that bad, you know? I’m sorry.”
Dad: “Don’t apologize, baby. He was never around when you were growin’ up. You hardly know the man.”

Dad: “He keeps callin’ me over in the middle of the night swearin’ he’s gonna die. He’s just eatin’ up the attention.”

Dad: “He keeps tellin’ me he’s ready to go, that this is it. It’s never it. It’s not it until his body says it is.”

Dad: “Sarah keeps tellin’ the nurses not to give him pain medicine and tryin’ to bring her stupid ass preacher in to ‘pray for him.’ Fuckin’ crazy ass bitch. I’m gonna lose it on her. Dad was a devout Catholic his whole life. He is not gonna want some fuckin’ preacher prayin’ over him.”

Dad: “He won’t use the damn oxygen. He just sits there and wheezes, complainin’ about how he can’t breathe, but then he won’t use the oxygen.”

Dad: “I wouldn’t let my dog live like this. If she couldn’t walk, I’d put her down.”

I don’t want Grandpa Geff to die, but I feel worse for my dad than I do for him. Grandpa Geff’s a religious man who never pursued much in his life. He’s comfortable with death and as long as he’s medicated, his remaining days will be good. I feel so much for my dad right now, though. This is the end. He’s having to face the fact that Grandpa Geff will never come through for him…. while helping him bathe. Grandpa Geff milks the attention and drama, by refusing oxygen and calling every few hours to cry wolf that this is really the end. My dad rushes over, because it may be and then finds it’s just his usual drama. He’s relieved and regretful, feeling guilty about the latter. He doesn’t want to abandon the man, but at the same time, resents him for his own abandonment. On his death bed, he sees him coddle my dad’s forty-something half-sister like he never cared for him or his sisters, even when they were children. He’s hurt and stressed out and resentful, but still battling to carry out his dad’s wishes of using what’s left of his money to pay Sarah’s mortgage. He even fights her off when she demands to bring in her Evangelist preacher and take a sick man off his medicine. They’ve had multiple arguments about the house Grandpa Geff lives in, because ownership goes to Grandma Kay when he dies. She wants her kids to sell it and split the money, because their dad never did anything for them and Sarah is pissed. My dad’s still angry on my Grandpa Geff’s behalf, because Sarah’s taking advantage of him and has been doing so for half of her life. My dad’s a lot of things… vulgar, loud, funny, offensive, loving, generous on his terms, but he’s not sensitive and watching him hurt… well, that fucking hurts. When he hugs me tighter than usual, says “I love you, baby” and clearly eats up being around his young and lively 25-year-old daughter, if only to discuss his pitiful and selfish dying father… I want to tear up. It’s like watching Chuck Norris weep.

Yeah… that picture doesn’t exist. Point made.

Maybe I feel so much for him, because I will be there with my mom one day. Right now, she’s got a good 30 years to stop being who she is and apologize for what she’s torn away from me. Well, she eats a lot of mayonnaise, so maybe 20 years. When that day comes, though, and I never got another glimpse of the woman who used to put candles in my birthday pancakes? When I know it can never get better? That’s gonna hurt. When she somehow manages to dramatize death… that’s gonna piss me off. I’ll feel relieved that she’s never again going to play head games with me… and I’ll feel like shit because of it. So, I can imagine how my dad feels right now.

Then again, maybe watching my dad watch his dad die just strikes a cord with me, because I couldn’t bear to lose my dad. Maybe that’s intensified by watching him be so good to a man who did him so wrong, despite his defensive harsh words in regards to the situation. I mean, if there’s a single person on this PLANET who can see past the offensive jokes to the goodness and the pain, it’s the girl to whom he passed the gene, amiright?

I know for certain, though, that watching a man’s family have such conflicted feelings on his death… well, that makes me want to live a good life where I care for people and keep up my end of the bargain so no one’s ever not sure if they’re sad that I’m dying.

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

Posted on June 26, 2013 by Belle of the Library

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sources

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

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