Ask Me About My Genitals

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A student asked if I was still a virgin today. I told him that was completely inappropriate and immediately became very active on my current online dating site via my phone, because when he asked, I thought “Practically.” I’m intensely annoyed with myself for letting a fifteen-year-old get to me, especially when my vagina seems to be their default, such as when a girl announced that I needed to get laid for asking her to turn down her music. I’ve got to stop wearing my “Ask Me About My Genitals” shirt to work.

This time of year is freaking made for couples, in the same way that summer is made for bars and single people. I tend to go through bouts of “I need a boy!” anyway, but name one holiday movie where someone is unattached and it’s awesome. It doesn’t exist. The protagonist is alone and miserable until Colin Firth or that reindeer, Clarice, shows up and all the pieces of their lives suddenly slip into place.

rudolph happyIn the previous scene, he was cutting himself.

As someone who doesn’t much watch television or movies, that’s not really my concern. Real life, however, pressures me to find someone right the fuck now. In the South, everyone my age is married with a baby on the way; and those are the late bloomers. It’s all over Facebook and Wal-Mart and every single family Christmas party that I need to pick up the pace. I can’t talk to any of the women in my family without being asked if there are any boys in my life. It was actually once recommended by my dad’s cousin that I have a one-night stand. Everyone is concerned with my sex life!

The thing is, I don’t want a boy. I mean, I do. No. I mean I don’t. A part of me really wants to date, because I feel like I am ready for another relationship. I’d like to try out sex with someone I don’t hate and who isn’t morbidly obese. I’d like to make-out on the couch like I never did at 16 and gossip about penis size with Gail from more than a hypothetical perspective. Mostly, I’d just like someone to be nice to me while I’m nice to him and we just do sweet things for each other. Forehead kisses and holding hands sound good. On the contrary, I also love my pink Christmas tree and shaving my legs when I feel like it. I enjoy going to movies alone and watching the same episode of Vampire Diaries three times in a row, because I was reading during it and not paying attention. I love my Buffy marathons and littering the living room floor with my latest craft project. I’m not sure if I have gotten enough of this single life, blast-the-audiobook-like-the-rebel-I-am phase. If I start something that really takes off, I risk giving that up.

But… none of that matters. I don’t have time for a relationship. Not right now. I have one more chance at my graduate portfolio and I work two jobs. I barely have room for funny bad dates that I can blog about, let alone an actual relationship with a good guy who places further constraints on my time. As much as I’d like to get stuck with a cute boy I love during Snowmaggedon 2013, cuddling up naked for warmth, it’s not an option. My winter storms have already been reserved for working on my portfolio and job applications. Divorce aside, this just isn’t the time in my life for romance and babies, because I decided to go to graduate school. I’ll have plenty of time for that after I finish and get my career going. In the meantime, my genitals will be fine. I just hope there are some decent guys left in six months. We age so quickly here.

Five Reasons Why I’m Secretly Not Sexy

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I’ve put on my tiniest skirt and cowgirl boots, actually used hairspray, and haven’t accidentally told this cute guy that his job is pretend and his football team sucks. I am on a roll. Regardless, I am just barely pulling off sexy and here’s why:

1. You can’t tell, but I’m dressed like a Rugrats character.
That cute little jean skirt I’m wearing? It’s a skort. That’s right, a skort: the combination skirt/shorts that are usually only found on five-year-olds who don’t want to flash their Dora panties on the jungle gym. No, I didn’t intentionally dress like a Kindergartener to go to the bar. I’m just cheap, it was $3 at Goodwill, and I don’t intend to let a strange man put his hand up my skirt anyway, so he’ll never have to know.

2. Victoria’s What?
The sexiest undergarments I own came from the Hanes store during a BOGO sale and I accidentally dyed one of them some not-a-color in the wash. I also just called my bra an “undergarment.” I work two jobs and I’m in graduate school. No matter how much I’d like to, I can’t afford to buy fancy sex clothes that no one is going to see. My cotton underwear came in a pack of six at Wal-Mart for $8 and I probably didn’t throw them away when the elastic popped. Wearing this skort, I’m likely in a $2 neon green thong, but in that tiny pink lace dress? Chances are good I’m wearing high-rises, because they smooth over my lumps better and are more comfortable than tummy tucker panties. That’s right. I said lumps. The logic here is the same. I’m not going home with a guy in a bar, so no one has to know my underwear has a faded zebra print on it and my bra is the color of dirty dishwater. Not even my socks match. You can’t tell, because of the boots, but I’m wearing one teal sock with black birds on it and one rainbow sock, because I couldn’t find their matches.

3. I have no idea what I’m doing.
At any point in the night, I’m lucky if I haven’t just blurted out “How tall are you?” because the apparent truth is “not very.” It’s not that I’m trying to be an ass. It’s just that I’ve been dating for less than a year and I’m not that subtle anyway. I’m not only completely clueless as to what I’m doing in this bar, though; I’m about as experienced in bed as I am at spelunking. I don’t even know what spelunking is if that says anything at all. Yes, I was married for four and half years, but we only had sex for three of them… and rarely. When we did, it was always the exact same thing, in the exact same order, and for a very short period of time. The last time I actually had sex was early 2010 and it was extremely unpleasant. That was almost three years ago. Holy shit, I haven’t had sex in three years… and I’ve never had good sex. Sure, I know how to please myself, but even if we get to the fourteenth or so date it would take for sexual activity to be involved, I’m not so sure I even remember what hole it goes in anymore. I can count the number of people I’ve kissed on one hand and half of those don’t even count. I wouldn’t know what to do with my bits or his bits. In general, I’ve got all the downsides of virginity and none of its untainted perks.

4. I’m kind of afraid of him. 
Gailis perpetually trying to either instill in me a gut-wrenching paranoia about men or get me to give the one-eyed maintenance man a chance so we can double date. This compels me to talk to just about everyone who approaches me while simultaneously thinking “It’s okay. I own guns.” It’s not just an issue of physical safety, though Gail might have me believe “What are you drinking?” really means “Will it cover the taste of the pills in my pocket?” If I don’t just stop speaking to this man, I have to risk actual vulnerability or one day even :gasp: trust. Even on the most basic level, that’s horrifying. So, as I cross my booted legs in front of me, it’s really to keep him from leaning in more closely. It’s also no coincidence that my body is mostly turned away from him during a dance. Nor is it natural to hold my drink by the rim with my palm over the top as I keep backing up to stand by best friend instead of this stranger. I’m not playing hard to get. I just have deep-seated emotional traumas for which I refuse to seek help.. and that is haaaawt.


Fuck, Gail. You’re so paranoid. It’s just lime seasoning.

5. He’s not getting laid anyway.
Hypothetically (because this has never happened), maybe he’s cute and didn’t open with “Hey, there. I’ve never hit a woman” (that has). He’s got a big boy job and he even made me laugh. He wants to hear about my job and doesn’t ask “So, why do you need a master’s degree for that?” He’s got real points where they count… but, for all of the aforementioned reasons and then some, I’m still not going home with him. For one, I’m in a fucking skort and my dishwater bra. It’s also been years since anyone’s seen my breast reduction scars or heard the sounds I make during sex. As a side effect of my marriage, I can’t even sleep alone without my purse next to me and regularly wake up in a panic anyway. Like I’m going to be that exposed with even the nicest stranger ever. I also used to weigh 260 pounds and it takes a lot to go from “that fat chick” to “the girl who gave me head at the cowboy bar.” I really don’t care what people do with their own bodies. It makes no difference to me whether or not your vagina has been broken in if you’re a consenting adult. I, however, am far too inexperienced and insecure because of it to be naked with another person in the room. Gail mentioned that if I went to a movie with Engineer, he’d hold my hand and I freaked the fuck out. So, it’s pretty safe to say that I am doing nothing with a man in a bar that I couldn’t tell my daddy about later.

I could probably theme this entire blog around learning to date at an age when everyone else knows what they’re doing, though I’m not really into the idea of a theme that’s any more specific than That Librarian Who Says Fuck A Lot. The fact remains, that in any given situation where a guy thinks I’m fuckable, all he’s got to do is scratch the surface. At this point, I think I should probably shoot for my social awkwardness to be considered endearing, rather than sexy.

What it’s really like being “one of the guys”…

Aside

Jay: “Now shut-up and go make me a sandwich.”
Me: suggestively “How about you both make me a sandwich.”
Ken: “Ew?”

I started this entry on my phone at a Buffalo Wild Wings table (about three months ago) with my best guy friends, who have been near and dear to me for a little over two years now. Because of my inability to filter my jokes and comments, or pick up basic conversational cues, I lack the stereotypical Sex and the City troupe of mismatched gals. However, what I lack in disease-ridden chick pals, I make up for in good ol’ boy, XBOX playing muscle. [Go ahead and assume I made a more up-to-date reference than such classic HBO.] To my left was Jay, the kind-hearted but endlessly teasing boy who taught me to shoot a gun. To my right, Chad, his lovable older brother, who let me cry on him during my divorce… at 2:00 a.m… in the freezing cold. Across from me was Ken, the unicyclist with Peter Pan syndrome who rushed over at 10:30 one night to help me with a PowerPoint. Missing, was Ward, the closest I’ll ever have to a tantrum-throwing baby brother who gave me a bag of buttons and pink yarn for my birthday this year, becuse he knows pink is my favorite color and I’m going through a crochet phase. See. You can keep your talk of unicorns, puppies, and menstrual blood (that’s what women talk about, yes?), because I have about 800 pounds of pure heart in my guys.

All of the aforementioned attributes are essentially a disclaimer, however, because here’s what it’s really like to be “one of the guys.”

Gender is No More/Boys are Disgusting
I’ve met a lot of women who say “Ugh. I can’t stand girls. I only hang out with guys.” What they often mean, though, is that they treat their female friends like crap and like to date from the same general pool of men. That’s not so much being “one of the guys” as it is being “kind of easy.” In my case, I met my guys working at the local community center before getting a job in my field. It was here, that Ken once announced:

“We need to get rid of all the girls… except for hot chicks and Belle.”
His defense for this was:
“What? You’re not a girl. You’re Belle.”

Now, at the time of this comment, I weighed about 90 pounds more than I do now.  This was before my transformation to adult, when I was still wearing a t-shirt and pigtails to weddings. But even now, significantly slimmer, wearing cute little dresses, and :gasp: eyeliner, I have the sex appeal of a floor lamp as far as these guys are concerned.


… not even the grown-up kind.

To say they don’t care what I look like would imply that they notice whether I’m in yoga pants or a prom dress. While it’s amazing that they loved me just as I was at 250 and feel the same at 160, this means the boundaries that might exist for anyone they consider female, do not apply to me. While I claim to lack any disgusting bodily functions when I’m with them, I can guaran-damn-tee you they don’t do the same. Were Ken interested in me, I’d never have watched him eat his own vomit in a cereal challenge or pull down his pants so Jay could shoot him in the bare ass with an airsoft gun. This also means I get rough-housed with in the exact same manner as a 215 pound boy. I can’t count the times I’ve been unable say where I got that bruise, exactly. The closest they will ever come to hitting on me, no matter how hot I get, is in jest. Two years ago, Ken was fooling around with an 18-year-old who was a shit-ton of crazy packed in a teeny tiny little package. Left alone in Jay’s truck one night, Ken pretended to feel me up over the leggings I wore under my skirt.

Ken: “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
Me: “Honestly, the only thing I can think about is how you have your hand on my thigh and you once had it on Rochelle’s.”
Ken: Spans his hand out and moves it back and forth over my thigh “Is this still ONE?!?”

All of their disgusting boy jokes aside, the guys who taught me the definition of “duck butter” simply cannot handle it if I mention that I am actually a girl.

Jay: “You took a massive shit in Ken’s bathroom the other night.”
Me: “No. I didn’t. Stop saying that.”
Jay: “Then what took you so long?”
Me: “I was changing my tampon!”
– complete silence fell over the table of men –
Jay: “Ew.”

You are Never Allowed to Be Mad
I think one of the main reasons I don’t get along with women is because I don’t do catty. I’m not going to scratch your eyes out with my overly manicured talons and I’ve never said “Oh, no she dit-int.”  Okay. Maybe I’m basing too much of this off YouTube skits, because I really don’t spend time with women, but my point remains valid. Gail is my best friend and when she pisses me off, I don’t respond to her texts for a bit until I calm down… and vice-versa. We both know this and we’re both cool with it. We’ll address it quietly and quickly later. “That was just a bit too much for me.” “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be hurtful.” The. End.

Because of the aforementioned catty gals, however, men are used to this silence meaning more. It’s not a chance to cool down. It’s… drumroll please… The Silent Treatment. I’ve been told that if I’m mad, I should just say so. But why? If they get that I’m mad, then it’s not necessary to have a confrontation. Clearly, he doesn’t think he’s being an ass or he’d have apologized. Clearly, I think he is or I would wouldn’t have stopped talking ten minutes ago. We’re not going to come to a compromise, so it’s just redundant and more dramatic than they’re complaining I’m being by not talking. Furthermore, complaining that I’m mad or saying “She is so mad right now. Look how much we’re pissing her off” (Jay) over and over again is not helping.

Jay: “She’s just being a girl.”

NO. I am not being a girl. You are being an asshole.

Men, however, are completely allowed to be pissed off and handle it any way they like. If that means they just go silent for a bit, that’s alright, because they brought their penises to the party. They get to be mad and I get to have a vagina.

Me: “How come you get to be mad and I get to have a vagina?”
Jay: “You don’t have a vagina.”

… and we’re back to gender.

Everything Ever is Funny for Always
Me: “Hey, over 50% of women own vibrators.”
Ken: “Do you?”
Me: “I am not answering that.”
This took place in Jay’s truck, which required his door being opened for me to exit. They refused to let me out until I not only told them I had one, but what color it was, and if it had a name. This was about a year and a half ago. To this day, I am subjected to endless Fluffy jokes… usually in public, where no one knows what they’re discussing.

As I’ve said, I swear to my guys that I don’t poop. So, one night, we had a really heavy dinner before going to Ken’s house, where they’d know exactly how long I was in the bathroom. I texted Gail:
– Eating barbeque with the boys. I am so going to have to shit later. –
For the first time ever that night, Jay stole my phone and read my messages aloud… well over a year ago. I still cannot mention barbeque sauce or restaurants, ever, without comments about how I get “the barbeque shits.”

About a year and half ago, I was driving in town and missed my turn in for the post office. In a hurry, I turned at the next place I could, which happened to be the exit to a church. No one was coming or anything, but Chad and Jay just happened to be passing by and witnessed this. To this day, “Belle always drives in exits” and that’s hilarious.

When I got my hair cut super short in March, I didn’t want to pay for another cut for awhile, so I went a little too far.
text conversation
Me: Is my hair too short?
Chad: Why? Did someone say it was?
Me: Lol. That’s not a no.
Chad: It’s only too short if you think it is.
Me: Haha. Definitely not a no.

The next day, Shay, Chad and Jay’s little sister went to the car show with us.
Shay: “Oh, you cut your hair. It’s cute.”
Me: “Thanks! Chad said I look like Justin Bieber.”
Chad: “I did not!”
For four fucking months I was called Justin Bieber.

On the way to a concert, I didn’t hear the guys talking about the gay bar we passed. In line, I had to pee.
Me: “I’m going to go use the bathroom at that Mexican restaurant.”
They let me walk (with a limp from a back injury) all the way to Little Dick’s Halfway Inn, only to pee behind the building, because they weren’t open yet and spent the rest of the night periodically mentioning “that Mexican restaurant” and giggling like little girls.

There is just nothing off limits with my guys, when it comes to humor. That word I messed up in a sentence or the time I laughed weirdly, they’re going to catch it and they’re going to make fun of me for it. That is precisely why I get along with them. Girls are too over-senstive about that stuff and I make just as many insensitive comments as they do.

Me: arguing with Jay about how many times he’d said something “No. It’s five! You can’t even count. No wonder you’re failing chemistry.”

I’m the only one who’s tried marijuana and was intensely embarrassed when they found out.
Guy we know: “Are they high or something?”
Jay: “I don’t know. Ask Belle. She’s the expert.”

Arguing with Ward about how difficult it is to find a teaching job with Alternative Certification after he changed his major… again
Ward: “You don’t know everything you know!”
Me: “I have a degree in education. I know this! Whatever, Ward. Next week you’re just going to want to be a Space Cowboy anyway!”

Me: “I don’t know what to get Gail for her birthday.”
Jay: “Get her a baby doll. Just tell her not to kill this one.”

Ken: “You’re wearing zebra striped panties? That must have taken, like, five zebras.”

Jay: “Gosh. No wonder your mom beat you.”

Chad: “Why’s your car shaking? Have you got Fluffy under the hood?”

The Things They Say
Ken: “So, I was banging this chick, you see…”
Chad: laughs, knowing Ken’s a virgin
Ken: “I was knee deep in her…”
Jay: “He was gunny sack racing her.”

Ken: “She’s thick, but cute, right?”
Jay: “Yeah.” to me “How is that an insult?”

During a viewing of Two Girls One Cup
Chad: “I didn’t know girls could shit that much.”

Ken: “Man, if she had a dick, I’d let her rape me.”

Chad: “I’m not going in. I have shit all over my shirt.”
Jay: “That’s what you get for shitting on your shirt.”
Chad: “I have ranch all over my shirt.”
Ken: “You shit ranch?”

Jay: “I need some ideas for the Senior Center.”
Ken: “Mammogram Mondays!”

Everything Is Last Minute
So, I don’t know if this is guys, or my guys, but they never plan ANYTHING. The figure that, if they have plans, they won’t be free for the family outing or to help an elderly neighbor move a bed like the loveable fucking boyscouts they are. So they just make no plans. When they do, it’s unreasonably last minute for anyone with boobs.
9:00 movie. Be at the Center in 15.
What?!? I can’t be there in 15 minutes! I’m not even cute yet! In fact, I just took a shower and look like a mangy cat.
Then I get a message when I’m 3 minutes late.
Ugh. Never mind. We’re picking you up. Hurry.
But if I’m on the dot, a good 50% of the time, they are at least 10 minutes late and say things like “Well, if Belle hadn’t taken so long…” just to be pains in my ass. And that’s IF I can get a definitive time out of them. Often, it’s
1:30-1:45
At 1:42
Never mind. We’re picking you up. Hurry.

Furthermore, none of them ever wants to be the one to decide.
I don’t know. Ask the guys.
What’d the guys say?
Have you asked the guys?
I am asking the guys RIGHT THE FUCK now! You are one of the guys!

We have, literally, sat in Ken’s car for 30 minutes dicussing where to eat, because no one wants to pick something.
Me: “Fine. Let’s do Chili’s”
Ken: “Well. I guess it’s Chili’s…”
Chad: “Since Belle just has to have Chili’s.”
Jay: “It’s always up to Belle.”

Just to be a pain in my ass.

They Aren’t Girls… Not Even a Little
At the wildlife refuge, I repeatedly had to pee in the woods, because they didn’t have to go. I swear, they each have buffalo bladders.

Me: “It’s pretty.”
Chad: “It’s not pretty. It’s a truck.”
Me: “Trucks can be pretty.”
Chad: “No. Trucks are badass.”

Me: “Look! I got my Christmas tree up!”
Jay: “That’s disgusting.”
Me: “You’re just jealous because you don’t have a hot pink Christmas tree.”
Chad: “No. He’s just jealous, because he doesn’t get to set it on fire.”

Jay: “She’s busy watching vampire porn.”
Me: “There’s not even that much sex in it. It’s just HBO.”
Jay: “Where guys have sex with women and rip their heads off.”
Me: “That is the only part you’ve even seen and I only sent it to you to freak you out.”

Me: “I get to get my hair cut tomorrow! I’m going to chop it all off and get low-lights in it.”
Chad: “Low-lights?”
Me: “That’s what they’re called when you make it darker.”
Chad: “That’s called dying your hair.”
Me: “No, it’s not. It’s called low-lights.”
Chad: “Well… congratulations?”

Jay: “What kind of car was it?”
Me: “Red.”

Me: “See a picture of my new gun?!?”
Ken: “It’s PINK.”

They are Stubborn Asses
It has been over a year that Chad and I have been arguing over whether Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter is nerdier.

Jay and I still argue over whether a Reese tree has more calories than a Big Mac, which is stupid, because I’ve freaking Googled it and he is wrong.

Jay refuses to tell his ex-girlfriend from 5 years ago that it’s over, because he doesn’t want to look like an asshole. He tells me that girls are stupid if we think that a guy is interested when he responds to our texts.

Chad is the only one who has been in a car with me while I’ve driven, but every single one of them insists I’m a terrible driver.

Ward has no idea why he hates Obama, but he will somehow still argue about it until he is blue in the face. Saying absolutely nothing.

Ken once grabbed my flip flop and threated to break it if I didn’t tell him his worst personality trait. To this day, he claims I said he was an arrogant jerk when I told him he was a little bit full of himself.

Jay once wrote a paper with the sentence “The snow was so deep and ripe for avalanche you could practically swim in it” and still insists it was brilliant and I was just nitpicking, when he asked me to proofread it.

They piss me off, embarrass me, don’t compliment my hair, and make smells that shouldn’t come from people. They also taught me to shoot a gun when they found out what my ex-husband was doing. They drove around aimlessly when I didn’t want to go home. They made sure I was okay when I drunk dialed them. They moved every peice of furniture from one upstairs apartment to another and wouldn’t take a dime for it. They came to help when my battery died in the middle of the night. They all rearranged their schedules when I was too badly hurt to request time off for the car show, so I wouldn’t miss it. They’ve been late for class to help me with a flat tire, hung curtain rods, towel racks, changed oil, and even lightbulbs. In return, I do what I can. I make them candy and pies and buy them thoughful Christmas presents. I proofread resumes and cover letters and give job references. I’ll never sit through enough shoot-em-up boy movies to repay them for what they’ve been to me, though, so I’ll just have to pass on the chick flicks, glitter lipgloss, and Teen Beat magazine (seriously, have no basis for comparison anymore.)

Ward asked if I was a “big ol’ 5”, not realizing that his Big Bang Theory reference implied he was curious about my sex drive. I had feigned offense.

I finally told my guys about the graduation delay… and Chad was a sweetie, like always. Note that this conversation began with “talk to the guys”, when I said we needed to do something soon. Eye roll.

Crawfish and Smarmy

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I have previously written about how much I suck at dating. The post “Beginning Dating… at Age 25” was all about how I date like a socially awkward stereotypical man… who’s an asshole. I’m new to this. People just don’t expect me to be. While I’ve never had a successful date (define: has a follow-up), I have managed to have some really funny disastrous experiences. I’ll share my favorite.

Gail and I decided to meet at a local bar to watch the basketball playoffs in late spring. I’d worn a cute little sundress and cowgirl boots and she’d worn not-much dress and heels. This was not some fancy bar. The air was filled with smoke and the sound of cracking pool balls, the menus were sticky, and they were playing a freaking basketball game. So we were sending completely intentional signals, as this was before she ruined our fun by getting a boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong. We were there to see the game. Thank goodness I like sports, or I’d never meet men. However, if we happened to get some free drinks out of it, then so be it.

cheers

From the beginning of the night, our efforts had proven successful. That man really didn’t need to grab my leg and apologize so profusely for bumping into me. “Yes, someone is sitting here and I don’t need you and your buddy to grab a bucket of beers and join me.” That sort of thing. Eventually, a cute Cajun man who sounded like the newest popular Pixar character came to speak to us, his friend in tow. The Cajun man offered to buy us drinks and I didn’t want him to spend much money on me, so I asked for a beer. He seemed confused (and not that bright), so Gail rolled her eyes at me and told him to get us both a Sprite with peach schnapps. The bartender delivered the drinks, so there was no concern in actually drinking them. I’d probably have done so anyway, since “Hey, it’s still the suburbs,” but that’s likely why Gail tells me I’m too stupid to go out alone. “Naive” would be the nicer term, since she fancies herself the sweet one and all.

When it came time for introductions, the bar was loud, because we were winning the game. The Cajun man told me his name. At first I didn’t hear him. I asked twice for him to repeat it, before he pantomimed spelling it out to a girl who wants to be a young adult librarian one day.

R-U-E.

“Oh! RUE! As in…” quick glance to see Gail wide-eyed and shaking her head “… Rue.”

Hellz yeah. The dress was short. He wasn’t there for the eloquence. However, I did avoid making a Hunger Games reference to a cute drunk guy in a bar. Score one for… well, Gail.

Meanwhile, Gail was being assaulted… I mean wooed… by Sales.*  Sales was a chubby guy with over-gelled hair and Wal-Mart dress clothes, who’d have been cute if those things weren’t so obvious. He seemed confused as to how to appeal to women and complimented Gail’s heels way too many times for a guy claiming straight. As the night went on, we realized he was just really, really, drunk. There’s no other reason a man would say “So, you never told me where you worked” twelve times in an evening. Sales eventually earned the nickname “Smarmy”, because I use outdated language and that freaking fit.

*Men get nicknames until they matter and when I make them, they are always based on their careers, if only to prove they have them.

While Gail told Smarmy what she did for a living for the eleventeenth time, I sat back to back with her and continued talking to Rue. He was nice enough, he bought me a drink, and that’s kind of why we were at the bar. Now, I don’t do this sort of thing super often, but I’m pretty sure when asked if you have any tattoos in a bar, you’re supposed to reveal a sexy kitten just over your butt crack. I think it’s supposed to be sexy that you have a tattoo there, not the kitten picture itself. It’s probably not necessary to clarify that, as I’m not sure what would make a kitten sexy.

Rue: “So do you have any tattoos?”
Me: “Just one, on my foot. It’s an ankh.”
Rue: “A what?”
Me: “An ankh? It’s like a cross with a loop on it. It’s an Egyptian symbol for life. Do you have any?”
– At this point, he turns around and proceeds to take his shirt off. –
Rue: “I’m from Louisiana, so my buddies call me Crawfish.” he said in his poorly executed True Blood accent “See?”

See? was rhetorical, as it was impossible to miss that beneath said shirt was a full back piece of a rainbow-colored crawfish. I shit you not. I didn’t even know what a crawfish looked like until this moment in time and I must say, I would not want a picture of one on my back.

As I laughed at Crawfish Rue’s tattoo, which he luckily took to be flirting, Smarmy continued to sell himself to Gail… poorly. Greaser hair and $12 dress pants aside, I am pretty sure that this man got all of his dating skills from the Dell Computer Sales Manual. “Make sure to say the customer’s name at least three times during the transaction, so as to create the illusion of a personal relationship. Establish physical contact in a 2-1 ratio with this name.” He probably called Gail “Abigail” at least 50 times that night. Every other time he did so, he would gesture with an open palm and barely touch her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. Over and over and over again, while talking about what a great guy Crawfish Rue was. “He is the best guy you’ll ever meet.” He also repeatedly said “I know this sounds like a line, but it’s not.” Dude, it sounds like a line because you’ve worded it exactly that way fourteen times. Eventually, he decided to teach her to play pool in the most condescending Little Lady manner I ever did see, which was amusing for me, as Gail spends about 23 hours a day wearing her Plumed Feminist Hat.*

*This hat is metaphorical.

While Gail learned that the skinny end of the pool stick is supposed to hit the ball, Rue began to tell me his story.

Rue: “I’m originally from Texas and I’m moving back there tomorrow. I have a kid there.”
Me: “Oh, that’s great! You’ll get to be closer.”
Rue: “Not really. He’s a little asshole.”
Me: “Uh… how old is he?”
Rue: “Four. He’s just a little asshole. He does whatever he wants.”
Me: “Oh… well, maybe you’ll get to fix that when you’re closer.”
Rue: “Nah. I’m not allowed within a hundred feet of him.”
Me: “Oh… um… I’m sorry.”
Rue: “Yeah, you see, I spent four months in military prison. I was over in Iraq and when I came back, I found out my ex-wife had been fuckin’ around on me… so… cuz of her, I had to go to military prison for a while.”

At the risk of sound redundant: What the fucking fuck? I am pretty sure you left a substantial and enitrely relevant chunk out of that story, Crawfish Rue. Now, I am not a subtle person. It’s just not in me. I was a little tipsy and this guy just told me about his completely unprovoked stint in military prison. By this point, Gail’s pool lessons had ceased and she was back to back with me again. I turned and semi-shouted in a panic, “GAIL!”

Gail: laughing “He just called me goose.” This refered to my nicknaming Gail’s little girl Goose.”
Me: a touch hysterical and probably in a loud enough stage-whisper for Crawfish Rue to hear “Military prison!”
Gail: “He called me goose?”
Me: “Military! Prison!”
Gail: “You want to go play pool?”

It was this night, actually, that Gail and I decided we needed a “He’s creeping me out” code word. Fortunately, Smarmy and she went on another couple of dates before she never heard from him again when she didn’t put out.

Me: “How’s Sales?” she’d gotten pissy about the totally accurate and completely PG Smarmy nickname
Gail: “He’s good. He wants me to go to Boston with him.”
Me: silence “You’re kidding, right?”
Gail: “What? No. Why?”
Me: “Boston? Massachusetts?”
Gail: “No. Boston, the band.”

We recently found ourselves in a bar where an older man was caressing my shoulder far too much (define: at all). I randomly started shouting about Massachusetts and Gail fucking forgot. Eye roll.

Mushroom Cloud Over Madison

Aside

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

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

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

ward - foot in mouth
Yeah. He did.

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

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

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

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


That time I tried to be sexy…

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

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

I’m clinging to those words.

No. We’re not lesbians.

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That name is “Abigail’Sure Thing’.” I was “Belle’Superiority Complex’.” We’re not that nice to each other. Her ringtone at the time was “Looking for Love (in all the wrong places)”.

I woke up this morning to a continuing of our text conversation from last night… and the last two years, since we both got smartphones. I realized today, that it’s been almost exactly 10 years since Gail and I became friends. She had this retainer with teeth on it and she used to click it as a nervous habit.

Awkward 15-year-old Me: “What the hell happened to your teeth?!?”
Awkward 15-year-old Gail: “Well, I was at this party… and this guy had these piercings.”

We were instant friends.

It, of course, wasn’t true. Neither of us was truly kissed until we were 17. We had our first boyfriends together, our abusive first marriages together, lost our babies together (hers more substantial, Grace compared to a late first/early second trimester miscarriage six months prior), went through our divorces together, learned to actually date together. She taught me to put on eyeliner and make a budget. She drove around all night pulling over so I could vomit Thanksgiving of 2010 onto the side of the road once I’d finally kicked out my ex-husband. I went to the ER several times for baby fevers. I didn’t sleep through most of my student teaching so I could hang out with her as much as she needed when she had bad Grace days. I hugged her while she cried when the Cop blew her off after she fooled around with him. I humored her when she tracked down everyone I know to ask if I was okay after she hadn’t heard from me for a day. Her baby died. Paranoia is allowed.

I’m not going to lie. I don’t believe in unconditional love. Not even for children. No matter how far out they are, everyone has their limits. And that’s okay. If Gail chopped up my dog, I wouldn’t love her anymore. But, there’s nothing she would do to make me turn away. We’re family now. My brother made the lesbian comment a few months ago. She’s been my sibiling in a lot more ways than he has. I didn’t angrily tell him that, because I don’t like confrontation. I love him, but he’s still an offensive redneck.


See. Not a thing.

We have a multitude of codewords.

I’d replicate that = There’s someone behind you who just heard you make a joke about drawing the Mona Lisa in poop.
Massachusetts = This guy is creeping me out. Let’s go.
Liquid Nitrogen Slingshot Vials = Seriously. I’m not kidding. I actually (am pregnant, was raped, let him feel me up, etc.)
Super Best Friend Emergency = I’m crying. Come over if you can.
Clean sheets = Exactly how bad my marriage was. “Hey, it’s better than clean sheets.”
Bestie Withdrawal = I’m using “bestie” ironically and want to hang out since we haven’t in three days.

Those are only used when we actually need codewords.

“Cam knows how many pies I’ve baked.” = I finally told him about the musician I’ve been sleeping with.
“I don’t know how to be a girl!” = I’m alone in a changing room, stuck in a dress.
“I’m broken.” = I just did something super disturbing, because I’m mentally unstable (cried after absent-mindedly giving my old married name)

I don’t believe in unconditional love. I also don’t believe in romantic soulmates. You’re not meant to be with one person your whole life, because of destiny. You work hard at love and being together and if that doesn’t work, there are other people with whom it could. I do believe in other soulmates, though. Those people who were destined to come into your life and make it better. I believe in the ones who were meant to make you struggle, too, but I’d call those curses. My Gramma is a soulmate for me… and so is Gail. She is my best friend/sister/mom. If I call her and scream “Why can’t she just be FUCKING NORMAL?!? Has she given NOT being crazy a try?!?! I’m doing it RIGHT THE FUCK now!”, she apologizes and asks if I want to have lunch with my other mom.

We’re not physically affectionate, for the most part. I’ve hugged her twice in the last year, both times because one of us was distraught. Instead, we rely on each other to make inappropriate jokes when we can’t handle reality.

“Ugh. No wonder you got raped. Just remember. No only means no if you mean it, not if you moan it.”

We joke about how one of us imagined the other, because our lives and minds are too parallel. We both glanced at the soldier at IHOP and immediately thought about paying for his meal, based on a reference to the iPhone PostSecret App. We didn’t even discuss it other than to exclaim “We’re thinking the exact same thing! One of us is so made up.” and fist bump.

We know we’ll be honest, if not always nice.

“How’s this look?”
“I know we live in a world of genocide and baby rape, but that is the worst thing ever.”

“Do you have any gum?”
“Yes.”
“Could you chew some?”

“Do I have a mustache? Does it look like one of my eyebrows fell down?”
“Yes.”

If she reads this, she’ll either pretend to be uncomfortable over my blogosphere declaration of undying love or she’ll go “Awwww. You love me.”

I don’t know that there’s a point to this blog, except that I’m lucky to have this weird bond, which is possibly imagined while I’m rocking in a corner and chewing on my own hair. I hear adults say they wish they had a best friend… so my life fucking rocks. We’ll just continue to avoid hugging to lessen the assumption that we’re lovers.

Update:

Winifred, the Accidental Alter-Ego

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Open with a distantly related anecdote.

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

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

Winifred, the Accidental Alter-Ego

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winifred, the Accidental Alter-Ego

Not pictured: Tears

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

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

Elephants and a Crossbow

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I had a rough week. I didn’t pass the graduate portfolio, convinced myself that I’d have to join the military when I didn’t pass next time (eye roll), and was being constantly attacked by one particularly rabid and hostile family member. By the time I got to Thanksgiving dinner, I was weepy-eyed and barely able to speak without bursting into tears. I’m not particularly emotional around People Not Gail or Gramma, so it really said something about my mental state that I couldn’t function enough to keep actual tears at bay.

Every year, my family has what they call The Water Buffalo, which is a party where only the women who’ve finished high school get together and swim. The title refers to size, as many of the women are heavier and I’m not the only self-deprecating woman in the family. This year, however, I have decided they’re not buffalo. They’re elephants.

“There’s this YouTube video where a pack of elephants circles around their young and injured, attacking any threats. After the last few years, this reminds me of the women in my family. This would be a lot more flattering were the comparison not to elephants.” – A Thanksgiving Facebook post

I don’t know that my family has actually seen me cry since I was a child. So when I teared up because someone told me I wasn’t invited to Christmas dinner anymore, every single loud and blunt woman I love went full-on Mama Bear on me. They passed my phone around, reading the text messages in horror, and my Grandma (not Gramma) loudly announced that she was “sick of hearing about her* twat all the time” referring to the tendency of this person to discuss feminine issues far too openly. I made my white-haired Grandma, who once spent a half hour lecturing me on how to hold a fork, say the word “twat”, she was so enraged by my mistreatment.

*Possibly unnecessary clarification – not my Grandma’s (nor my Gramma’s) twat

Simultaneously, I was hugged and my pain was eased about my portfolio. My Grandma (not Gramma) told me she imagined I was shocked because everything comes easily to me. My aunt (dad’s cousin) who also has an MLIS told me she understood, because the directions are always so vague. My favorite actual aunt breathed a sigh of relief, because she was really busy on graduation day anyway.

The rest of the night was spent eating myself sick, discussing sales, and watching children chase each other through the house with a crossbow. I asked my cousin if being a musicisan meant he was “rolling in the pussy”. His mom (favorite aunt) was appalled and accused me of being the drunk one running her mouth this year. Neither of us took my apology seriously. I was repeatedly told that I am always welcome with this side of the family at Christmas time and promised they’d never uninvite me. The evening came to a close giggling over the bad CGI of the daddy-funded viewing of Breaking Dawn Part II with my little sister. She was horrified at my exclamation that if I ever had sex with an old man, it would be Woody Harrelson and I’d let him stick it in my ear if he wanted.

No joke. A fucking crossbow.

I realize, I truly did get something for which to be thankful yesterday. Two years ago, I was heartbroken and miserable, married to a soulless monster, watching my life crumble around me, feeling all alone. This year, I was weepy and insecure and surrounded by my loving pack of elephants, eager to protect me from the outside threat in my moment of weakness. If only I’d realized I had that support system all along, things might have gone differently. Perhaps I shouldn’t wish for that, though. Maybe I am 25, still in school, and divorced. Maybe I’m terrible at dating and still a little broken from my marriage and the South says this means I’ll die alone. Maybe no one but my family and dear friends know Belle, while everyone else knows Winifred, the persona I hide behind when I’m feeling raw. But it feels right. I’m meant to be here. I’m on the right path… and that’s more than okay.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver’s Test

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When I failed the driver’s test at 16, I cried for hours.I couldn’t even talk about it for months afterward. Two months ago, I wept because I made a 98.5% on an assignment. I felt it deserved a 100%. I was heartbroken. I was also a complete pain in the ass to anyone who would listen to my “woe is me, I”m 1.5% less than perfect” rant. So… take that and imagine my reaction when I “did not pass” my End of Program Assessment for graduate school yesterday. “Fail” is too negative a term for graduate students, which I swear have some of the most delicate selves-esteem in regards to their intelligence. Ironic huh? Following is a dramatic retelling of yesterday’s ordeal.

The committee sat with bated-breath, awaiting a presentation on the depth of my learning experience during my last two years in graduate school.

I entered and promptly presented to them… an orange.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver's Test
… but it was an awesome damned orange.

That’s pretty much exactly what happened. I had the complete wrong idea of what was expected of me. My original advisor was a woman constantly being encouraged to retire. She rarely responded to e-mails and gave me a pat on the back and a thumbs up each time I presented her with what I’d accomplished for my portfolio. Then she retired without telling me and I had to acquire a new advisor the summer before presenting. My new advisor is kind and gentle… too gentle. She didn’t tell me that what I had sucked… and was a fruit. So, as I started speaking and saw the committee member’s faces, I knew I had it wrong. I was presenting an overview of what I thought would make me a good librarian, not an in-depth presentation of my learning experiences in relation to YALSA approved standards and objectives. I’m talking about how working circulation has helped me to put a smile on my face when this guy’s acting like a dick, and they’re wanting to hear about the Public Relations tactics I’ve learned in my Public Relations course. I knew I was screwed and just became more and more flustered to the point that, when asked what the purpose of a Reference Collection was, I actually said “I don’t know.” No. Fucking. Joke.

As I stood waiting while they convened, I began to think up other possible careers. I texted Gail and told her it was all over. She told me to relax, I probably did fine. I didn’t respond, knowing very well this was bad. I was going to have to change the name of my blog. “I don’t know.” What the fuck? I do, too, know! A Reference Collection houses Almanacs and Encyclopedias. I just didn’t know I would be asked that or that I’d show up to the singing competition with my prized dancing mule.

A Chronicle of My First Failure Since the Driver's Test
Mildred. You expected a boy, didn’t you?

I sat down as they opened the door, shocked that I was intuitive enough to recognize the body language and energy of someone who was about to announce that I had cancer and had taken a shit all over the presentation podium.

“We’re disappointed.”

My first thought was “But can you pass me anyway?”

I pretty much just heard a roar of white noise in my ears after that. I remember blaming my advisor situation and then trying to simultaneously say that I wasn’t trying to blame my advisor situation and telling them that I just didn’t understand the portfolio requirements. I truly didn’t. I’m not going to lie. There a lot of readings I didn’t do. There were times when I zoned out during lectures or participated minimally during discussions and that is why I couldn’t talk about these things at the drop of a term. Call it a curse of online learning, but you don’t actually have to know what anyone is talking about when you can just Google the term to remind yourself before responding. However, had I understood the requirements of the portfolio, I’d have brushed up. I’d have known the term and realized that when I was asked how my searching techniques now differ from when I began the program, they weren’t talking about my ability to use the word “and” in the search box. They wanted to know what I’d learned in my Knowledge Management course.

At this point, I’m pretty much just proud that I didn’t beg them to pass me or burst into tears about how “I do, too, know what a Reference Collection is! I promise! IT’S BOOKS! IT’S ALL BOOKS!” and then run out of the room crying. I kept my big girl panties on and I asked questions while three people told me how much I sucked. I made arrangements with my advisor for the 2 hour Directed Reading course that will help me focus on my revision and re-presentation of my portfolio in March. I walked to my car and called my Gramma and assured her that I was not joking, I had actually failed. I called my dad and told him that I was the slow child and I was sorry I’d disappointed him. He told me I was being ridiculous. I went out with Gail and I wallowed and made jokes about how they kicked me out of college and made me ride the short bus home. I talked about how if I fail again and I don’t get my masters degree, I’m going to have to build a rich life in the World of Warcraft, because my life here is over. She laughed and told me that at least I’m still funny. I went home and I cried. I canceled work for today (substitute teaching, which can actually be canceled the night before and no one cares) and slept restlessly. My prayers last night were along these lines.

“Thank you Lord for all you’ve given me and please help me to move forward. [tearfully] Please, please let me pass next time and give me the motivation to work for it. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for my sins. Thank you. Amen.”

In the night, my pain eased. As I tossed and turned, I’d wake up with a little less heartache, the pit in my stomach a little softer. I woke at 7:00 and knew that I could still accept a sub job, but decided I’d rather pout. Thirty minutes later, I got out of bed and grabbed my textbook for my current class. I began to read from page one, highlighting for notes. I ordered the textbook from the last class I breezed through as well. I messaged my advisor telling her the times we could meet and that I was rereading my old texts. I went grocery shopping and bought note cards and pretty pens for color-coding because I’m insane. I called my manager and secured every Wednesday off for the next semester. I explained I had two more hours I had to take, knowing full well that she’s a librarian and knew I had my presentation yesterday and failed. I put the embarrassment aside, because that is one of the worst parts. I hide behind a different persona at work to a psychologically unhealthy extent anyway (another entry for another time). Why should this be any different? I went to lunch with my dad and he reassured me I’ll pass.

I love my dad, but he doesn’t know me all that well. Gail is the person who knows me best in the world and she didn’t know if she should leave me alone last night, because she thought I might hurt myself. I’m not saying it was rational, but yes, that was a valid fear. My dad, however, felt he should begin sentences with “… and if you don’t pass…”

NO! Shut the fuck up! I WILL pass. That’s the only thing I want to hear. I’m not saying I’ll pass by fate or magic. I’ll pass because I spent the whole day reading and ordering textbooks. I’ll pass because I have six months to learn the theories of information services inside out. I’ll pass because I WILL read a minimum of two hours a day on information theories and articles about current trends in the library world. I may still be the worst driver on the planet, but I will learn this stuff to the point that I have no fucking social life beyond this blog and text messages to Gail if that is what it takes. I will not get used to failure and develop better coping mechanisms than eating an entire Old Chicago, because I won’t fail.

And in the meantime, I will slip behind my work persona, Winifred, and tell everyone I have one more class to take, consoling myself with the fact that it is not a lie. They just assume… and eventually write the blog entitled “Winifred.”

Last night’s late night internal ramblings…

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“I really shouldn’t have stopped talking to that guy just because he ended a sentence in a preposition. I’m going to die alone. I think I’d rather be a shapeshifting wolf than a shapeshifting cat, because I’d rather curl up in a den than climb a tree. The tree seems far more out in the open. But cats are so stealthy. Maybe there’s a cross between a cat and a dog. Giles from Buffy said that’s what hyenas were. But hyenas are ugly. I really need to get off this paranormal romance kick. Holy shit, I’m not going to get this assignment finished in time. Maybe I should get up right now and work on it. It’s 1:00, though. If I was going to work on it, I should’ve done so rather than watching Netflix. Maybe I could get up and watch Netflix. Fuck I should go to sleep. I think this mattress really is growing on me… even if that guy did swindle me to make a sale. Do people say ‘swindle’ anymore?”