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.

No need to check my bag. I only brought my ninja skills.

Posted on May 13, 2013 by Belle of the Library

I did it. I graduated with my Master of Library and Information Studies… and as with many should-be-boring events in my life, I made it an adventure with my finesse and ninja skills.

Me. Just lying. I’d lose a nipple just taking this picture.

In 2010, I received my Bachelor’s degree from Central University, a smaller college known for being the best teaching school in the state. Because of its size and the fact that the ceremonies were divided by college, graduation was held in the gym. My Master’s degree, however, came from University of State, which offers the only degree in several states that is accredited by the American Library Association. Attending a large state university means I officially get to align myself with a football team like it’s my religion, along with several thousand other people in the Midwest .. who were all at my fucking graduation ceremony.

I’ve never exaggerated anything in my life.

Having been told to be at the convention center by 9:15, I decided to leave at 8:45 for the 45 minute drive. Graduation wasn’t until 10:00. Why would I want to wait for 45 minutes when putting on a robe takes like three? Furthermore, it was only the College of Arts and Sciences, so just like my undergrad, it wouldn’t be that crowded. It’s funny how seven years of college left me how-does-she-not-drown-in-the-shower stupid.

Not only was I running late to graduation, but my Gramma was as well, since she didn’t want to drive down alone. Now, just to be clear, my Gramma is the best person in my life. She’s also the most pessimistic. When her football team is ahead by three touchdowns and loses the ball, she will shout “Well, we’ve lost it now!” at the T.V. and try to kick me out before the game ends. I’m not kidding. I had to threaten to never watch another game with her if she wouldn’t let me finish the one on the screen. Therefore, the entire trip to the convention center went like this…

Gramma: “You’re not gonna make it, Belle.”
Me: “Thank you, Gramma. I appreciate the input.”
Gramma: “There’s no way you’re gonna make it in time.”
Me: “Thank you, Gramma. That’s not really helping.”
Gramma: “We should have left earlier.”
Me: “Why, yes, Gramma. I hadn’t considered that.”

The traffic was nearly as terrible as the road work and I hate to drive… probably because I suck at it. This is one time I desperately regreted my single status, because I (not all woman-kind, Gail) would have loved a penis behind the wheel. I wish there were some way to thank the man in the Dodge in front of me for not pulling out a gun, because in my stress I was pretty much on top of him. He kept kindly motioning for me to not follow so closely, an oddly civil reaction to road rage in the Midwest. I tried. I really did. But in my stress, I would just inch more closely all over again. It really didn’t matter how I drove, though, because even when I wasn’t following closely, I got the same response from my Gramma every single time I braked.

Gramma: “Belle!”
Me: “Gramma, I have never been in a wreck. I see that he’s stopped. I’m not going to hit him.”
Gramma: ::Gasp::
Me: “That’s it, Gramma! No more sounds from you! You are on mute, now!”

By the time I pulled up to the convention center, I was convinced I wouldn’t be allowed to walk, because I was so late… and because my Gramma kept telling me so. It was 9:53. I asked her to park the car and bolted toward the door… only to forget my hat and sigh with relief that she hadn’t taken off yet. I rushed back to the door and saw the sign saying I needed to be at the south entrance. I was at the north entrance and it was 9:55. I ran full-throttle to the south entrance… and forgot I was in knee-high leather heeled boots. Stepping off the sidewalk was either a godsend, for it didn’t destroy my legs, or a curse because it caused me to fall in the first place. Either way, I went down. Hard. No one even laughed, it was such an epic fall. When a man asked if I was okay, I shouted “I’m good!” and rolled and jumped up action-movie-style to take off. In my haste, however, I didn’t fully catch my balance and re-face-planted immediately. I took slightly more care getting up that time, shouted “I lied! But I’m good now!” and took off again. Ultimately, my big action scene was far more Will Farrell than Jason Statham.

When I finally got to the south end of the convention center, I was somewhat rumpled and a professor helped me right the ridiculous collar for which I paid $64 last semester and I realized my tassel said 2012, because I’d intended to walk in December before failing my portfolio. My professors were glad to see me, though the time was a bit embarrassing, seeing as how the undergrads had already started walking. As an asthmastic, I couldn’t really handle the run and stress of the morning and once we were seated, kept coughing…

Woman beside me: “I wish I had a cough drop for you.”
Translation: God, I hope I don’t have to listen to that for two fucking hours.

I did my best to shut up while inventorying my injuries, at which point I realized my knuckles were bleeding and my knees were bruised. I texted Gail to tell her this and the conversation went as follows:

My phone kept correcting my sarcastic “Bestie” to “Beastie”. Gail is now stuck with this nickname.

My dad texted to ask where I was. I told him I was the one in the hat. I made sarcastic comments to my little sister, Bea, about how she shouldn’t wear anything under her robe when she graduates high school in a week, because it’s so fucking hot. I believe there was a recommendation to wear baseball pasties (she’s a baseball manager) and fling the robe off into the crowd. Since her nippels wouldn’t be showing, it wouldn’t even be illegal. She declined my advice. Ungrateful little shit. The rest of the ceremony pretty much went the same way. I texted and completely ignored the generic speech so clearly directed toward traditional undergrads.

Speaker: “It seems only yesterday we were moving into our dorms…”
text to Bea: I’m pretty sure I know the official melting point of human flesh.

The names were called.
Bea: I must really love you.
Me: Hey. They’re giving you baby name ideas for when you get knocked up in your freshman year. Pay attention.

I worked to subtly take off the sweater I had under my robe… and failed.
Me: “It’s shockingly difficult to undress beneath a graduation robe.”
Woman annoyed by my coughing: silence

Since my mother is as insane as her mother is adorable, she spent the entire ceremony staring at me through a pair of binoculars… from about 50 yards away. I kept mouthing “find Gramma” at her and texting her to say that I’d had her park the car and would hate for her to sit alone, since I made her late. My mother did not budge, nor did she redirect the binoculars. I could see this clearly, because she was fifty fucking yards away. Finally, I found my grandmother (without a telescope, I might add) and texted Bea to tell her she was on the same row, not far from her, my dad, and step-mom. Minutes later, Bea sent me a text saying they’d found my Gramma and were all chatting outside. My dad made the extra effort to find his ex-mother-in-law and keep her company, while my mother…

… was otherwise preoccupied.

The drive home was significantly less stressful and I laughed and chatted with my Gramma the whole way. When we got back to town, I realized how much my boots were hurting my feet… only to later see the bruise wrapping the left one. My poor knuckles are still raw and a good night’s sleep brought to my attention the pain coursing through my shoulder and left arm. Battle scars. Graduating is hard, y’all.

Gramma: “I can’t believe you made it. I just knew you wouldn’t. I kinda figured you’d miss it.”

“I’m sorry I asked for detailed information on your sex life before meeting. Lol.”

Posted on April 1, 2013 by Belle of the Library

Motherfucker, I am bad at this.

Not just like a little bad. Like a lot bad.

I met Teacher on OKCupid. He’s a choir teacher and that’s super gay, but I’m aware that I’m being judgemental and stereotyping with said assessment. I’m trying really hard to knock it off with having a “type.” I mean, I think it’s important to have something in common with anyone I date, but I’m a varied and complex person. I’m also not narcissistic enough to think I’m the only one out there. I like to shoot pink guns, but I also went to Batman Live alone, because no one would go with me. I have a dear affection for Disney on Ice and regularly use the words “snazzy” and “keen”. There’s also the little detail about majoring in books. Who’s to say the nerdy girl is any less significant than the country girl? So, I put aside my snobbery and responded when Teacher messaged. Overall, he seems like a pretty nice guy. I was even able to check online and see that he actually works at the middle school he named. But I was still hung up on one little detail from his profile:

The most private thing I’m willing to admit:
I have Dom tendencies.

Yes, yes, I am, indeed, going to end up in Tupperware for the fact that I would respond in the first place, but that phrase could mean a multitude of things, from “I like to be in control in bed” to “How’s that ball gag feel? What? I can’t hear you, because of the ball gag, bitch!” Now, I’m pretty inexperienced, since my ex-husband was morbidly obese, which limited the positions possible, and never wanted to have sex. I also, however, know that I like when the guy takes control, so I’m fine with the first option and that’s what I was thinking in the beginning of my correspondance with Teacher. He also hasn’t asked me a single inappropriate question or implied that he expects anything from me, so I’ve continued texting him. We were supposed to meet Friday, but I got busy talking to tech support about my Gramma’s broken T.V. (that I bought her for Christmas) while she was hilariously and uncharacteristically ungrateful.

Me: “Well, I got a new book loaded on your Nook, at least.”
Gramma: “Yeah, well I’d prefer to have my T.V. working!”
Me: “I had a date tonight, Gramma. I canceled to deal with this.”
Gramma: “Oh, bull. You did not.”
Me: laughingly “Okay.”
Gramma: “Oh, you did not.”
Me: “Okay, Gramma. I love you.”

angry old lady
I didn’t even try to convince her, because she’d be even more upset that I just murdered all of her future great grandchildren and it wouldn’t change anything. Teacher was really understanding about my flakiness, though, so I still didn’t have an excuse to stop speaking to him. Damn it. Gail and I had Easter breakfast and I told her that I was considering “pulling a Belle” and just ending all communication without an explanation, because of the Dom comment.

Me: “It freaks me out.”
Gail: “It freaks you out, even though you’re into it?”
Me: “I’m not into that.”
Gail: “You’re into that a little.”

Good point. Teacher had wished me a happy Easter far too early in the morning and I hadn’t responded. After time with family, setting up my Gramma’s new T.V. with much more gratitude (Wal-Mart did let her return it), and amounts of chocolate that would kill Willy Wonka, I went home and crashed. I woke to a text from Teacher asking how my Easter was. Ugh. This guy will not give me a legitimate reason to act like a dick! He didn’t text at all Saturday, texted once Sunday morning in a way that required no response, and still sent a text asking about my holiday when I didn’t respond, hours later. I can neither accuse him of being annoyingly clingy, nor can I claim he’s not interested either. DAMN IT!

I responded and viewed his profile again. That’s when I saw this question:

If a trusted partner asked you to submit to them sexually, would you? Assume that this would involve letting them collar you, command you, and have control over you during sex.

Teacher’s response was no, with the explanation “I am a Dom.” Okay. He’s not really responsible for that question. OKCupid brought it up. I read into shit, though. I’ve written multiple blogs overanalyzing fiction. I’m also not-so-secretly looking for a reason to sabotage all possible relationships, because I am the White Witch of Narnia.

“Dom tendencies” and “I am a Dom” resonated completely differently with me, even though that could just be taken as an explanation for why he wouldn’t be interested in a submissive activity. Naturally, I texted Gail, because I have no idea what the fuck I am doing and can’t choose a brand of shampoo without her input.

Gail: Ask what that entails. And you should be nice even if it’s super weird.
Me: You’re trying to get me killed.

Gail was shocked when I told her I’d actually asked, because she really was expecting me to pull a Belle and just drop of the face of the earth. My only other female friend, Niki, told me to tell him I had cancer and was dying. Thank you! That’s more my speed and there’s a reason she’s one of two vaginas with whom I’ll associate with any regularity.

So I asked Teacher what “Dom tendencies” meant with no lead up at all. His answer basically told me that he doesn’t know what the word “Dom” means and he just likes to be in control and handcuffs could be fun. That’s cool with me. Collars, not so much. He also asked why I was asking so suddenly, which… yeah. Who asks that with no context? Sending Gail screen caps, I relayed my response to her:

Because there’s a question that asks about collars and that freaks me out. Like, the guy being in control doesn’t, but like… well collars. You seem nice, but that’s extreme.

Gail supplied me with her translation: “you seem weird, but it’d be nice if you’d prove otherwise.” I’d already sent the worst save ever.

Like, for me, I mean. More power to the rest of the world. I don’t care what they do.

His response was as normal and nice as could be in this situation, and he explained that he would never do something that made his partner uncomfortable and that that was ages away and we should probably meet first. I apologized for asking and told him that it had just made me nervous.

I’m sorry I asked for detailed information on your sex life before meeting. Lol.

Again, he was really nice and said it didn’t bother him and he asked what else was making me uncomfortable. I ignored the question and made a joke about how I needed to stop reading the sex questions. He said he hoped he hadn’t scared me off. I was feeling really awkward and started rambling via text. Oh, yeah. That’s a thing.

No, it’s okay. That’s why I asked. And your answer was super not creepy. Lol. Gail and I used to look at the Craiglist personals, because they’re funny and the people who used the word Dom generally weren’t meaning such a mild version.

they were descriptive. And terrifying. Maybe I should stop doing that.

It’s alright to pretend I never asked if you had a woman in your dungeon.

SHUT-UP, BELLE! SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP!!!!!

He asked a quick, undetailed question about my preferences and I said I was inexperienced, but not prude. Then he changed the subject, because everyone on the planet is better at this crap than I am.

I’ll continue to try and find flaws with Teacher that will justify my ditching him. If I can’t do so by Friday, I’ll meet him in person… then I’ll surely find something… because I want to die alone.

Because even my own embarrassment is funny…

Posted on March 4, 2013 by Belle of the Library

“The kid from The Grudge wasn’t Asian. He was Japanese.”
I was 17. I’d like to thank (blame) growing up in the Midwest (population: white) and public education.

“Why would anybody buy a bag of footballs?”
country song: “bag of pigskins”

“You look like Lucy Lui… but not just because you’re Asian or anything. I mean, you’d have to be Asian to look like her, but you just actually look like her.”
In my fear of sounding racist, I sounded super racist.

“Well, the first book in the series is called 50 Shades of Grey and it has a tie on the cover. The second book has a picture of handcuffs on the cover. It’s called 50 Shades Dee-Darker. I almost said Fifty Shades Deeper. That’s embarrassing.”
That’s right. I actually stopped myself from saying this awkward and embarrassing thing to a customer who didn’t understand that the material was adult. Then I explained that I’d almost just said something awkward and embarrassing. I should be a public speaker.

“Crash. I didn’t really care for this movie.” I suddenly remember I’m not supposed to negatively comment on a customer’s selections… and get flustered and try to make it better. “My best friend loved it. It just wasn’t really my thing. We just have really different tastes in women… I mean movies…” How the FUCK do I mean movies?!?!? “We have really different tastes in movies. She made me watch THE WOMEN once and we just have really different tastes in movies.”

“It’s just really important to try not to touch yourself while you’re cooking.”
This was during a presentation over food safety and sanitation… in front of a class of about 30 people. I got an A, possibly because the professor couldn’t stop laughing.

“People race foxes?!?”
:in reference to the brand Fox Racing:

Me: “We’re not lesbians.”
Waitress: “What?”
Me: “Before. You took our names and you called her my partner. We’re not lesbians. I just wanted to clarify.”
Waitress: “Um… I’m sorry? I didn’t say that.”
Me: “Yeah, you did. Before, when you took down our names. It’s okay, though. You must’ve forgotten.”
Gail: “It’s not the same person.”
Me: “Yes it is.”
Gail: “No. It’s not.”
Me: “Yes it is. Wait. She wasn’t pregnant, was she?”
Gail: “No. Because it’s not the same person.”
Me: “Oh. Um…”
That’s right. Because it would’ve been more embarrassing to admit I’d made this appalling mistake than to try and convince the waitress that she did, in fact, call us lesbians.

Me: “I like your scarf.”
Customer: “Thank you! I got it at Ross.”
Me: “I’m sorry?”
Customer: “I got it at Ross.”
Me: “OH! I thought you said ‘I’ve gotta get bras.'”
Why the FUCK do I clarify the embarrassing part when I have successfully avoided it?!?!

Me: “I thought Benjamin Franklin was a president until I was 19-years-old.”
Gail: hysterical laughter
Me: “What?!? He’s on money! That’s like if Louisa Mae Alcott was on the $27 bill or something.”
Gail: “Why Louisa Mae Alcott?”
Me: “Um… because she wasn’t a president either. Duh.”
I probably could’ve just avoided telling anyone that story.

Me: “Why would I care what nationality my mechanic is?”
The sign read “Japanese Mechanic.”

Cowork C: “What’s the name of that one?”
Me: “I don’t even know.” I did fucking, too. It was Pleasures of a Dark Prince and I was not saying that.
Coworker C: gestures for me to turn it over. I do and there’s a receipt taped to the front so no one can see the cover art.
Me: “I just… uh… it’s part of of… um… it’s just some series… the uh… dark immortals… or immortals dark… or uh something… um Immortals After Dark. Yeah that’s it. It’s paranormal romance. Not something you’d be interested in.”
It was the verbal equivalent of tripping over a chair and I rocked it.

Coworker B: yanks my Kindle from in front of me “Wow. I wish I could read print that small!” I don’t. I had an explicit sex scene on the screen at that very moment. We’re talking key terms like “errection” and “tight sheath.” I once tried to show the same coworker a picture on my phone, only to have forgotten about the picture of Black lesbian sex I’d sent one of the guys as a joke. Let’s hope she couldn’t see a thumbnail picture that small either.

Customer: “And this will let me view the Nook books?”
Me: “Yeah, we have a great e-media selection. Let me show you.”
I turn the screen toward her and pull up my personal account. The following book covers are prominently displayed: