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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

she's all that
Do not even get me fucking started.

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

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

Nate was… hmm… how shall I put this?

pet cemetary
Nate: age 2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The “Ideal Woman”… probably isn’t drunk at 4:00 on a Wednesday.

Wednesday was my day off and, as the result of some Hellmouth-level bizarre occurrences, the fates lined up and Gail and I actually had the chance to hang out… in person! Usually when we spend time together, it’s via phone, text message, or the occasional surprise Facebook annoyance of her ex-boyfriend until Gail deletes the damn conversation just as it was starting to really piss him off. Bleeding hearts of the world unite, Jiminy Fucking Cricket.


We met up after Gail got off work, with the full intention of laying out by the pool at my apartment. I didn’t press that plan, because I’d been doing so for two hours and could later prove it with the spots I missed when putting on sunscreen. It’s not truly summer until you’re rubbing aloe into your ass, wondering why exactly your ass was showing at a public pool, amiright? Since it was 93 degrees, Gail works outside, and I had been laying out reading for long enough to end up in the ER again – being yelled at because that’s apparently “not text message news” (true story) – we decided to lounge in my living room, in our bathing suits, enjoying air conditioning… and liquor. We truly are classy Southern gals, so I supplied ice cream bars and Gail brought Taco Bell sodas and Patron. She refuses to drink cheap liquor, even if it is just going into cherry soda. For realz… it’s like drinking with the Queen… of the trailer park.* She won’t drink anything out of a plastic bottle. Fucking princess.

Oh, unhappy marriage, how I miss you. You can’t even taste the tears through this stuff and it’s like eight bucks a gallon.

* I’m totally allowed to make this joke, since I spent my first eight years in a trailer. Fucking disclaimers. There. This entry is no longer offensive.

Gail has always been a hopeless lightweight and my prime drinking days took place when I was about 90 pounds heavier, so after just a a few sips, we were both giggling maniacally in my living room.

heres johnny

It was at this point, I began reading OKCupid profiles. You see, Gail and I used to browse the Craigslist personal ads for entertainment, because they are fucking hilarious. Seeking serial killers is actually how she came across Terry (see above photo). Advice: don’t open the ones with pictures… or wait… maybe I totally want you to open the ones with pictures. I can’t decide.

Drunkenly, I suggested informing individuals on the site exactly why no women responded to their messages. For example…

“I’m not like, interested in you or anything. Just so you know, though, you aren’t getting any attention on here, not because you open with ‘Hi, how are you?’ but because the first paragraph of your profile is a lecture about how I shouldn’t be so picky about my prospects because of their openers. Change that.”

Even drunk, Gail is all gum drops and lollipops and the Spirit of Fucking Christmas and kept telling me this would be mean. Frankly, I’m sober now and still think it would’ve been a great idea. Maybe that’s why she calls me “The Instigator”… or maybe it’s because I wanted to mail her creepy sex toys from Terry just to see what she’d do. Who knows, really? The girl’s an enigma. Ultimately, she managed to talk me out of it, only because I decided to blog about the following instead.

Me: shouting for some reason “Okay, okay, okay! This one is for you! ‘Ideal woman’.”

Then Gaily’s feminazi head exploded and I just cleaned my fucking carpets. FYI, one of those industrial rental carpet cleaners will totally survive a tumble down a flight of stairs… and if it doesn’t, you don’t have to tell the clerks at Lowe’s. Wait. Where was I? Ahem…

The following is copy and paste (complete with oddly placed punctuation).

Ideal woman:
Please note: This is not his ideal woman, but rather the ideal woman and you should probably just print this out and staple it to your to-do list.

She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go for it;
Translation: She’s adventurous in bed… early and often.

she likes her man to be a man but still be able to show his emotions.
There’s his very first contradiction. Don’t worry. Even if you disagree and think men should be able to comfortably cry at sad movies and ultimately turn into walking vaginas, there are many, many more contradictions to come. Also, what the fuck, Google Chrome? How is “vaginas” not a word? Is it like “deer”? Is the plural of “vagina”… “vagina”?

Balance is important to her; she works hard enough but her job doesn’t consume all her energy. She enjoys the nice things in life, but is also spiritual and doesn’t get fully caught up in the quest for material goods.
Okay. Here’s my big issue with this little tirade of his. Who is going to describe themselves as any of the negative things he’s listed? How many profiles say “My job consumes all of my energy, but when I am awake, I’m the most materialistic person you’ll ever want to hit”? Even Carrie fucking Bradshaw would’ve described herself as simply “enjoying the nice things” and all that woman ever did was demand things she didn’t deserve from people she didn’t deserve.

Remember when he hit her? Sigh. He was the best.

She wants a man in her life, but doesn’t need one.
I could totally get on board with this declaration if it weren’t for…. wait for it….

She knows that she and her man will be worth more together than apart.
Well, there’s part of it. If she doesn’t need a man, how/why is she to be convinced that she’s not worth as much without him? That’s sort of the definition of needing a man.

She enjoys the simple things in life but can also be spontaneous.
How is that a “but”? Those two are completely independent of each other. That’s like saying “she likes macaroni and cheese, but also enjoyed the movie Ferngully.”

She likes to travel to far-off places, relax on sandy beaches under a hot sun, and then cool off in the sea, but she also likes the hustle and bustle of a busy city.
That’s the deal breaker for me. You see, I hate traveling to far off places (particularly when they include a superfluous hyphen) and I’d rather swallow my own tongue than relax on a sandy beach under the hot sun. Whew. It’s a good thing he was so specific in his requirements. Many women hate exotic vacations. 

This contrast and balance are part of her character. She is centered and content, but being with people that she cares about is important to her. She is kind and considerate and would like to be her naturally caring self with people who have earned her trust.
Wait. She’s supposed to be caring, right? Also, isn’t it sort of a given that his description of her character should be a part of her character? For realz, yo. That whole thing is just redundant.

Me: still shouting for some reason… I’m a loud drunk “Well. I certainly don’t fit the bill then. Kind and considerate, I am not. I’m kind of an asshole.”
Gail: guffawing on my floor “Yes, yes, indeed you are… but we love you anyway.”

She wants a man who understands her–one she doesn’t need to tell what she wants, but who just knows.

edward cullen
This was the most obvious lie to get Internet poontang (one word… I checked)I’ve hung out with a lot of guys. They hate “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should just know.”

A man who can be the closest person to her, to help her make decisions, and to always be there and offer her his strength when she needs it. She doesn’t expect to find him right away, but she’ll know when she does.
Aaaaand…. there it is. He actually fucking used the word “needs.” I thought she wasn’t supposed to need a man, yo? What’s up with that? Also, just reading that sentence made me claustrophobic. That sounds like Christian Grey putting tracking devices in my phone, battered wives shelter crap.

sleeping with the enemy cover
Oh, let’s start this love story now!

Weiner Buddies

I awoke early this morning, because I had to be at the library by 8:00. I checked my phone and found an interesting Facebook notification. It was a friend request from The Musician. I immediately sent Gail a screencap, had a beat of thought and confirmed his request. Had I broken down that beat, it would’ve gone something like this:

That’s really weird. I should probably deny him. I bet I could make this worse, though. It’s likely that that would be a lot funnier.


This thought process is a major aspect of my personality and humor.

The Musician

The Musician was Gail’s recurring one-night stand for about a year. “Friends with benefits” implies that they’d ever have hung out for any other reason and they did not. He did a lot of recreational drugs and played Jazz. The only thing they had in common was that they interlocked. He was her one and only fuck buddy. I never cared for The Musician, because he wanted an exclusive Gail while he stored multiple brands of tampons under his sink and had a mirrored headboard. He’s seven years older than us and every time they got in an argument, he’d patrionizingly defend his actions with “You’re just used to dealing with boys. I’m not a boy. I’m a man.” We mock this to this day… like all the fucking time. Once, he and Gail were fooling around, while she was on her period (we tell each other way too damned much), and he pulled back to mumble sexily

“So how we gonna do this, Megan?”
:beat of  silence: “How we gonna do this, Baby?”

I shit you not. Gail just went with it, because it’s not like she was there for the conversation any more than Megan was. Regardless, I root for her, because I will always root for her and it’s her vagina, so what-the-fuck-ever. They continued on and off until Gail met her current fella and still ocassionally text, but that’s all.

Okay. That’s Gail’s background with The Musician. Mine is shorter. I met him twice. I had one actual conversation with him a year and a half ago. He’d gotten Gail near to tears the previous weekend by implying she was a big ol’ ho for talking to other guys, while he called her Baby to keep his facts straight. There is no quicker way to get me or Gail to go Mama Bear than to make the other cry. I was drunk and told him he didn’t have a real job and that he probably wouldn’t tell Gail how many women he’d slept with, because he didn’t remember. Beyond this, he knew only what Gail told him of me.

So after deciding I could probably make this Funny Bad and accepting The Musician’s friend request, I went to work and forgot about it… until he messaged me. I called my Gramma after work to laugh about how he’d contacted me.

Gramma: “You need to stay away from him.”
Me: “Please, Gramma. My panties are like Fort Knox. Like I’m going to let a musician into them.”
I tend to be a total snob about men, rarely giving a second date, and have a lot of sexual hangups, so my magic number is still just the one.

I called Gail and refused to tell her anything until we met in person, only excitedly exclaiming:

I also clarified:
“Hey. He messaged me. If you thought that I was above fucking with him for it, then you have greatly overestimated me as a person.”

*Sidenote: Gramma doesn’t like the phrase ‘Weiner Buddies.”

The following conversation is as much copy and paste as was possible for proper blogging. I shared it with Gail this evening in a Taco Bell. Just to be clear, my profile picture is of Gail and myself. The Musician knows I’m Gail’s sisterfriend, though he doesn’t bring that up.

The Musician:
You look to have had a makeover since I’ve seen you last! Nicely done. Hope yer doing fancy

Well, thank you very much for saying so. I’ve been well. You? How’s music?

– “Wow. You’re not fat anymore. I’ll make contact and inquiries as to your well-being… even though I’ve never done so ever.” Charming. No wonder he’s rollin’ in the pussy. On an unrelated note, don’t use that phrase over Thanksgiving dinner. You’re welcome. –

The Musician:
🙂 another day in paradise…music is going well. Sometimes I think my life is akin to being the like man with the most cigarettes in jail hehe

You should swing by a show sometime. Visit the city much?

– He does not know how to get into Fort Knox. –

That’s good to hear. I make it to the city every now and then. Been working and finishing up school. Where do you play?

– This was the point where I could’ve blown him off and ended the conversation politely. I, however, gave it some thought and decided that not only would it be funnier to not disuade him, but to actualy encourage him. –

The Musician:
We’ve been performing at the doll house downtown for the last year. (and no its not a strip club haha) I think my tenure with them is about over though which means we are back to the grind.

The city has some new venues worth checking out. Ill be at Grandads this coming thursday off the top of my head.

If you find yourself this way don’t be a stranger. I will always remember you riding in my back seat, firing off your mind lasers and sharing comical observations about the universe.

Message me sometime if you think you’ll be out. [His phone number] or Facebook me though sometimes it gets frozen and won’t work on me

– This is the point in the conversation that turned Gail’s laughter to screeching bird noises and mine to wheezing gasps broken up by clicking sounds. Not only does “back to the grind” mean “unemployed”, but I’ve never even seen The Musician’s car. I’ve only spoken with him once, when Gail and I went to a bar downtown and I was pretty damned clear on the whole not-liking-him thing. How many women does he sleep with that he’s actually confused The Bitch Friend of more than one? “I will always remember…” Apparently not, because that never fucking happened. The man just hit on me by reminiscing over an anecdote of someone else’s. That’s the best pickup line in the HISTORY OF TIME. I’m tattooing it to my fucking labia, because it is haaaaaawt. “Mind lasers”? Was he on some sort of halucinogen at the time? Was he during this conversation? –

Well, I’ll be sure and do that sometime soon. I’ve been wanting to visit the Dollhouse, actually. I’ve heard good things.

I haven’t even had a night out in ages with school and two jobs.

– No. I will not be sure and do that sometime soon. Yes. Ineed, I was fishing for him to ask me out… because it would be funny. Keep up. –

The Musician:
Well we gotta fix that lol! What are you studying and where ya working?

I graduate in May with my Masters in Library and Information Studies. I’m working at Shetland Schools and the library on the southside.

– No fucking way was I telling him which library. –

The Musician:
Librarian aye? Somehow that makes sense. Librarians are some of the most interesting people to be around I’ve discovered. Very mischevious.

If you see me out don’t tell the library… I have some late fees :O

Me: “I swear, the man has got to have a punch card and the only thing left on it is ‘Librarian.’
Gail: “What does he get when it’s full?”
Me: “I don’t know. VD? Syphillis that makes him blind?”
Gail: “So all syphillis? He gets BAD syphillis?”

Yup. Dream job. Just gotta do my final presentation.

Haha. Don’t worry too much about the fines. They disappear after six months.

-Nobody flirts like this gal. It’s like a striptease with words. Bow chicka wow wow. –

The Musician:
Really?! I’m going to the library today then:D What are you getting into this evening Miss?

That’s fines, not books, BTW. Lol. Not a lot. Probably more homework. Kind of broke and that’s free. You having crazy musician times tonight?

– And if so, would you invite me so I can giggle over it with my sister in every way outside of a CSI episode, whose ass you’ve been inside? –

The Musician:
Haha not so certain of that tonight. There are a couple shows around town I thought about checking out.
Hmm what to do, what to do. If you find your chair growing those kind of fast moving legs that carry you from your living room
To the burgeoning streets of the city-i will buy your first round lol
Lol. I’ll have to keep that in mind.
date rape
Me: “I should so go. I want to see what else I can get him to reminisce about. I’ll use information you’ve given me and make it seem like I know him. ‘Remember that time you bought me chicken on a stick? How’s Lola? She got hurt a while back, right? Such a sweet cat.'”
Gail: choking on laughter “You’re a horrible person. You can’t do that. I’ll feel involved for telling you his cat’s name.”
Me: :nodding with a huge grin:
Gail: “Do not give me that look! I played hard to get, too. If you meet up with him, he’ll get into Fort Knox. Fortunately, I’m off tomorrow and I’ll leave my ringer on so I can hear it when you call me from the breakfast place down the street.”
Me: “Psh. I can’t even have sex alone without crying, Gail.”
Gail: “Yeah. That’s why I’m picking you up in this scenario. You’re crying too hard to drive.”
Me: “Gail, is he really just that charming? He opened with ‘Dayum, you’re not fat anymore.’ How’s he going to get me to sleep with him? You’re forgetting that I don’t find him attractive even a little.” :gesturing toward my lap: “It wouldn’t matter if this were Vegas. He still wouldn’t be gettin’ in… and like you’ve ever played hard to get with anyone.”
Gail: “You say that now, but…” :pauses to think of an appropriate metaphor and lays her hand on the Kindle I felt I had to bring into a Taco Bell: “You have this Kindle and it hasn’t been charged in a loooong time. That plug-in right there might be dirty, but if you want to read badly enough… you’ll use it. This is actually turning out to be a really good metaphor for you. In fact, based on the stuff you like to read, it’s a really good example.”
Me: “That may be true, but it’s not gonna happen, because as much as I like to say ‘Weiner Buddies’…”
wiener buddies text

Alas, I did not take him up on it. I went home, wrote this blog and read. Perhaps, Gail and I have forever lost the chance to be Weiner Buddies. It is a bond we will never share.

crying friends

Sarcastic Robot Friend

tears ecard


It makes me terribly uncomfortable. Actually, no. Let me revise.


They make me terribly uncomfortable.

Today, Gail got on a plane to head to North Carolina and see her dying great grandmother one last time. This evening I got the following text:

“She died before I got there.”

I immediately called Gail and asked the obvious question “Are you okay?” You see, Gail and I… we really don’t do emotion. I mean, I miscarried, her baby died, we both divorced, then there was the whole rape thing and there were only two or three good crying jags in there. Max. I grew up with mommy dearest, who used emotion as manipulation and my dad and grandmother who are both still incredibly uncomfortable showing any emotion. Gail grew up with passive agressive parents who put on their Beige Faces every time people were around and went on silent treatment bouts when they weren’t. Then from age 15 on, we raised each other. The result is two people who agree that greeting cards are a scam and that when life really sucks, you should just make wildly inappropriate jokes. Seriously. Just send me the money you spent on the card, because I really don’t care what Hallmark has to say about the birthday of potentially thousands of people.

The Sweetest Thing I Said During My Best Friend’s Grieving:

“This sucks for you, not her. She was surrounded by people who loved her and thought it was so sweet that you were on your way. I don’t know if that makes you feel better or not, but I figure you’re not too worried about how heartbroken you are and you’re just thinking about how much everyone else hurts and how you need to be able to fix it.”

The Other Things I Said:

“Don’t deal with the emotions, Gail. She lives in North Carolina. You hardly ever see her anyway. Just pretend she’s still alive and everything’s cool.”

Gail: “The bright side is that I’ll be there for the funeral.”
Me: “That’s a really shitty bright side.”

Gail: “Then my dad told me about how everyone prayed for her and the room was packed full and just minutes later, she died and they all prayed again and you could tell that everyone just felt so relieved, because she was in a better place.”
Me: “Wow. Aren’t you glad you missed that? That sounds awful and incredibly depressing.”
Gail: “What’s depressing is hearing that story and crying in an airport.”
Me: “Yeah, but it would’ve been so much worse if you’d been there. You would’ve been surrounded by people who were closer to her than you were and you would’ve wanted to cry, but you would’ve felt like crap if you did and they didn’t, because who are you to cry?”
Gail: “Ugh. You’re right! But I’m still crying in the airport and it’s embarrassing.”
Me: “Okay. Here’s what you do. Just start screaming irrationally at me about something completely insane” high-pitched hysterical voice “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ATE ALL OF THE FISHSTICKS! THOSE WERE MY FISHSTICKS AND YOU ATE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM!!!!’ Just make sure no one can even understand you toward the end.”
Gail: “I said I wanted eggs!”

Gail: “At least I’ll be there to see my grandpa, because now that she’s gone, he won’t be around much longer.
Me: “Ugh. That sucks. That won’t even be sad. That’ll be like a mercy kill, like when you shoot a deer. That’s the wrong thing to say, huh?”

Me: “They don’t have my seasonal coffee creamer any…”
Gail: “Hold on.” begins checking out at the airport store
Me: faux hysterics “Hey! Don’t tell me to hold on. I listened to you cry about your dead grandma and you tell me to hold on during my time of need!”

Luckily, Gail not only expects this from me, but she usually wants it and is upfront about it when she doesn’t. Mostly, she says it gets her mind off of how much things suck.

Me: “I’d make an awesome grief counselor.” choking sob “‘And they raped my five-year-old daughter over and over again and I just keep thinking that it might have been better if she’d just died!'”
Gail: “And then you’d be like ‘Yeah. That’s probably true.”

We talked for  a while and Gail told me about the couple in the airport who met on Craigslist with one of those “I’m just looking for a nice young lady to go on trips with me” ads. I recommended she join them to get more about this story and we joked about how this woman was so going to end up dead. As Gail was about to hang up, I encouraged her to explain to the person seated next to her on the plane that there’s a 1/10 chance they’d be on a plane with either a real or a fake bomb, but not to worry, she’s brought along a fake bomb to sway the odds in their favor. She agreed to, but I’m pretty confident that was an outright lie.

With Gail, I can pretty much express my condolences “I’m sorry. That sucks.” and she responds with “Thank you.” Then we dive right into tasteless jokes about rape and dead babies. With everyone else on the planet, I’m only capable of stating the obvious. When my coworker’s husband died, I mulled over what I should say to her for several days, eventually wondering if I should say anything at all because it had been so long. Then I finally blurted out “I’m sorry you’re sad” which was immediately followed by an internal cringe and a what the fuck?!?!

A few weeks ago, Jay texted me about his father, whom he and Chad both despise.

Jay: My dad has cancer.
Me: Oh, wow. I’m so sorry. What kind?
Jay: Carcanoid syndrome:
Me: Is it serious?
Jay: Had emergency surgery Thursday at midnight
Me: Is he okay? Is he going to be?
Jay: I think so
Me: I’m sorry Jay
I was doing really well until:
Me: My mom once told me she was having heart surgery and I felt horrible because I didn’t like her and she was sick.
Me: Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. I didn’t mean it badly. I know y’all don’t get along, but he’s your dad and you love him and want him to be okay. I’ll pray for y’all.
Jay: I didn’t take it in a bad way. No worries and thanks.

My friends just expect me to say something awful, apparently… and to be fair, my mother made up her heart surgery for attention.

It’s not just grief-based either. I have no idea how to receive affection unless it’s from the cuddly wuddliest wittle beagle ever. Most people who hug me leave me counting the seconds because I don’t want to pull away too quickly and offend, but I also don’t want to veer into weird territory and have them thinking I’m about to smell their hair and lick their earlobe. I just never learned this stuff. When I tell my grandma I love her more than anything, you can see how much she doesn’t know what to say. It actually makes her uncomfortable, because I’ve seen the lady cry four times ever. The best way to get something from my dad is with tears (though, we have an unspoken agreement that I will not abuse this), because handing me some cash is so preferable to handing me some Kleenex. I’m just the most awkward with grief. I can’t say the right thing under normal circumstances, let alone when someone sads all over me. I hope I meet a compassionate man who says the right things and can mend a five-year-old’s broken heart, because I’ve got dibs on Sarcastic Robot Parent.

rosie-robotAvailable Settings: Sarcastic, Bitchy, and Quiet*.

*Quiet setting is time sensitive. Robot will eventually default to Sarcastic.

“Marry me, eh?”: Post-Christmas Empowerment

How long until the Christmas tree can just be considered to be up really early? I mean, it’s a new year. Christmas 2013 may be a long way away, but Christmas 2012 was last year. I’ve just got a jump start.

I have this really loud laugh. Gail calls it a cackle. My guys compare it to the sound of a dolphin. It’s my dad’s laugh. Fucking bastard. I say that in jest. I love my daddy.

Guy in bar: “I love your laugh.”
Me: drunk and aware that this is a line “Really? Because no one else does.”

Twice this week, I’ve laughed loudly and uncontrollably in restaurants. Both times have been with Gail and about things that we shouldn’t discuss in public.

discussing anal sex, which I’ve told Gail she only likes because it “makes her grandma cry”/is tabboo
Gail: “You know… the thing that makes my granny sob.”
Me: “You call it your granny?”

This lead to maniacal giggling and disgusting jokes about how you could create euphamisms for not having sex, such as “My grandma has a nose bleed.”

The second time was at McDonald’s. Both of us are nervous about this country’s future and I was looking up the requirements to move to Canada the other day. Gail talked about it as well, because we’re oddly attached to one another.

Me: “I highly doubt I’ll ever move that far from Gail and if she moves away, I imagine I’ll follow and I don’t care if everyone in the family thinks I’m a lesbian because of it.”
Dad: “Hey, I don’t care either way.”

My redneck daddy told me he doesn’t care if I’m a lesbian. Awwww. I mean, I’m not, but still…

So, I told Gail that Americans always say “I’m moving to Canada” as a threat (not so much me, as I’m actually intersted in Canada), because we’re stupid. It’s  apparently really difficult to move to Canada.

Me: “I imagine if I wanted to, I might be able to get a visa based on my education, which is apparently a thing. Otherwise, I’d have to find a job where they want me badly enough to go through the trouble to help me get a work visa.”
Gail: “Which means it would be really difficult for me to work for their postal service.”

(I’d like to interrupt to clarify that we’re not packing our bags for Canada. We come up with these schemes all the time. We’ve already moved to North Carolina, Colorado, Oregon, and New Zealand in our heads.)

Me: “Not necessarily. You see, I was thinking, gay marriage might be legal in Canada. They’ll allow you to move there with a spouse. So… I move to Canada and then…”
Gail: “I think I would rather stay here under The Regime than be your wife.”
Me: “Come on. It’s not like we have to be practicing lesbians. We’d just be lesbians on paper. Marry me, eh.”

Then Gail tore the corner off some trash and gave it to me like a ring, as she once had a dream where her ex-boyfriend proposed to her that way and I make fun of her for it all the time. She then told me that she thinks that vaccinations are possibly just the United States government running experiments on us and she’s aware that she’s completely paranoid, but still. I interrupted her for my faux crying panic impersonation of her.

Me: mock hyperventilating “Oh, my gosh! We didn’t land on the moon! We didn’t land on the moon and now I’m going to have to move to Canada and be your lesbian wife because of it! Do we have to consumate this marriage? Is that even possible with lesbians? Does that even count? How do lesbians even consumate anything?!?!?!”

When we joke around, there’s always this point where we’re giggling like crazy over something that’s not even funny, because we’ve both gone off the deep end. We call this a Rice Cubes moment, not because we’ve ever giggled like maniacs over the phrase, but because we would. Once, when I was heartbroken over some mommy issues, she tried to cheer me up by mentioning this.

text message
Gail: Rice cakes!
Me: Um… I think it was rice cubes.
Gail: Oh. You’re right. I was trying to cheer you up, but I guess that was just a snack.

Surprisingly, that worked.

I’ve been writing this blog on and off through the day while taking breaks from taking down my Christmas tree. At the moment, I’m lying in my living room floor, surrounded by Christmas lights and storage boxes, struggling to type with a Band-Aid on my finger so I don’t get blood on the keyboard. This shit is hard, y’all.

When I put up the Christmas tree, there was a point where it was on the floor in pieces, along with a lot of broken glass. I ended up crying on the couch texting Chad to come help me put it up, because I’d accidentally broken the stand and couldn’t get the new one on. I was pretty pissed that I couldn’t get the tree up on my own. I also knew I’d pay for that glass. But you know what? I got my tree down all by myself. You wouldn’t think that would be empowering, particularly since I injured myself multiple times doing it, (and at one point dropped it on the dog) but I’m still getting the hang of this Solo Woman single girl thing, so I’m pretty fucking proud. One day, I’ll surely find a nice boy to help with my Christmas tree, but on that day, I won’t doubt that I could’ve handled it alone. Go me.

christmas tree on judeHe did not even care.

decorated judeSo I pushed the tree aside and decorated him.

Conversations with Mother f*$#%*% Teresa

This is us… giggling about vibrators.

I can tell Gail anything… at all.

Text Message
Me:Totally just sat down in the bathtub before testing the water. I think I burned my vag.
Me: – photo of bleeding knee –
Me: Most painful and unrelaxing bath ever. Next time I’ll just throw the hair dryer in.

We also know each other’s humor well enough that we never have to verify when we’re kidding, even through text messages.

Text Message
Me: My first dance at my next wedding will be to I Love the Way You Lie.
Gail: What next wedding?
Me: You’re right. Your first wedding should be your ONLY wedding.
Gail: Mhmm. That’s how good people wed.
Gail: “Second weddings are for lazy and uncommitted people.”
Me: “And sluts.”
Gail: “Yup.”
Me: “If anyone will have them.”

Me: referring to the idea of keeping girls out of boys’ sports “Girls can be anything they want to be, as long as it’s pink.”
Gail: raises hand for a high-five, as the last person who high-fives

Me: “Every time I see the words ‘egg product’, I want to kill myself and everyone in this IHOP… probably a bad week to joke about that, huh?”
Gail: “Yup. Probably.”

We never have to explain where our texts and thoughts come from, because of our constant running textersation.
Gail: “No clue why the beer with Jesus song is so popular.”
Me: “Ugh.I know. ‘If I could shoot the shit with Jesus… we’d probably talk about that lady’s tits.'”
Gail: “Purdy much.”

Where most people have a beating heart, Gail has the cuddliest little kitten instead. Not even a normal kitten, but like a sleeping one with a little bow. That would be fucking adorable. She’s the most nauseatingly genuine and giving person I’ve ever met, as the only 25-year-old who actually tithes 10% of her paycheck, not because Jesus told her to in the super religious Midwest, but because she thinks it’s the right thing to do. I always joke with her that she only hangs out with me so she can be the sweet one. It’s true. She loves being the sweet one.

Scene – IHOP a few weeks ago
Gail: points to a man in army gear “Can you bring me that gentleman’s check?”
Guy in army gear: “Thank you, ladies very much.”
Me: silent… totally pretending I helped

In actuality, I figured that clarifying that I did not, in fact, pay for this soldier’s meal would only make both him and Gail uncomfortable, seeing as how I bring the finesse and it would’ve gone something like this:
“It was her. I mean, I’m glad for what you did for our country, too, but I didn’t pay for your breakfast. I mean, I don’t really have the… thank you. Have a great day.”

Scene – IHOP, today, because Gail is the fucking Fairy Princess of IHOP
Gail: “Can you bring me the check of the table that was nicest to you?”
Me: feigned disgust “I’m Gail. I shit money. You see that woman over there? Can you tell her her cancer treatment’s been paid in full? I’m best friends with Mother fucking Teresa.”
Gail: laughing “What? I make the most money at a time of year when you should be nice to people, so I’m being nice to people.”
Me: “I’ve been plenty nice. Just buy my breakfast.”
Gail: laughs “No, thank you.”
Me: “Tis the season, Gail. Don’t be a cunt.”
Me: “It’s going to be awesome if it’s like $70. They ordered IHOP to go for the week.”
Gail: “‘Yeah, they were all equally nice, so I just put them all on one.'”

She actually just bought me lunch last week. The funny part is, Gail is the cheapest person alive. Last summer, she wore the same pair of broken $1 sunglasses for the entire season, explaining that you couldn’t tell they were broken, because her hair hid the missing temple (that’s what the ear piece is called and I taught you something). After breakfast, we went to The Dollar Tree.

Gail: “It just doesn’t seem warm enough.”
Me: “I don’t know what to tell you. You probably shouldn’t buy your winter wear from The Dollar Tree.”

Regardless of the fact that she makes me look bad, she’s my sister in every way that matters outside of a CSI episode.

Me: “See ya. Love you.”
Gail: “Love you, too.”
I have no idea when we started saying this to each other.
Me: “So, when did that happen?”
Gail: “I don’t know, but it probably has something to do with the reason people think we’re lovers.”
Me: “Nah. They probably just think we’re family.”

It’s fantastic to have this best friend thing going on as an adult. I’m blessed to have someone who knows all the stories, because she was there for them; someone in whom I can confide anything at all, with no judgement. Don’t worry. I return the favor. My jokes are all exactly that.

Friday: A Day in Quotes

Text message from Gail after reading my last blog entry
Sung to the tune of Proud To Be an American
“Oh, I’m proud to be a woman!
Well, at least I know I’m a ‘she’
And I won’t forget the men who died
To keep some rights from me
And I’ll gladly sit down next to you
And pretend I don’t know what to say
Well, there ain’t no doubt I obey my man
Let’s bake a pie today!”

Another text message conversation
Me: “D on 50: ‘I just skimmed through the sex for the plot.’ What plot? Did she read it or not?
Gail: “For real. That’s hardly possible.”
Me: “Seriously. It’s erotica. The ‘plot’ was tertiary.”
Gail: “I haven’t had plot in ages. I need some plot. Desperately!”
Me: “My mind is aching for it… deliciously throbbing for plot so thick and deep I can feel it in my soul.”
Gail: “Lol. Ew.”
Me: “You’re welcome for that. My kids are wondering why I’m laughing.”
Gail: “I don’t suggest explaining.”
Me: “Oops. Should’ve said so sooner.”

Boys are disgusting

Ward bends down to get my phone after I get in C’s truck
Ward: “You dropped your phone.”
Ken: “Take a big whiff while you’re down there why don’t you.”
Jay: “Do I smell rotting fish?”

Ken: “Belle, you’re not gonna scream in this movie are you?”
Me: “No. I was just telling…”
Ken: “Chad, is Belle a screamer?”
laughter around the table
Me: “Yes… I am.”
They all rise to pretend to leave me at the restaurant

Discussing the book The Host
Me: “It’s not like Twilight. It’s written for adults and just a lot different.”
Jay: “What’s it about?”
Me: “It’s like the body snatchers from the view of the body snatcher. But like, this woman has two people in her at the same time so…”
Chad: starts cracking up
Me: “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

Jay: “Like you’d know. You can’t even pass your portfolio.”

Ken: “Belle has crabs.”
Me: “I’d have to have pubic hair to have crabs.”

Me: “K, how does Twitter work?”
Ken: “You post twats.”

Me: “Ward, now if you get scared, you can always hold my hand.”
Ward: “I can’t wait!”
Me: yawn and stretch to put my arm around him

Ward: “This movie is disgusting. I’m about to walk out.”
Me: “If you want to leave and tell the guys you’re not feeling well, I won’t tell them otherwise.”

The screen pans over naked dead body parts
Me: “Look, Ward. At least you got to see boobs… twice. You’ve gotten to see FOUR boobs.”

Ward cringes
Me: “It’s completely illogical to bring that gun to kill a serial killer.”

Ward cringes more
Ward: “Who’s idea was this movie?”
Me: “Ken’s. That’s not even how bones work… or how skin works.”

Text to Gail under my coat
Me: “First horror movie in 3 years. Last horror movie in always.”
Gail: “What?”
Me: “I’m watching people get mutilated. A lot. A lot a lot. To the tenth power. That’s the plot.”
Me: “Like no joke. I am actually trying to comfort W.”
Me: “That movie made Saw a romantic comedy.”

After making them listen to Gilbert Godfried read 50 Shades of Grey on Youtube
Ken: “EW! Is this actually in the book?!?!”
Me: “Its…..” laughing… “word…” laughing…
Ken: “What?”
Jay: “It’s word for word.”
Ken: “Do you know how much porn I could watch in the time it takes me to read one page of that?”
I explain my opinion that reading it is better, because it’s pretend.
Ken: “PORN’S pretend!”
Me: “It’s real people doing… you know.”
Ken: “Pretending love. They’re just pretending love!”
Me: “‘Pretending love’?”
Ken: “People say ‘I love you’ in porn all the time!”
Me: “What kind of porn are you watching?!?”

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


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
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

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.


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.


“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.