Props for Pops

I reached for the ringing hand set and glanced at the Caller ID. Father. Bracing myself for bad news, I answered guardedly.

As soon as it became clear that no one was dead, I relaxed. Breathed a little easier.

It still makes me nervous when he calls, I would tell Roommate later.

I vividly remember the first time I ever got a phone call from Father. Which isn't really that remarkable, since it was only two years ago. Considering I literally made it 23 years before ever picking up the phone to hear his voice, it makes a bit of sense that I'm still inclined to think the worst when he dials me up.

Before that Stepmom had always done the calling, no matter the reason. Father got on the line only when she passed the phone his way.

When I went away to college, I talked to Stepmom at least once a week, and Father slightly less often. At first.

Then, I started thinking about my relationship with the man. Or, more precisely, the lack thereof.

I decided that he didn't know how to deal with me. From what I could tell, Father viewed women in two ways:
1. As mother-like figures to be respected.
2. As sexual objects.

As his daughter, I didn't fit into that equation. Our conversations rarely drifted from the subject of the weather. They became incredibly frustrating.

Frustrated with his lack of initiative and tired of having entire conversations that consisted of It's 110 in the shade and same here, I stopped calling him. Stopped asking for him when I called Stepmom. Stopped letting her hand the phone off.

Stepmom: Your dad just walked in. Do you want to talk to him?
Belle: Nah.

She tried to get me to talk to him. Growing less and less acquiescent, I began refusing to fake politeness to my own detriment.

Stepmom: It hurts your dad's feelings that you don't talk to him when you call.
Belle: It hurts my feelings that he never calls me. That he's never called me. All we talk about is the weather, anyway. We both know it's hot and miserable. It's always hot and miserable.

I wasn't refusing maliciously. I just didn't see the point. I'd resigned myself to the fact that I was an anomaly in my father's life. That our bond was weak, at best. That our views on life were so different the only polite conversation we could have was discussing heat factors and humidity.

Then, one night while I was working, my phone rang. Father. I stepped outside to take the call, expecting to hear that someone was gravely ill or had passed away.

But it wasn't that at all. He'd just called. To chat. To see how I'd been. To offer fatherly advice. To let me know he was thinking of me.

That was in the spring of 2005. We usually catch up with each other once or twice a month these days. Last night our conversation moved from the weather to work to the merits of fresh seafood over frozen to softball to his grandsons/my nephews. It may not sound like much to some,* but it's a helluva lot more than I ever expected.

I know you've been on your own for a while and you take care of yourself. Just keep an eye out. Be aware of your surroundings. It's your best defense... I just want you to know I'm always thinking about you.

The man, he's trying. And I have to give him props for that.


* Roommate, I'm thinking of you and your daily parental contact here. ;-)

teh wrst spelr

The following is a random IM conversation from last night. Enjoy.

tehWrstSpelr: hi
belle: hi. Who is this?
tehWrstSpelr: u happen to be on my buddy list and I wanted to find out the same thing too
tehWrstSpelr: lol
tehWrstSpelr: im thewrstspelr*
tehWrstSpelr: U?
belle: thewrstspelr?
belle: Belle
tehWrstSpelr: Yup
tehWrstSpelr: Hi Belle
belle: hi
tehWrstSpelr: R u in Dc?
belle: yes. how old are you?
tehWrstSpelr: im 28
tehWrstSpelr: u?
belle: 25
belle: did we talk before at some point?
tehWrstSpelr: i shd think so
tehWrstSpelr: did u post an ad on CL?
belle: good lord. Ages ago.
belle: Where are your words, man?
belle: You seem to have lost them in all this IM speak
belle: it's highly annoying
tehWrstSpelr: My bad
tehWrstSpelr: So whats up with u tonite?
tehWrstSpelr: Cant sleep?
belle: about to get to bed. just catching up on some stuff
belle: you?
tehWrstSpelr: oh k
tehWrstSpelr: cant sleep
tehWrstSpelr: so bored
belle: ah
tehWrstSpelr: u wanna sing for me?
tehWrstSpelr: lol
tehWrstSpelr: hahahaha
belle: sing?
belle: I think not
tehWrstSpelr: alrite
tehWrstSpelr: ure in Dc,rite?
belle: you already asked me that


* The name, obviously, is my doing. Not this clueless dolt's.

If you can't say anything nice...

This weekend, I did something drastic.

I went into a salon*, picked a shade, and told a woman I'd never met to make my strawberry blond(ish) locks a deep shade of brunette.

The results are somewhat darker than what I'd chosen. (Read: Nearly black.)

The stylist's first words to me, before I even commented? It's not my fault! That's the color you picked! (Way to make me feel confident and fall in love with the look, lady.)

It's a dramatic change. And, because it isn't exactly what I was going for, the experience verged on the traumatic, but I think that's reigned in now. It's definitely growing on me.

Most of my friends say they like it. Travel Buddy said it suited me. You've read some of the things Travel Buddy says to me; he's not one to mince words or give false compliments.

So, why am I telling you this? Because some people I encounter almost daily didn't listen to their mommas when they were doling out cliched advice.

(With a look of horror) Why did you do that?!?

(Incredulously) Belle, what did you do to your hair? I liked it before! When will you change it back?

(Deadpan) It makes you look older. I don't know if that's what you were going for...

(With a screwed up look on her face) You like it?! Errr... okaaaaaaay...

Essentially, I want to cut these people. And to start telling them what I really think of their hair/outfits/faces.

But two wrongs don't make a right, or whatthehellever. So I'm not. I'm just whining to a bunch of imaginary people who don't even know what my hair looks like. :)

Thanks for putting up with it.

* I'd never been to a salon before for coloring.

It's a Matter of Equality

I've said it before, and I'll say it again...

If marriage is to continue to be recognized by the U.S. government, the right to enter into those unions should be available to every adult U.S. citizen. Sexual orientation should not be a factor in the equation. This is a basic civil rights issue.

I'm not going to keep going on about it.

Sign The Human Rights Campaign Petition.

I believe that all Americans, including gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people, deserve the rights, responsibilities, and privileges that come with marriage. And right now, we have an unprecedented opportunity to make that dream a reality. Please, join me in adding your voice to a million voices raised in support of marriage for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender couples.

Bloodsucking Bitches

The swampy, marshy southernmost regions of The 'Sip are year-round breeding grounds for mosquitoes.

There might be a few weeks of sweet reprieve from the vicious, bloodsucking pests in January or February, when temperatures occasionally dip low enough to kill off that 'other state bird.' Other than that, you've got no choice but to soak yourself in repellent before stepping outside and invest in Citronella products by the dozens when you're hosting a gathering outdoors. Fending off mosquito attacks is a part of daily life.

Stepping outside into the muggy air this morning, I lit my cigarette and joined a small group of smokers congregating in the designated area. A guy who reminds me of Letterman used his cigar to motion toward a mammoth mosquito hovering near me. That's a big one. A big male. Won't bite you. The males don't bite.

Another guy, one of the young hotties from sales, chimed in. But it has a stinger. So it still bites, right? Otherwise, it wouldn't have it. His know-it-all grin let us know he wasn't asking.

The cigar-wielding Letterman look-alike again said that only female mosquitoes suck blood, using it to nourish their eggs.

I exhaled, crushed my cigarette out in the black pebbles, and nodded farewell to my smoking buddies.

Age before beauty, isn't that how the saying goes? Letterman, even surrounded by his foul smelling cigar smoke, was right.

From The Wiki:

Both male and female mosquitoes are nectar feeders, but the female is also capable of haematophagy (drinking blood). Females do not require blood for survival, but they do need supplemental protein for the development and laying of their eggs. Prior to sucking the blood, they inject a mild painkiller, which numbs the host to the pain from the "bite" (Note: mosquitos do not actually bite).

And...

Males differ from females, with mouth parts not suitable for blood-sucking.

Well, shifire and damnation! All those times I was covered from head to toe with the small, misshapen welts from the devil mosquito? Every single one of them was from a female mosquito? Those bloodsucking, traitorous bitches.

Open Letter to a Short, Jerky Twatwaddle*

Here's the thing, man...

If your behavior is directly and negatively affecting someone I care about and I manage to make you feel like crap for making that person feel like crap, I'm glad. Yeah, that's right. I'm glad I put you in a worse mood than you were already in. You deserved that, at the very least.

I didn't like you the first time I met you. Despite my efforts at civility during our ensuing encounters, you chose to come into my home and push my buttons on repeated occasions. You did everything in your power to piss me off. You succeeded in doing just that.

Despite all this, I understood that you were dating my friend, not me. I didn't discourage her from seeing you. Even when you said I had an "unhealthy obsession" with her, signaling that you could be the controlling type who wants to distance your woman from anyone she's close to, I refrained from persuading her to ditch you.

In the past two weeks, you've been a complete dick to her. Whether you're stressed or not, she's an awesome person and deserves better from you. Actually, she deserves better than you, but ultimately that's not my decision.

Oh how I wish she would do a little more standing up for herself. She's not one to let you totally trample her, but she is, sometimes, much too considerate of another person's feelings. Which is why she hadn't said anything to you about what you were doing. Well, that, and she was testing you. And, I hope, working you out of her system.

But me? I make it a point to stand up for myself and, if necessary, for my friends. Being drunk made my textual assault easy. Disliking you from the start made the experience somewhat gratifying.

See, once you stop caring how your behavior affects others, I stop caring about how mine affects you. You lost the right to anything resembling civility from me when you started stepping all over her.

Calling you spineless might have been childish on my part, but I hope I got my point across: It's not okay for you to treat her like a toy that you can adore one day and toss aside the next. You cannot do that and expect her to hang around waiting for the next time you want to play. That is not how it works.

One more thing: She is her own person. We are two separate entities. You using what I said to punish her was a shitty move on your part.

You're a selfish twatwaddle, and you're short. Fuck you.

Sincerely,

Belle


* I wrote this post many moons ago. I only feel safe publishing it now, since the friend mentioned in the letter has long since moved on, and I don't have to worry about the short, jerky twatwaddle coming back into her life or mine.

Something Awkward This Way Comes

Travel Buddy: He only talked to you because he liked your boobs.
Belle: Oh, thanks. You're saying there's nothing else about me that would ever make a guy want to talk to me?
Travel Buddy: Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.
Belle: You're a bastard.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Potato* came up with the grand idea of finding an establishment at which we might quench our burning desire to play The Skee Ball.

Travel Buddy and the Fun Committee Chair quickly vetoed the Chuck E. Cheese suggestion and proposed Dave and Buster's as a more adult-oriented alternative. And so the adventure began.

We ate. We drank. We played The Skee Ball. We collected tickets.

And when all was said and done, the Grand Pumba of the fine, fine establishment asked that we make our prize selections so the staff could close shop and go home.

So we found ourselves in a room filled from floor to ceiling with cheap Chinese imports, trying to put our hard-earned points to use. Should we get the goofy glasses? The Family Guy figures that grow in water? A stuffed animal?

Ms. Potato and I stood facing a wall with pens, pencils, gadgets, and novelties galore, discussing our options. Suddenly, there was a low voice behind us.

The walkie talkie pens are pretty cool, if they still have them. We turned to see a guy standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. That voice recorder has a pretty decent recording time, he said, pointing toward a small package to our left.

I thanked the guy for his input and turned back to face Ms. Potato. She had edged her way to the other end of the aisle and was intently inspecting a stuffed monkey with her back to me and the stranger. Smooth. Real smooth.

The stranger was still pointing things out, telling me what was "worth it" and what wasn't. Wow. You really seem to know your stuff, I told him. You must come here a lot. It wasn't delivered as a compliment, but the subtle clue of my intonation seemed lost on him.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Dave and Buster's card. The plastic glittered and gleamed under the fluorescent lights, announcing his Gold Status.

If we'd been on television, this is the point where they'd cue the dramatic music and hushed oohs and ahhs of the crowd. Ah, I see, I mumbled, and returned my attention to browsing for something, anything, that would get me a little bit further from this guy.

When I'd successfully navigated away from him and back to Ms. Potato, she raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged, and we went back to our discussion of which items we just couldn't live without.

A few minutes later, I found myself buddy-less with the stranger at my side again. Ms. Potato walked toward me, and I picked up the first thing my hand touched. Scooby's kind of cute, I said to her. She nodded and kept walking, ignoring my telepathic plea to get me away from the guy.

I tossed the toy back in the bin, and he picked it up. Hold on, he said. I'll be right back. Wait, your boyfriend isn't here is he? Without thinking, I shook my head. I don't have a boyfriend, I answered, regretting it immediately.

With that, he was gone to the register, and I felt my face burning. Good lord, he's not going to buy me that, is he? Why didn't I just say yes? I stood helplessly waiting while he swiped his gilded card at the register. I could feel the heat rising on my neck as I noticed my friends in a gaggle in the corner, giggling as they looked in our direction. Thanks, guys.

The stranger returned and held a bag out to me. I thanked him and told him he really didn't have to buy me anything. Eh, it's no big deal. I have about ten thousand points, he said, and I don't see anything I want today.

Feeling somewhat befuddled and a little obligated, I introduced myself. Belle, I'm Mr. Awkward, he said, limply shaking my outstretched hand. I managed a little small talk before excusing myself to find my friends.

Bag in tow, I located Travel Buddy and FCC. Did that guy just buy you something? I nodded. He's weird, Ms. Potato interjected. I nodded again.

A few minutes later, the group having dispersed again to search for individual booty, I found Mr. Awkward at my side again, cell phone in hand.

Uh oh , I thought. He's going to ask for my number. Lying didn't even cross my mind. It rarely does.

To my surprise, Mr. Awkward didn't ask for my number. Instead, he showed me a couple of videos of his friend doing stunts on a motorcycle. I watched distractedly, commenting sporadically and wondering what my escape route would be if the guy suddenly went wacko. When the videos finished, we parted ways again.

Final selections in hand, I met my group at the counter, where we swiped and splurged the night's earnings on meaningless trinkets we'd soon forget. Mr. Awkward was nowhere in sight.

As we made our way out of the establishment and across the parking lot, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the group and wondered if Mr. Awkward would be waiting around the next corner or behind the next car.

He never made another appearance.


* With nary a week's notice, Ms. Potato made a whirlwind exodus from D.C. earlier in the summer and set up camp in the lower regions of these great United States. After enduring the sweltering heat and humidity of the great metropolis she's calling home these days, she returned for a week and graced us with her presence.

LNS Didn't Bring It

Travel Buddy: There are going to be a lot of douchebags at this party.
Belle: This is D.C. I'll show you 10 guys, and if you can point to five of them who aren't douchebags, I'll give you a hundred bucks.
Travel Buddy: Good point.

The driver stopped in front of the white brick house. That's it. With the exception of a few shadows visible in the window, the house seemed somewhat lifeless.

BB: It looks shady.
Belle: It does not look shady.
Travel Buddy: Look, there are people in there.
Belle: Let's just go in. If it's terrible, we can leave.
BB: We're not staying long.

We paid the man, piled out of the taxi, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A lone figure in the shadows of the half-dark confirmed we'd found the right place. You're here. The booze is to the left, and it's going fast. Help yourself.

We stepped through the door, and I felt immediately like I'd been transported back to college days. The walls were absolutely bare. The furniture was nearly nonexistent. Natty Lite and Budweiser abounded, but most of the girls carried Solo cups filled to brimming with lots of alcohol and a splash of soda by chivalrous young men. It was just like a sweaty frat party in the 'Sip, except this one had crown molding and minorities.

Earlier in the night, as we sipped champagne and shared strawberry shortcake, BB laid out our options. We can stay here, go to another bar, or go to a house party in Georgetown. The house party didn't seem nearly so interesting until she informed me it was an LNS shindig.

I've been reading this and that about this crew for months, and I wanted to see what they were all about. To be perfectly honest, I was kind of disappointed; there was very little fodder for this here blog, friends. Perhaps not being a Smith Point threw the LNS game off a bit.

Guys in (un-popped) collared shirts and girls in sun dresses were crammed into the main rooms downstairs, chatting in small groups. I was sorely out of place in jeans, but what the hell did I care? Nowhere close to meeting the size 4 mandate, I would have stood out no matter my ensemble. And, anyway, I wasn't the most out of place.

I'm glad to see I'm not the only one who's under-dressed. I turned to face the only female present wearing shorts. I feel like I should give you a hug or something, she said. I complied just a moment before her J. Crew-clad friend looked me up and down and told me she was going to have to ask me to leave. I laughed at what I assumed was her jest and went back to talking to Travel Buddy.

Our conversation focused primarily on the party. On the fact that it wasn't as terrible as we'd expected. That we'd been to worse. Much, much worse.

The party was decidedly frat-tastic, but there was nothing incredibly remarkable about it. You had your garden-variety homophobia on display from the guy yelling something about a "homo" when we first walked in the door. You had your insecure cattiness from the bitch waiting in line for the bathroom behind BB. You had your spilled drinks and your drunken breaking of household goods.

We were still trying to choke down our huge glasses of gin (soda splashes optional) when everyone was herded out of the house to the enclosed patio area. We stood around postulating about what was going to happen. Travel Buddy suggested that we were to be burned alive. We plotted our escape route should things get out of hand.

I'd been hearing girls buzzing about champagne for a while, and some of them seemed excited that it was time for that. Apparently, they were right. The guy who'd rounded everyone up positioned himself a bit above the crowd and commanded our attention for his little speech. Which was promptly followed by a spray of champagne into the crowd. People scattered like ants then reassembled just in time for him to shower the crowd again. That's when we made our exit.