Our Lady of Hot Librarian Fantasies

It's no secret that I paid my way through college as an exotic dancer.That's me, back in the day. The picture is a crappy cellphone shot of a Glamour Shots photo from over 20 years ago. It's the only picture I still have from back then, courtesy of my former mother-in-law throwing away my photo albums during the divorce. Yes, I really did have the Distressed Poodle Perm. It was the early 90s; you had to be there.

Every day, I went to my classes. I socialized with my friends, played hands of Magic, rushed out papers, general college stuff. At work, though, I changed. I stopped being the shy, dorky, nerd gamer girl. Instead I became a smart, confidant sex goddess who bent men to her will. I teased and tantalized and manipulated men left and right. I danced under the name Faith. I told guys that the name Faith was because I was always faithful. It worked like a charm to open wallets.

I took a Women's Studies class while I was dancing. One of the girls went off on an "all sex workers are exploited" rant. I told her what I did for a living, and that if anyone was using people, it was me. That still holds true. In the club, I was the one in complete control of the interaction with a client. I was the one who walked away with an average of $400 each night, as well.

What I didn't say was that part of what I was doing on stage was reclaiming my sexuality. I am a rape survivor. The trauma of that had a pretty severe impact on me. I went in a depressive spiral, and more often than not I was at the bottom of a bottle trying to escape from my hatred of myself. When i started dancing, I was in a situation where I could be a sexual being in safety. The club had bouncers on staff whenever we were open. There was no chance of a customer forcing himself on me. the one time someone did try to touch me while I was on stage, the bouncer broke his fingers before escorting him out the door. I was escorted to my car every evening, and called in to let the club know I'd made it home safely. There are few places I've ever felt safer.

I miss the character I played when I went onto that stage. I miss her courage, her certainty that was beautiful, her strength and agility. I'm older now, maybe a little wiser. There are times when I'd still give anything to feel like Faith again.

LJ Idol

I'm a single mom in my 40s, living in a small town in rural Pennsyltucky. One of the big downside of living in this kind of a place is that if you have interests that are outside the local norms, finding dates can be tricky at best.

I'm a nerd, a geek, a gamer chick, an anime freak, a SCAdian, an author and a cosplayer. Given a choice, I'd much rather wear garb from the 16th Century than standard work clothes. I thrive in situations that are intellectually stimulating, where my creativity is challenged and I can safely indulge in wild flights of fancy. You want to talk about why unicorns have rainbow poop? On it. Discuss the possibilities of the local nuclear power plant as a terrorist's soft target? Sure. Figure out the perfect murder? Let's go. While we're at it, the conversation could hit on the flammability of a gryphon's wing feathers, the differences in game theory between Halo and Call of Duty, and trends in popular reading. I'm an outspoken liberal; the last time I took a political personality test, I scored left of Gandhi.

And I live in a place where the schools close on the first day of deer hunting season.

I work in a public library, with my office in the Children's Library. If I see menfolk at all, they're generally happily married dads here with their young kids. Meeting men through work has been less than successful. Single men in my age bracket just don't hang out in the stacks for some reason.

So I'm doing the online dating thing. I have a profile up on a couple of the free sites, because gods know as a single mom supporting three kids it's not like I can really afford to blow $20/month on site fees. The problem with the free sites, particularly in an area where there's not all that many people to begin with, is you get what you pay for.

Here are some of the messages I've gotten in the last month:

• maybe you wanna see my junk


• Pretty lady.....wanna wrestle


• My library books are super late.


• So what's the youngest you've dated lately girlie?


• Holy boobs batman


• Are you really single?


• I want to worship your feet.


• Is it normal to masturbate?


• How does it feel to know I just came to picture of your tits?


• How about a drink with lunch?


• I'm on my way over.

These were all first contact messages, not parts of conversations. Now don't get me wrong, I'm USED to socially awkward guys. Geeks and nerds are my people. But there's a difference between "socially awkward" and "rude just for the hell of it." I mean, these guys already missed the exit to Creepytown and are well into Nopenopenopeville. Do lines like these actually work for anyone? Yeah, there are times when I desperately want a guy in my life again, but I sure as hell don't want one of THOSE guys. Is it so unreasonable to hope to meet a nice, nerdy, quirky, single, independent, cosplay guy in his 40s?

Oh well, maybe next convention.

Elvira cosplay concept picture. No makeup, wig not styled into the beehive, wrong shoes, but a basic proof-of-concept. Yes, I know the sleeves aren't right, but I'm wearing this to Otakon in Baltimore in August. Loose sleeves are a good thing.

LJI Week 14:Confessions From the Chair. I have to say I was really, really tempted to write a noir fiction piece that was a chair confessing to something horrible."Look here, see? Yeah, I did it, yeah. But I had to do it. He didn't give me a choice, see? Just picked me up and swung."

I'm tired this week. Really tired.

Between waking up Thursday morning and collapsing into bed Monday night, I had roughly 5 hours of sleep. I'm not in my 20s any more; all-nighters wear me down. I haven't had a full night of sleep since.

If you read last week's post, you can probably guess what happened.



His name is Grayson. He was 7 pounds 7 ounces at birth. Of course he's turned our world upside down.

Rowan asked to go the hospital Thursday night. Yes! I thought, A Friday the 13th baby!We got to the hospital, and there was hemming and hawing and they finally decided to keep her. I stayed by her side all night, and then all day Friday. Her dad came up from Maryland and stayed at my house, doing the final paint job on the nursery and putting the crib together. She slept a lot. I knitted. We talked about my experiences giving birth to her and to her little brother. Time passed.

It was a little disappointing that he wasn't born on Friday the 13th after all.

Through it all, Rowan really didn't complain about pain. She loved the epidural at first, then slowly realized that it does get less effective over time. We heard another baby born in the next room, just before the doctor came in to deliver Gray. I stayed by Rowan's side, holding her hand, coaching her through pushing this new life into the world. At one point she looked at me and said "Mom, I can't do this!" I said "Honey, you already are." I knew it would hurt to see her in pain. I never expected to feel so helpless over it. Official time of birth was 1:15 am, Saturday, June 14.

After he was born, she said "I hope I didn't wake up the other baby."
I told her that if ever there is a time in her life when it's ok to be selfish, giving birth was it.

They're home now. Gray is just as beautiful as his mother. Rowan's been dealing with some anemia, that we're hoping will respond to iron supplements.

Guess the fun is just beginning here.

Written for LJIdol. Kinda tired these days, so I hope it all makes sense!

I'm sure that everyone has heard about the Isla Vista/UCSB shooting by now. If by some chance you haven't, a disaffected 22-year-old guy decided that since no woman had ever thrown herself at him demanding sex (seriously; he stated he didn't approach anyone himself) then it was up to him to "punish" all the pretty blue-eyed blonde girls that weren't sleeping with him. He killed 6 people and wounded thirteen before turning the gun on himself.

Cheery, ain't it?

One of the things that has come about after this is #YesAllWomen. During the initial outrage reaction on social media sites, many men felt they were being unfairly targeted as dangerous to women, and began using #NotAllMen. #YesAllWomen puts into words the unspoken realities that American women face on a daily basis.

1 in 5 American women are raped (or survive an attempted rape). This adds up to 22 million women.

A sexual assault occurs every 90 seconds.

1 in 3 murdered women were killed by a sexual partner.

15 out of 16 rapists go free. Only 6% of rapists actually serve jail time.

Less than half of all domestic violence crimes are reported to police.

Those numbers are frightening -- and they only show reported crimes. Most women are socialized to accept that there is a very large chance that we will be beaten, raped, or murdered. We're told how to dress to avoid being raped, how to carry our keys to fight off an attacker, to travel in packs because it's safer, to send out texts to friends before and after dates so if we disappear someone knows the name of our killer.

Guys, this is why your girlfriend can't go to the bathroom by herself in a crowded bar. There's no guarantee she'd make it back.

My contribution to #YesAllWomen on Twitter was "Because the cops told me not to waste their time filing a rape report."

What I could have added:
Because my son hears rape jokes every day.
Because my daughter has gotten leers and catcalls since she was 11.
Twenty-eight fraternity brothers took turns sexually assaulting me as Little Sister "initiation."
My job as a Little Sister was to be the Welcome Mat.
I was fired from more than one job because I wouldn't screw my boss.
I still have PTSD flashbacks, 20 years later.
I'm afraid to lose weight because I was raped more often when I was "pretty".
My ex-BF found a place to dispose of my body.
My ex-husband bought a .22 and told me it was the gun he would use to kill me.
Because rapists look like everybody else.

The sad thing is, this is nothing new. Women have dealt with these same fears and threats for as long as we've been human. And there's nothing we, as women, can do to change it. Until the men decide it's time to stop making rape socially acceptable in their peer groups, this will keep right on happening.

So, whatcha gonna do?

This has been my entry for Week 10 of LJI. The topic was “If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time”. Thank you for reading.

Back in the mid-50s, my dad was stationed in Italy. As part of being in Europe, my parents did the tourist thing.One of the places they went was Annadale and Raehills in Scotland. While there, dad was officially recognized as a member of Clan Johnstone.

The Johnstone/Johnston/Johnson clan were known for being rabble-rousers. They were part of the border clans who defended Scotland from the English. According to legend, it was a Johnstone who captured Comyn's messenger and warned Robert the Bruce that the English were hunting him down; this earned the family a winged spur on the coat of arms. Johnstones also provided a large percentage of the supporters of William Wallace. Yes, my family were the kilt-clad barbarians showing their privates to the English troops.

My father carried on the warrior spirit. He fought in both Korea and Vietnam, and missed fighting in WWII by less than a year. His Navy accommodations included the China Service Medal, 2 National Defense Service Medals, Republic of Vietnam Service Medal, 4 Bronze Stars, Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal, United Nations Service Medal, Korean Presidential Unit Citation, Republic of VietNam Campaign Medal, Navy Unit Commendation Medal, Navy Commendation Medal, Joint Chiefs of Staff Medal, Combat Action Medal and Meritorious Service Medal.

For not being Scottish born, he was a true Scotsman.

This has been my entry for Week 7 of LJ Idol. I hope you don't mind seeing a rather reminiscent look at an American born Scotsman.

My mother turned 40 a month and a half after I was born.

"So?" you say. "That's no big deal."

Except when it totally is.

When my mother was a teenager, WWII was going on. There are family stories about the POW camp near her town and the German soldiers that would walk in to her father's store to get odd treats and chat up the pretty girl. She was in college when she met my father. They had a grand total of three dates before they married in the 1950s -- Daddy was in the Navy, so most of their relationship was carried on by correspondence, both before and after the marriage.

Mom was every inch the military housewife. She ran things when Dad was deployed -- which was 19 of the first 27 years they were married. She had three sons, and one surprise baby girl just as the youngest son was gearing up to turn 13. She smiled and had bake sales and ran the PTA, was a member of both the Enlisted and (later) Officers Wives Clubs, supervised moves for herself and others. She's lived in Italy and Japan and on both coasts of the States. Behind the scenes, she always Got Things Done, whether it was a birthday party thrown together days after an international move or "arranging" for a cheating wife and family to be transferred to another base.

That was the woman who raised me. June Cleaver from a distance, Lucretia Borgia when she needed to be. She raised me to be a 1950s housewife just like her. I can sew, cook, clean and make it all look easy. I know how to handle a surprise "Honey I'm bringing the boss home for dinner" call with less than an hour's warning. I can golf and dance and mix cocktails and hold my own at any Country Club party. I can change a baby's diapers while making sure the toddler isn't peeing in the fireplace or covering the dog in mayonnaise.

Those skills are not exactly relevant in today's society.

You see, between when my mother became a housewife and I came along, this little thing called the 1960s happened. You may have heard of it. Suddenly women weren't expected to be Susy Homemaker any more. We were supposed to have jobs and careers and fulfilling lives outside of the family. Trophy wives were no longer The Thing To Be. The world changed, without my mother's permission.

She didn't see a need to change with it.

When I went to college, it was with firm instructions to "find a nice boy to settle down". I was told to hang out at the fraternities on campus because the "nice" boys would be there. Following that advice landed me in a world of trouble and hurt. So I turned my back on her vision of my future. I found a passion for knowledge, followed that through undergrad and grad school and into the working world. I refused to be the 1950s Trophy Wife my mother wanted me to be.

I'm not sure she's ever forgiven me for that.

There's still a little of the 1950s upbringing in me. Just a touch -- and that touch is enough to often make me feel like part of me is living in a different era. Sometimes I still fantasize about the life envisioned for me, about being the Trophy Princess in a castle on a hill.

Til fantasies come true, I'll be just fine in the castle I've built for myself.

This is my entry for LJ Idol Season 9, Week 3, In Another Castle. Thank you for reading.

You can either laugh or cry, and crying doesn't do any good.

In 2012, I was told I would never walk again. At that point, I was 3.5 years into using a wheelchair. My legs had started to atrophy, they told me. Physical therapy would slow down the deterioration, but the damage was already done.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my wheelchair. It was made to fit me, courtesy of my very generous brother. It's comfortable and supportive and best of all has these great front wheels that light up in rainbow colors. I've worn through sets of tires zooming around with my first service dog, Guinness. Used to piss off the Marines something fierce when we'd outrun them on their PT jogs, too.

But I'm not ready to spend the rest of my life there.

I started making changes in my life. I was already in the separation period for my divorce (second divorce from the same guy; I'll elaborate some other time). I didn't want to be re-entering the dating world in a chair. Some part of me would always be wondering if any interest was from pity, and I have enough self esteem issues without adding that on! I stopped taking my pain medications. I also stopped taking the weekly low-dose chemotherapy treatments. Most of my doctors were horrified, of course. There is no cure for my condition, and shutting down the patient's immune system is the standard course of treatment.

I knew I was in for a world of hurt.

At that point, I was taking enough hydrocodone to knock out a small rhino. It kept me in a haze. I wasn't a good mother, or a good anything else. I just stayed in bed and stared at the wall and didn't care about anything. One of the things I was busy not caring about was the pain. When your body has built extra bits of bone, those bits tend to press on the nerves in odd ways. This causes everything from that tingly pins-and-needles feeling to burning to numbness to sharp stabbing pain, and the pain doesn't go away. Even with the drugs, it's still there, you just don't care about it any more.

The week I stopped taking the pain meds, the section of Virginia where I lived was hit by an earthquake. The quake was followed by a hurricane three days later. Through all that, I was detoxing off of morphine, processing out the last of the chemotherapy, and dealing with the crippling amounts of pain without the morphine-derived buffer zone.

I cried a lot.

I also laughed a lot.

There are points in life when you are faced with a choice. You can give in to the despair of your situation and let it weight you down until you can no longer move. You can say "This is all too much; I can't take any more." No one will blame you if you give in. It's more than any person is expected to bear. Or you can say "To hell with this, I mean to live!"* You can decide that no one, not even an incurable illness, will control your life. You make yourself laugh in the face of the pain. You get up and get on with your life no matter how badly the odds are stacked against you.

I walked.
Now I plan to dance.


Me in my awesome light-up wheelchair at Camp LeJeune, 2009

*Joss Whedon writes the best stuff -- that line from Serenity has become a mini-mantra for me.

This has been my entry for Week 1 of Season 9, LJ Idol. The topic was Jayus, "From Indonesian, meaning a joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh." I hope you enjoyed reading it.

I'm trying LJ Idol again. Scared yet?
The Real LJ Idol

Yep, still alive. Shocking, I know.

I got a house! Technically it's two halves of a duplex, but I knocked down a couple of walls and voila! house. It's huge. Anyone want to come help me unpack and strip 120 year old wallpaper off the walls?

I went to a high school that had The Trojans as a mascot. Go ahead and laugh; we all did. There was a larger-than-life Trojan warrior statue at the entry of the school, complete with a strategically placed sword that more than once was decorated with namesake condoms. Oddly enough, I can't find a picture of it online and the picture in my 1986 yearbook really doesn't show the full glory.

Like every "football is our religion" high school, we had rivals. Part of the rivalry involved school pranks. Some of the pranks were cruel, some were funny, some I look back now and wonder what we were thinking. I'm still not sure what stealing a fiberglass cow sculpture and boosting it onto the school roof was supposed to say, but damn it we did it anyway!

One year, our rivals from the other side of the county decided they needed to let chickens dyed in our school colors loose on the football field before homecoming. That probably would have been more effective if our school colors had been something other than green and white. Still, the gauntlet was thrown, so the next week it was our turn to make their homecoming experience memorable.

Sticking with the theme, chickens were involved.

The interesting thing about using chickens in a prank is the little buggers can disappear in plain sight and reappear somewhere completely unexpected. If you've ever played Legend of Zelda you've seen this happen. Being enterprising young delinquents, we decided to use this to our advantage. We got three lovely, healthy chickens and painted numbers on them, then let them loose in their halls during the school day.

In relatively short order, they were rounded up. Our rivals were presented with chickens numbered 1, 2 and 4.

I'm not sure how many hours were lost searching for Chicken 3.

Best. Prank. Ever.

This has been my entry for Week 5 of The Real LJ Idol. The topic was Go Tell the SpartansTrojans. I hope you enjoyed my little stroll down memory lane!