Tag Archive | Dating

Yes… It’s prom season!

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So, it goes like this . . .

My daughter comes back from her second prom last night, two o’clock in the morning.

It’s tough when you look freaking amazing.

 

And, she had a fabulous time.

It reminds me of when I was back in high school, although I did not go to my senior prom. I had just broken up with my boyfriend, and figured that he was not worth spending an entire night with, much less a bunch of money on, just to go to prom.

No biggie.

Hmmmm.

Prom.

So did I miss anything? Isn’t it just an over glorified dance?

I don’t think I missed anything by not dancing the hoochy-koo with my ex-boyfriend in a gym filled with bad teenage decorations.

I remember watching in an Oprah show on mothers that would do anything to make sure that their daughters are able to go to prom. Because these mothers, had missed their proms and felt like their lives were lacking as a result… of missing prom.

Chill everybody… it’s just freaking prom.

It’s just a dance.

Granted, it’s a nice memory. Nothing to get your whole life worked up over.

These moms were putting ads in local newspapers, spreading the word, even paying some of these boys to take their daughters to prom. Just because they, themselves, felt like they had missed out on something that was life-changing.

Isn’t that sad?

These women… and at least their 40s, were still hanging on to the fact that they hadn’t gone to prom… and they were going to make damn sure that their daughters didn’t have that same baggage.

Frankly, I don’t think their daughters would’ve had that baggage unless that baggage was suggested to them by their own mothers.

It’s just prom. Right? Am I missing something here?

I don’t think so.

Now, I knew that all my friends were at the party having a good time.

And, I was a little blue that wasn’t there. It’s true.

And then… I got over it.

I got to spend time with my irritating brother, and my silly dad, and my good-cooking mom.

Not too bad… really. They’re great people.

So, I’m glad to say that my daughter went to her second prom. And she had a great time at each prom, but had she not had a date she would’ve gone alone… and still had a great time.

This is the beauty of the modern teenager… That in this day and age you can go to prom by yourself. You don’t have to bring in three-eyed cousin from Nebraska just to be your date.

When I was going to prom… you did not go alone. Period. End of Story. That’s it folks. No Hans Solo.

And, all those women that were on the Oprah show, I believe that they were not “socially allowed” to go alone either. That there was some stigma attached to just hang with your friends at a big dance.

Luckily, with the progression of civilization we have accepted the fact that people can have fun alone… without a date… just hanging with your friends.

Thank god we have made major strides.

Right.

Oprah moms. Get over it.

Move on, Moth-ah!

Graduate from high school.

I am here to tell you there is life after prom.

I promise.

;-)

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author  Bookmark and Share 

 Finalist in Broad Humor Film Festival Screenwriting Contest — Announcing “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay!   Belle Karper, Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com
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Just a Little Fun in the Sun… (Pics & Video)

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So, it goes like this . . .

Unfortunately, I am having problems with my keyboard… so this will be a quicky! And, we all know how you love quickies!

It’s hard to learn everything all at once! Digging this YouTube!

xoxo,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author  Bookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com
WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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“V” “V” for “Vasectomy!”

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So, it goes like this . . .

So… as you all know, my husband had hernia surgery last Friday.

Let’s just say, that he is so lucky to have someone to love him, and to wait on him, and to cook for him 24 hours a day… it’s really too bad she lives 3000 miles away…

Nah! Just joking… (Love you, Mama Karper!)

When he and I got married, one of my wedding gifts from him was for him to get a vasectomy.

“V” “V” for “Victory!”

“V” “V” for “Vasectomy!”

The crowd responds and roars with ample applause, “Yeeeeaaaahhhh!”

Yes, that was a happy (and relieving) time in our lives, and I think back to that night… that night of his vasectomy surgery when he came limping home.

I stood ready with a frozen bag of peas to place on his “nads.”

He laid down carefully in our four-poster bed (thick posts, I might add.) Uniquely (not to be confused with “Eunuch-ly” which would mean that his manhood would’ve been cut off altogether… or all apart… as the case may be) appropriate for this surgery, as they stand wide and tall, phallic-ly representing ample length and girth.

;-)

So, he lies in our bed and he retells the story of his surgery while his legs are spread with a package of peas on his delicate “package.”

Evidently the vasectomy procedure is done in stirrups… just like when all us chicks have to do when we go in for our beloved Pap smear. Yeah.

Well boys, we’ve had to be in this position for years, I might add.

And, I said an inward “Hallelujah!”

A man finally had to assume “the position.”

“Did the doctor ask you to scoot down?” I ask with an inward smirk…

His reply was, “Yes.”

My heart warms at the thought of my man, any man, having his bare fuzzy ass leering over the edge of that damn stirrup table.

Another inward “Hallelujah!” once again.

Of course I didn’t demonstrate to him my glee that his “taint” was exposed for all to see. I kept that to myself, as I smiled. But make no mistake, I did smile.

“Honey how do you feel, my love? Are the peas doing the trick? Maybe another package by now? Frozen carrots, perhaps?”

“No.” He says, “No carrots, thanks.”

Another use for the term, “Pass the peas, please” that is not dinner time usage. Hoorah for the expansion of our dear english language.

Peas… the new superfood.

Well, there he lies, pained and silence with spring fresh vegetables cooling his groin, and I said, “Let me make you dinner… you’ve had an awfully hard day.”

“Honey, you are just too good to me,” he said.

“I know. I am looking to repair that flaw of mine sometime soon.”    ;-)

So, I go downstairs and prepare a meal fit for a vasectomized King.

While, upstairs he waits watching “2 1/2 Men”… and trying desperately not to laugh.

I prepared a bed tray for him.

I unfolded the legs.

I placed a napkin and flatware to the right.

A Diet Mountain Dew. The nectar of the caffeinated gods, I placed on the tray, and a glass of ice (with a straw) while my man’s dinner was cooking.

I could hear his pained “guffaws” as he resisted the surgery, the peas, and the “2 1/2 Men.”

But, I must prepare his food, mustn’t I?

If not me, then who would feed his vasectomized balls?

So on a plate I placed his meal, with a candle on the side.

Mood lighting, you know.

I carried the tray slowly… regally… I mean, he did do all this just for me.

He had his sack cut.

How much more love could he show me?

So yes, I carried this tray with pride and pomp because the circumstances lied there neutered on that bed.

And, I set down his tray of culinary delights… a hot dog and two apricots cut by a knife.

Vasectomy Dinner

Vasectomy Dinner

Be well,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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What I Missed… and What I Didn’t…

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

My darling husband went on this moutain biking trip.

I couldn’t go because I had to stay home and do the “Mommy Thing” and send my kids off to the Homecoming Dance in style (my son’s first!).

So this is what I missed in Bryce Canyon…

Utah...

Utah...

Riding the "fin" in Bryce -- I have had nightmares about rides just like this!

Riding the "fin" in Bryce -- I have had nightmares about rides just like this!

 

Beautiful Bryce Canyon

Beautiful Bryce Canyon

 

This is the trail... Riding between rocks instead of trees...

This is the trail... Riding between rocks instead of trees...

I call this "The Balls" of Bryce Canyon!

I call this "The Balls" of Bryce Canyon!

 

AND this is what I didn’t miss… My kid’s Homecoming Dance…

 

 

 

And, here he is...

And, here he is...

My Handsome Guy

My Handsome Guy

My Precious Duo

My Precious Duo

My daughter and her date... Yowza

My daughter and her date... Yowza

Some of the Gang...

Some of the Gang...

My Girl and her Crew!

My Girl and her Crew!

I figure Bryce will still be there after this dance… but, this night…
Well, you get the picture.

Be well,

Belle

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THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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HELLO?

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So, it goes like this . . .

Hello . . .

Uh, Checking . . .

One, two, three . . .

Is this frigging thing ON? (Bang, bang, bang)

Where’s the God-dang button here, kids?

Crap.

What in tarnations?

(Don’t even ask me to explain THAT word. You’re just going to have to accept that it’s just a Southern explicative. Don’t know what else to tell you. You could add it to your word building exercises for the day if you are planning a trip to Alabama, or thereabouts. Otherwise . . . hmmm . . . no.)

I hate technology sometimes.

Okay . . . Everybody, I am just going to have to YELL.

HELLO?

Hey, Y'all!

Hey, Y'all!

—-
Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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Things have gotten worse . . .

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

Things have gotten worse.

The other day, I woke up sounding like Demi Moore. 

Scratchy. Sexy . . . with a bit of a Southern Accent.

That was nice.

Made me sound naughty. Though, I have no intention of moving in on Ashton. They are adorable together.

Another score for the Cougars!

Go! Cougars! Go!

Aaaaaah . . .

Yes . . . the memories of Cougar catching the fine young chicken meat . . .

Hmmm . . . I get all warm just thinking about it.

But, I digress.

However . . .

Yesterday, I woke up sounding like Demi Moore’s mother.

Don’t quote me, but I don’t think they “get along.”  Something about alcohol and . . . well, that might put a damper on the old relationship thing.

Yeah, not good.

And, today . . .

Well, today I have woken up sounding like Demi Moore’s Uncle Crank. A distant chain-smoking, pain-in-the-ass pseudo-relative that is bent on trying to break up her and Ashton’s May-September romance.

He’s probably an ass.

So, it’s no compliment, to me . . . Moi . . . I . . . Belle, that I sound like her mother . . .  or worse yet, scary old pseudo-Uncle Crank.

Sounding like Demi Moore with a southern accent was fun . . . for a day or so, until it disintegrated into “weird Uncle Crank.”

No. This is entirely NOT GOOD.

I guess I am going into the doctor on Monday.

Bummer.

I wonder if I am going to need a shot?

I’ve probably done something to deserve it.

Something.

Double Bummer.

Be well, and I am frigging determined to get better!

I don’t want to sound like ANY of the Demi Moore Klan anymore.

I want to be me, I tell you.  I want to be me!

;-)

Be well,

Belle

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THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

Widow Rings

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

When I became a widow five years ago, I too, was very confused.  After a long while, I decided to wear my ring around my neck on a thin black ribbon.  The ribbon was from a present that my kids gave me from a packaged candle “to help me light the way.” 

Poetic.

Then after another long while, I took the ring off entirely.  When that time came, it sort of released me.  And at that time it felt good. Someday it will feel good for you, too.

Breathe out.  Breathe In. Take one step. Then, another.

Be well,

Belle

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THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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Sweep me off my feet, please . . .

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

I feel for you friends that are out there.

You wish that someone great would come along and sweep you off your feet, right?

Well, some days there is just no feet-sweeping. I hate to tell you, but some days are just full of stinky feet.

Men and women alike, I think ultimately, want to find that special someone regardless of whether they have been single most of their life or married. I wish I had good news to report but I don’t. Sometimes you think that you’ll meet some special someone, and then you don’t hear from them and you don’t know why. You didn’t hear from him yesterday, no phone call, no future plans.

Do you want to give up on the fairytale?

Heck no, kids! Persistence, man. You have got to be relentless.

Meeting someone is about as tiring as a full-time job. It’s a numbers game. You may be tempted to compare the people that you met with someone in your past.

Is it right, or fair? To the other person? To you? Would you really want to do the same thing over when you have this second, third, fourth, fifth, seventieth chance? Aren’t there some things that you ultimately want to change? I know it may have seemed perfect in the past, but maybe it was just perfect because it sits in the past. We have a way of idolizing things that we can’t touch anymore.

I understand this, because I am a widow.

I can’t touch my past. They are times when I look at it and I wonder, I really wonder, if it was as perfect as my memory paints it.

And, I have to tell you, that the past was full of wonderful times, but the past was also full of dirty socks, occasional bad breath, and moments when you just wish that you were somewhere else.

So, when you go on the next coffee date with a potential Mr./Ms. Wonderful, give fate a chance.

Let your toes dance on an unknown path of love.

Try someone new, something new, and maybe it won’t be the same as before, but singing in harmony with someone can be awfully pleasing.

Keep shooting for the goal . . . but in the meantime, just enjoy the game.

Keep those cards and letters coming!

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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Taboo – A Memory from the Dominican Republic

I saw her looking out from the doorway.

She’s young. Yes, very young. Too young for her job, for sure.

The little kids — brothers and sisters — run in the front yard. Pounding the dry dirt into their souls. The kicking the blue ball, and then hitting it with a broken stick. Someday they will be working, too. But, they don’t know it. Not yet.

She is barely older than they are, yet she has work to do. Her parents prepare her. She is, after all, the breadwinner for the family.
Her 13-year-old face is made to look twenty. The only money the family had was invested in her makeup, bought from the local farmacia. They apply a carefully, not to waste it. She has to work tomorrow, you know.

She’s leaning against the door jam. Eyes, bright only with the blue shadow on her lids. Otherwise, lifeless.

No mascara, though. Mascara is a luxury. Too expensive. Maybe next week with the money she makes. Rouge. Yes, rouge to make her cheeks look becoming.

But, most importantly her lipstick. So red. Her lips lay limp upon her face.

Her eyes looked down, as her ride drives up. Yes, it is time to work another night. Time to work another night of this so-called love.

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker
www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Twitter-Belle - all on Website
S. Belle Karper

Ouch . . . Nail Guy

So here I am, sitting in my nail salon having my nails drilled down to the micro-bit. I think there’s just a nano-distance bit of cellular nail fiber film between his drill and my awaiting pain and doom. I look at him while he wears a mask, so that he does not inhale any of these carcinogenic dust flakes that he’s creating as he is whizzing my nail down to a mere memory.

Why don’t I have a mask? Are my lungs not entitled to the same ridiculous standard ─ considering that I am paying for this service?

He resumes his irritated glance and bats my hands down because they are moving too much. And, I am thinking, “If you want a tip, baby, you better not hit me again.”

He’s frigging expensive, man.

He responds by yelling something in a foreign language to Mary, my pedicure girl who working diligently on my toes. I’m sure that it’s a compliment to my fashion prowess. And, I am also sure that her real name is not Mary.

Why do I put up with this? I will tell you why . . .

He and I have gone through this dance for more than 14 years now. My daughter is 16 and I have been coming to my “Nail Guy” since I moved here when my daughter was two. You’d think that we’d have a better relationship than we do, but he is socially inept and I am impatient. I put up with him because he is literally the best.

He is THE BEST “Nail Guy” this side of the Mississippi.

My nails can go unattended, even brutalized by my lack of care for four weeks, or more if I am away, and they look completely natural. There is no line. Yes, He is THAT GOOD.

Do not even try to e-mail me to try and get his name, or his telephone number or where he works.

I will not give out this information. Period.

I would tell you my best friend is sleeping with before I divulge the name of my beloved Nail Guy.

Let’s face it. I do not want his time booked up. I want him to succeed, but I want his rude remarks and hand battings available to me whenever my schedule allows. So, don’t get any ideas. If you take my spot on the calendar, I will hunt you down and rip off every one of your perfectly manicured acrylic nails and shove them up your nose.

I’m mean, a girl’s got to do what girl’s got to do. I need my acrylics perfect, and my toes like little red rubies dotting the tops of my sandals. Please don’t get in my way. I have priorities and high heels. I know how to use them.

I must like his torment. After all, it has been 14 years of this carcinogenic conversational banter. For example, “You work busy today?”

I respond, “Yes.”

That’s the end of this impressive conversation until I am asked to pay up.

So, you can understand my need of the highly fingered stack of magazines which include People, “Cosmo,” InStyle and O (Oprah).

And, I HAVE to read them all.

There is nothing else for me to do to distract myself from the dremel buzzing my nail beds into obscurity. Otherwise, I am likely to throw up on him out of fear that he might actually transcend the layer of cutonic matter and dive into my poor little nail “moon” that is just idly sitting there minding it’s little own nail-business. Right?

There is a brief moment, where he dust off his desk with a large purple brush, which of course drives all those white particles off his working stations and onto my nice black linen pants. Great. It looks like I have dandruff issues below the belt. Not nice, kids. Like I said there’s this brief moment where he has to do a little housework on his desk, and I now have a chance to look down at my all buzzed nails, only to see that they are thinner than the one-ply toilet paper that I just used on my refined derriere when I went to go pee.

Each time when I get this ridiculous urge, I think I’m going to faint when they see how thin my nails are. You’d would think that after 14 years I would learn not to look at my fingers at this stage of this salon service. That I would just continue to read about “all the sex that I am doing wrong” in my July 08 Cosmopolitan. 2008? Hello? However, curiosity gets to the better of me on these bi-weekly visits, and I continue to almost keel over at the blatant and frail condition of my pinchers.

“Blaaaaah! Don’t look, you idiot,” I say to myself.

Okay, now, okay. Breathe in. Out. Everything’s fine.

He slams his hand down on the table two times. This is his charming attempt at communication to have me put my hands back on the table. Like I said, he and I have a ritual, I didn’t say it was nice.

Without any argument on my part however, I am quick to get my nails “filled” again so that they will not fold backward when I am shoving a taco in my mouth. We do live in Southern California. And, I do love tacos. I promptly respond by putting my hands on the platform and try to smile in a charming, pale kind of way (since I was just about to pass out) that I had just been reminded of just how much I need him for my day-to-day survival.

When all of the stock markets went to hell, I had a brilliant thought that I might try to save money by not getting my nails done every two weeks. So after about six weeks, my nails started to split at the top and then break off. Layered little peelings of these acrylic wonders started shedding themselves, revealing the fragile state of my actual nails. I tried for four weeks after that, where then my “real” nails were breaking below the skin with vertical cracks. Ouch. I could barely pick up a tampon, much less put this “thrill stick” in, without the looming expectation of 10 fingered agony.

So, I guess it took me only 10 weeks to figure out ─ one week for each dangerously painful regressing nail bed on each of my beloved food pushers. Yes, it became quite evident, that I needed my “Nail Guy” in at least ten unbearably stinging, splitting and throbbing ways.

Let’s just say it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that my nails were more important than putting shoes on my kid’s feet.

We all wear flip-flops now, but my nails look great . . .

Go figure.

So, let this be a lesson to you ─ the market can go to hell, your husband can complain of tuna salad sandwiches for the 7th dinner in a row, your children can wear what we affectionately used to call “flood pants” (while convincing them that this is the current style . . .), your “Nail Guy” can bat your hand hard enough that you could actually allege physical abuse and have a case, and that your lungs aren’t worthy of the even the lowliest Home Depot-style facemask ─ but, all of that is unimportant if you don’t keep your priorities straight.

Regardless the cost, your nails must remain beautiful.

Yes. I just got them done. I am staring longing at their beauty, and begin the fear my upcoming appointment at 1:30p.m. in fourteen days. Until then . . . nailed bliss.

And, no, I repeat, I will not give out his name.

You’ve got to out and find your own “Nail Guy.”

Good luck. I’m thinking about starting up a website called “NailGuyMatch.com.” Until then, happy acrylic-ing . . .

Keep those cards and letters coming!

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Twitter-Belle - all on Website
S. Belle Karper

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