July 2010

I’m going to be late for work. But I want to describe a dilemma before I go. For a while now I’ve occasionally been going out for pub trivia with a high school friend and his friends. The very first night, I found myself surrounded by the sort of boys I don’t really date all of whom were sort pleading pathetically for my attentions. This sounds like I’m a vain girl, but mostly these people are grown up theater nerds and chubby with bad skin who, I’m guessing, aren’t around girls much. Except for the handsome one with the fake id, but I digress. Anyway, I did what every girl does when she wants boys to back off: I started talking to the gay guy.

Who turns out not to be gay. Who also turns out to be married. But who has created what seems to be a second facebook page to 1) help his primary identity get points and things in weird science fiction games and 2) to comment on every single thing I’ve posted. According to his own wall, I’m the only person he’s commented to. And on the occasions we’ve seen each other in real life he’s said unambiguously flirtatious things, which I have mightily striven to ignore.

Last night my friend, the one whose friend he is, asked me if I knew that the creepy kid’s fb page was a second page for him. I did not. I have since checked it out and am creeped out. Maybe he thinks he’s networking and is merely the world’s most awkward man. But in that case he would’ve said his facebook interest was networking, not friends with girls.

I’m going to unfriend him in any event. But I’m not sure whether I should tell him off first or ask that mutual friend what his read is on the situation.

Ugh. These are the reasons I’m not exactly keen on human interaction.


I have a fair number of male friends. They’re generally marvelous, these males. For instance, they never burst into tears unexpectedly. I’m always taken completely aback when people do that. But there’s one thing they’re completely useless at: telling me whether my outfit’s too slutty. I’ve asked this question of nearly all my male friends at some time or another and never once gotten an affirmative answer. I think their perspective may be off.

I’m glad this website is stepping into fulfill the role. I am right now thinking about which of my clothes to send them picture of. I especially like that the creator of the website is a 33 year old man. Cause that’s not creepy at all.

I rearranged my office today. I also cleared my desk with my forearm, like someone about to have desk sex. Which I did not do for several reasons that should be obvious. I’ve always wanted to throw everything on my desk on the floor. It was satisfactory.

I get paid Friday. I will use that money to mail you your zine. Hooray.

because I’m working extra hard and, also, photocopying the zine. You know, finally.


My parents are on vacation for two weeks. It’s nothing but Leslie Gore impersonations and eating breakfast in my underpants and collating zines for me. Hooray.

If I were more ambitious, I would make a pie chart to illustrate an indisputably true fact. It is this: I have big teeth. The pie chart would be titled surface area and would indicate the proportion of my person dedicated to, say, thighs (a lot), ass (also a lot), and hair & teeth (staggering amounts!). I have big teeth. Big ones. I have heard myself described by others as “that girl with the teeth.”

I am telling you this because I got up at 6:35 this morning to go to church and do what could only be described as four hours of unpaid work. It was tedious. It was a total waste of my time occasionally marked by moments of condescension and the inconveniences caused by other people’s poor planning. If I applied myself, I could become pretty damn annoyed.

And not just by that: there’s politics and tv evangelists and people who are unkind to kind people. There’re people who send faxes to phone lines and people who never ever recycle. Those are just a few of the several things that also annoy the holy hell out of me.

Instead of thinking too hard about any of that I’m going to reflect on my more than passing resemblance to one Eleanore Roosevelt. When I was a kid, I had craaaazy teeth instead of merely large ones. They were bucky and jammed into my mouth at wild angles. Ten years of orthodontics later, they are quite nicely arranged. I’ve always been very, very happy my parents were able to hook me up with braces. I can’t begin to tell you how unfortunate looking I would’ve been if my teeth were left the way they were.

The crookedness came from my dad’s family. My mom’s family generally has even worse teeth. Despite excellent care and even better nutrition, the whole lot of them have soft teeth prone to decay. My grandmother wore dentures before she was thirty. My grandfather had two gold teeth right in front. I haven’t had a cavity since I was seven. I have never worked a job where I had dental insurance, and I’ve never had enough money to pay easily for the dozen or so fillings a year that people on my mom’s side seem to require. I can imagine, though, how terrible it would be to struggle under their big dental bills with my bad jobs.

I’m trying these days to counter my exasperation with gratitude for the many good things there are in the world and in my very own life. And, so, I’m going around today thinking about how happy I am to be That Girl with the Teeth. I am.

Plus, there are worse people to look like than one of the most powerful and respected women of the early twentieth century.

Last night I sat up rather late reading a new etiquette book.  I collect them, actually, the more arcane the better.  This one is by the author of the famously fantastic I Hate to Cook Book.  It’s sort of the Feminine Mystique of tips on ladylike behavior–and it recommends a lot drinking and a lot more smoking as response to most situations.   Delightful.

After last night’s four hours of sleep, I consoled myself with the idea of sleeping in extraordinarily late tomorrow.  Then I remembered: tomorrow’s the day of our dreaded Day of Visioning.  It begins at eight.  I must go, despite the fact that I apparently must not be paid for my time.  Ugh.

Today in staggering rudeness: I just got off the phone with the vile bitch of a choir director.  Did I mention that she is wholly unqualified to direct a choir?  She just waves her hand around in what she hopes in a relevant motion.  Once, when faced with sheet music in a minor key and with many incidentals, suggested the choir ignore all the sharps and flats and the difficulties they presented.  A choir member, who studied music in college, raised her timid hand to explain that this method wouldn’t work at all and thereby saved us all from an even worse than usual performance of the terrible choir.

The choir director “leads” music at the early service.  That is to say, she starts off the congregational singing and waves her hand meaninglessly while standing behind the pulpit.  She needs the song selections ahead of time.  The fellow who selects the song is sort of the unofficial assistant pastor and is eighty years old.  He’s extremely devoted to the church and is here pretty much every time the door’s are open.  He had a number of doctor’s appointments this week and so hasn’t yet gotten me the songs for Sunday.

She called me a few minutes ago to see if I had the songs yet.  This was a perfectly appropriate thing to do.  Here’s the staggeringly rude part:

So you don’t have the songs? she says.

Not yet, but I’ll call you the minute I get them.

I assume Old Man forgot? He’s getting really up there in age. I bet it’s Alzheimer’s.

I don’t think that’s the case at all. He had a number of appointments this week and was quite simply busy.

Should I add that this fellow is as mentally sharp as, well, I am? Or that I think it’s extremely condescending to assume elderly people are about two weeks away from drooling on their bibs? Or that the choir director is a vile bitch who sounded rather as if she hoped Old Man was suffering from something serious?

There’s probably some sort of life lesson in here for me about loving my neighbors, even if they’re vile bitches. Mostly, though, I just want to punch her.

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