I accidentally used the church’s facebook identity to complain about Sarah Palin while on another website just a minute ago.

And speaking of, my own facebooking is rather cramped by my heedless acceptance of teenage churchkids’ friend requests. I feel like I can’t talk about cocktails and kissing around people so freshly out of DARE and True Love Waits. And I feel like de-friending or un-friending or whatever the fuck you call it them would be hurtful and condescending. Oh, and no swears. Or sour opining about the shitiness of emo. Fuck.

Also I’m thinking of de-friending someone–specifically that fellow whose sermon I walked out on for being too sportsy-wortsy and whose mother wanted me to date his gay brother–for being a terrific douche. But it’s only really satisfying if he knows I think he’s a terrific douche.

Never move back to your hometown, no matter your educational goals or financial prospects. You’ll have these sorts of problems. Did I ever mention that I once accidentally flashed the Terrific Douche? I was wearing a short kilt-style wrap-around skirt and it was windy. Although this happened when I was, say, fourteen it still keeps me up nights.

Okay. No, it doesn’t. But, still, ew.

My friend Melissa the Church Secretary and I recently had another union meeting. She told me, rather abruptly, that if I still want to have six kids I should get started as soon as possible. Then she named a few potential fathers for my six children gleaned, as always, from facebook. Then she asked if we–that is one of her three candidates and I–were any closer to getting married.

I told her no, once I was able to close my mouth sufficiently to form words. Then I asked her whatever gave her the impression I wanted to marry That Creepy Kid I Met at a Bar Who Won’t Stop Talking to Me Onlineor Guy from High School I Really Like As a Friend But Would Never Date Because I Am Deeply Shallow and Also Several Years Older Than Him or Extremely Handsome and Clever Boy Whose Extremely Handsome and Clever Company I Have Been Known to Enjoy. Or that I would ever, ever, ever want six kids.

Because you told me you wanted to have six kids!

This is not true, oh gentle readers. This couldn’t be less true. In the highly unlikely event that I did decide to have six kids, I would borrow most of them from foster care rather than squeeze them each and every one from my very own lady parts. Have you ever had the mother of very many children describe to you the process by which she periodically pokes her bladder back into her body with her index finger? I have. The human bladder, in case you want to know, is sort of pinkish white. And it shouldn’t really fall out.

(violent shuddering)

It has occurred to me that I may’ve once said something–not at all seriously, mind you–about having six children. It further occurs to me that I should probably add Melissa the Church Secretary to my list of People Around Whom Sarcasm is Ill-Advised.

Also on this list is my Cousin Carlita who told her mother that my sister is insisting I wear a wig in her wedding. Her aunt called my mother to opine on the subject for a good half hour. After the hours of inter-familial confusion that followed I realized Cousin Carlita had read something on my running blog and both misinterpreted and expanded it.

I’d said my sister is marvelous enough to “let” me run a marathon the day after her wedding, rather than being the sort of sister who expects me to get hair extensions and a spray tan, in case you’d wondered.

And this song of the day is a guest pick from a friend. In case you wondered about that too.

He warns it’s nsfw, by the way.