August 2010


I’m cold.  The thermostat’s set on 75, but I’m a girl.  In high school, this boy who liked me told me I was always cold because I was so skinny.  No meat on my bones he said.  Flattery!  More recently, a boy who liked me told me women are colder than men because they have more body fat and less muscle.   That was, ahem, less flattering.   I’m drinking hot water.  It’s not helping.

Last week I was fiendishly productive.  As previously discussed.  So far this week I’ve spent most of my workdays pondering a quick under desk nap.   I’d do it too, but I don’t have a blanket.

Maybe I can wrap up in those giant pants?

Yesterday I put out the order forms for new church tee shirts.  I also wrote instructions for filling out and returning forms.  Soooo, half the forms returned yesterday were incorrectly filled out and/or did not include money.  Before you think I’m a terrible task master, I should say that the form required only three pieces of information: your name, your color choice, and your size preference.  There was a stapler right next to the form so people could attach their bills or checks to the form.  Easy, right?

Yeah.  Or not.  Whatever.

Right now I’m hanging out in my office waiting another five minutes on meeting attendees.  Remember that team marathon thingy everyone was so excited about when I suggested it?  Well, I’d planned a pair of organizational meetings.  One is tonight.  I’m the only person here.

I think I’m going to take my life into my own hands and go buy beer right here in my hometown.  For some reason, I’ve been talking to a lot of drunk people (some of whom are quite handsome) lately.  I’m beginning to get jealous.

You know what’s a fairly fantastic feeling?  When one’s ethical misgivings are proven unfounded.  Wheee.

Yes, that’s all you’re getting from me.  That, and the assurance I’m not talking about the books or the chips.  I had no misgivings about that.

I’m such a tease,  a tease who’s spending the whole afternoon reading things Timothy Eagan wrote and listening to this:

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I am sorely tempted to tape my completely completed four page to do list on my office door. And maybe take a sharpie and write across it this is what I get done in a week, so give me some fucking money. I finished everything on my list. Everything. And I only stayed one half hour extra today and two hours extra yesterday.

The past several days I’ve done a few things I am not authorized to do. I get drunk with power when I’m productive. The pastor’s wife kindly takes charge over the eats and drinks we have out on Sunday mornings. She’s a sweet woman, a sweet woman who doesn’t know a thing about food preservation. She’s been setting out the same bowl of tortilla chips every Sunday for a month. The chips have been stored in that bowl, under a loose sheet of Saran wrap, since July. The chips are spectacularly stale.  I “accidentally” tipped them into the trash early this week.

Last week I raided the church library. There are some really terrible books in there. I took them and exchanged them for good ones at a used book store that specializes in Christian books. I know that “terrible” can be subjective, so let me demonstrate my taste and judgment here.

in case you were wondering, I’m aware my thumbs are weird looking.

I exchanged them for this.

I have no regrets.

I also swapped an extra set of the Left Behind books for the Chronicles of Narnia. In all, I got rid of about 30 books in favor of ones that are both excellent and accessible.  But don’t tell anyone, mmmkay?

Apparently.

I’m type typing along, when middle aged and elderly women descend on my office like the Mongol hordes. Mongol horde? Is that racially insensitive? Like calling people savages? Anyway. The old women mostly wanted to drop off things for a yet to be scheduled rummage/tag/yard/whatever you call them where you’re from sale. The middle aged woman is the Foul Bitch of a Choir Director.

One of the old women is an old family friend. She’s always been blunt. Lately she’s moved into hurtful. I’m always uneasy around her because I’m not sure if she’s going to spectacularly hurt my feelings and if I’m going to respond with swearing. I actually really like her. Or I do when she’s not suggesting maybe it’d be in my best interest to puke up the cookie I’m eating half of unless I only want black men interested in me. True story. But she has her good points, I swear. As soon as I remember one of them, I’ll get back to you.

Today she brought by things for the yard sale. And a pair of pants that were mis-sized she thought she’d give to me instead of the yard sale. They’re pink seersucker capri pants with an elastic waist. They’re a 22. I wear an eight. An eight!

I just sat there with my mouth open, holding the pants.

The Foul Bitch of a Choir Director said in her most Foul Bitch voice Geez. Can’t you tell she’s much too thin to wear those ugly old things? She exercises every day. She sniffed. She runs. She said it in a tone best reserved for saying something like she steals.

What just happened? I’m so confused.

Suddenly work has become insanely busy. I never understand how this happens. I’m going along nicely, doing the ten or fifteen things I do in a week, and Wham! a four page to do list. Argh.

Also, the pastor has referred to me as “his secretary” about a dozen times this week. Each time I feel a little bit more like punching him. Maybe this shouldn’t matter, this little question of job titles. But if I were “his” secretary all signs would point to me sucking at my job. Instead, I handle all the church’s publications, news releases, advertising, and scheduling. I select and order materials and organize fundraisers. I plan the order of worship.

The meetings he schedules, never mentions to me, and then doesn’t show up for? That’s his job. The badly spelled and punctuated missives he sends out? He does those too–even though I’ve offered to help.

I answer the phone here. Maybe that makes me a secretary. But it’s usually for me anyway. Because I do all the work here for 1/6th the money.

I am actually really good at my job. And I like it. What I do not like is working this hard for no money and, apparently, no respect. I understand he’s a neurotic little man, but I could really do without his self-aggrandizing stepping on the teeny bit of self-respect I manage to cling to with my broken-off finger nails. His fucking secretary indeed.

Excuse me. I’m a little stressy. It’s making me slightly more crazy than usual. Probably this business seems as irrational to you now as it will to me tomorrow.

Okay. I’ve gotta get back to my four page to do list. I have a headache. Yargh.

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