A couple of days ago I was thinking about how weird it is that characters in Noah Baumbach movies can’t seem to successfully remove their own clothes prior to sex. Incredibly attractive nineteen year old becomes almost irrevocably tangled in her sweater and must resort to unsexy tugging to free her head. Young woman about to sleep with schlumpy older man rethinks her decision while sitting around with her boobs out of a terrible bra. And so forth. I was thinking about how lazy it is to use this same shorthand for uncertain or neurotic sex in so many movies. And I was thinking that getting undressed isn’t all that difficult: women can do it themselves, really, prior to sex or prior to anything else. And that maybe the implications of this theme are sexist and horrible. Then I went to change clothes into my running clothes. And nearly hanged myself in my halter dress in the process. So. Yay, accuracy. Way to go, Noah.

Today I’m going to wash my dog and my cat’s litter box. Two things I wish were self-cleaning.

Yesterday I taught Sunday school. Theoretically, I teach Sunday school every week. It’s the young adult class. Since we don’t have very many young adults and since young adults aren’t super into going places at 9:30 am on a Sunday, it’s ill-attended and, more frequently, un-attended. I often wind up drinking coffee alone in the church library and reading Robert Fulghum books. It’s my preferred scenario, really.

Yesterday’s class had a record breaking three attendees: me, my friend T-bone who was in town for the weekend, and this kid named, oh, let’s call him Charlie. Charlie’s grandmother has attended church here for a while. When his grandfather died, he came out here from California to live with her and attend community college. He’s twenty. I am twenty-eight. He knows this because he’s asked three separate times. And once he began a conversation and then abruptly stopped talking, said nevermind you’re old, and walked away. That was hurtful-but-hilarious.

And speaking of hurtful but hilarious: I’m watching Hannah Takes the Stairs while collating this morning. Greta Gerwig is wearing in one scene the same underpants as I am today. Why oh why must my job involve so much collating? And why oh why must I see my underpants on mumblecore ass? The good news is: my freshman year roommate got me lemon meringue-scented hand cream for Christmas. I’m just now getting around to using it, and it really does help with collating-related dry skin while making me smell deliciously like a pie.

Please don’t make a disgusting pun from that last bit, okay? Thanks.

Anyway. Sunday school with Charlie was, oh, I don’t know. Hilarious. The class is taking a leisurely trip through the book of Romans. At some point, Charlie explained that he thinks that God probably does his Godbusiness through a legion of demi-gods.

You know, like Zeus and Thor and all them.

That’s interesting, I say, why do you believe that?

Because it’s cool. I mean, wouldn’t that be cool?

I say something sort lame about how cool the omnipotence of God is and how boring management is compared to being, you know, all powerful.

But c’mon! Guys who like do God’s work. That’s cool.

Christians believe that we’re all guys who do God’s work through the help of the Holy Spirit. We’re guys who do God’s work when we love people and help people and worship God. And that’s cool, right?

But we can’t shoot fire out of our wrists. That’d be way cool, man.

Indeed, we cannot shoot fire out of our wrists.

You want to know one of my least wonderful qualities? During any number of human interactions, my internal voice is coaching me: don’t be a bitch don’t be a bitch don’t be a bitch. It’s not so much that I think I’m better than people. It’s more like I’m impatient: you should see me at stoplights. My car horn is broken. And people in the midwest have a terrible habit of waiting several seconds before driving through them.