September 2010


I haven’t been writing much lately because I’ve been really busy.  The pastor’s been out of town.   He’s been working, like, nearly full-time recently.  He seems to think this deserves a 4-day trip to a pastoral retreat.  I assume it’s pastoral in both senses, but I didn’t make that joke with him.  He basically said “see you Friday” and left.

The whole preschool for low income teen moms thing is still coming together.  The people in charge of it are terribly organized.  He’s terribly organized.  So I’ve had a steady stream of people in my office asking me things like “what’s the phone number for the people who repaired the stove?”  I have no idea.  I didn’t schedule that appointment.  I  didn’t pay that bill.   You know what I did?  I opened the front door to let the guy in the building.  As best as I could tell he didn’t commit a crime while he was here, so I didn’t feel especially obligated to get a good description.

Before the pastor left, he asked me to run off and collate–okay, he said “correlate,” but he meant collate–the employee handbook.  The handbook’s about 150 pages.  I needed to make seven copies.  A few minutes after I’d set the photocopier to work on this, one of the girls from the day care came in to run some copies.  I told her it’d be at least a half hour until I was done copying the handbook.  She stomped off as if I’d told her she couldn’t use the copier because I was running off pictures of my tits.  This whole “no, Churchrat, the day care won’t cause you any additional work” thing is bullshit.

All my paperclips are gone.  Where did they, oh gentle reader?  Where?  And my interior door keys, which I helpfully left on my desk but which have not been returned.

To be clear, I don’t mind the day care.  I don’t resent the day care.  I don’t even mind throwing in a little extra effort to get what will surely be a great ministry up and going.  What I do mind is the assumption that if enough people pretend like it’s not extra work, the extra work I’m doing will somehow disappear.  You know?

Like my paperclips.

Damnit.

I’m drinking my coffee out of a straw this morning.  My sister’s wedding’s in nine days.  I’m a little competitive.  I don’t want, however, to win the brownest teeth competition, but I am unwilling to give up coffee.  Ugh.  I’m so Harvey Levin right now.

This is weird, yes?

I’m getting sick.  I’m so excited.  Blargh.  You know what’s great?  WebMD.  I probably have a cold. But, thanks to WebMD, I’m a little bit convinced I have measles.

The pastor’s out of the office today.  He emailed me last night to ask me to ask my mom to put together coffee and snacks for a really big meeting that’s being held here Sunday.  I looked at the email’s timestamp: a little after seven.  He could’ve called my mom.  Instead he emailed me to ask me to do it the next day.  Why?  Because he knows it’s wicked short notice and she’ll be pissed.

She was kind of pissed.  But also entertained by the notion of the pastor going to lengths to avoid her.  She’s not the most confrontational person ever.

You should watch this.

I am waiting to see how much my racist friends pay me for cat sitting.  They’re in Bible study right now.  I spent much too of my teeny budget on towing and repairing my stupid car and will not be sending their money to victims of Pakistan’s flooding.  I will be buying my cat cat food and my car car food.  Dang.

Yesterday the pastor was telling me why he wouldn’t be in the office Friday.  He started to tell me what medical procedure he was going in for but took a breath and said “it’s a, um, doctor’s appointment.”  I’m so proud.  Somebody bring that man a bagel.

My mom bought her dress for my sister’s wedding.  I spent literally 45 minutes last night answering her “do I look too fat?”s.  I’m still fairly annoyed by that.  One shouldn’t grow up and blame one’s parents for problems.  But seriously?  I’ve spent, literally, the past twenty years trying to keep what I like to describe as a few bad habits, foodwise, on the right side of crazy.  Thanks, Mom, for passing along your incredibly fuckedup body image.  I really appreciate that.

Last night I invented what may be the world’s greatest cocktail: prune juice and rum.  I love prune juice.  I am not unfond of rum.  But the combination is truly delectable.

I’m cleaning out my hard drive today.  Back to it.

You know what I could use a hand with?  Deciding whether I look drunk in pictures.  An attendee of a party I went to several weeks ago just posted a bunch of pictures of said party on facebook.  My head is on the shoulder of the boy who called me a cougar in one of them.  It’s not the posture of a wholly sober Churchrat.  Hrm.  Perhaps I’ll untag myself.

I got this somewhat passive aggressive email this morning:

Dear Churchrat:

I was just wondering why we do not receive a reminder of the up coming meetings? Husband and I missed the last council meeting. You know as we get older we seem to forget quiet easily. Are you not calling or emailing anyone anymore? If not I guess I will have to keep my calendar more up to date!

Love ya-

Churchlady

Here’s the thing: There’s a monthly church council meeting.  It’s held the fourth Tuesday of every month.  And it has been for at least a decade.  I have better things to do with my time than call a dozen people and make chitchat before reminding them of a meeting they always say they remembered and would be there.  And I certainly have better things to do than write a series of sweet notes reminding people of said meeting.  That was the erratically employed method before I got here.   I cannot escape the sensation that people would never forget this monthly meeting if it were part of their jobs instead of just a church thing.

I should add that this woman who claims age as a cause for forgetfulness is more nearly my age than my parents’ and has dedicated herself to looking as much like a seventeen year old as possible.

I suppose I have to write some sort of abject apology in response to this email.  Sigh.

Do you know what the internet is for?  It’s not blogging or research or connecting with friends or networking or naked ladies.  The internet is for pictures of kitties, puppies, and duckies.  I’m not in the best mood this morning.  The puppies are helping.  This may make me kind of a ninny.  If you’re sure this is the case, I’d like to cordially invite you to fuck yourself.

Tee hee.  Did you see the ducky with the puppy?  Sigh.

The pastor brought donuts this morning.  I imagine they’re to atone for being an ass.  I’m not eating donuts.   I’m a maid of honor in three weeks.   I may be underemployed.  I may have weird hair.  I may be broke.  I may be a walking pile of misanthropy.  But at least I can be skinny, right?  That’s something.

My car broke down in the middle of a busy street yesterday.  May I suggest, o gentle reader, that the appropriate response to a car with its emergency flashers on and its driver looking forlorn is not honking angrily?  If you believe that honking is the best option, may I again encourage you to fuck yourself?  After literally ten minutes, a sketchy looking white kid in Rocca Wear stopped his Geo Metro.  He tried to jump my poor Meg (the name of my car: it’s white) and, when that failed, he and his girlfriend pushed it into a driveway.  He wouldn’t take the money I offered him and looked genuinely flustered when I burst into a very small crying jag at his refusal.  My roadside assistance, it turns out, kind of sucks balls.  It took about an hour and a half for a tow truck to come.  In the meantime, I used the bathroom at a nearby hospital’s emergency room.  The triage nurse, to whom I’d told my story in a plea for her bathroom, told me to steal a magazine from their waiting room.  I read Elle and fended off mosquitoes.  People can be awesome sometimes.  Thank you Rocca Wear, RW’s Girlfriend, and Triage Nurse.

Today I’ve borrowed my mom’s car.  I’ll be driving around in that, thinking about how awesome it is to drive a car with a cd player and about how ill I could afford last night’s seventy bucks for a tow.   Seriously.  Fuck.  Fuckity fuck fuck.

This weekend is filled with wedding bullshit, plus work bullshit, plus some volunteer work I would never have volunteered for had I known just how ridiculous my weekend would be.  Behold, my schedule:

Friday: work; tutoring appt; clean a bunch of shit no one will see anyway while my mother looks on, fidgeting

Saturday: feed cats for racists; decorate for wedding shower; attend bridesmaids luncheon; attend wedding shower; drive 1.5 hours to volunteer at a civil war battlefield; drive to a bachelorette “super cool slumber party;”  pretend I don’t secretly loathe 85% of attendees; drink.

Sunday: leave bachelorette party at 6:45 am in order to meet church ladies; drive with church ladies to a church somewhere in the middle of no where; feign interest in said church’s sunday school program; pick up car; drive home; feed racists’ cats; take sleeping pill; sleep.

How the fuck did I end up here, really?  This is ridiculous.  I have to stop complaining and go back to puppies, kitties, and folding the motherfucking bulletin.

 I’d gotten up early to ensure I was at work before the pastor–I’m supposed to be here an hour before he is–and collect myself in case there was going to be any sort of uncomfortable confrontation about the conversation he had last night with the church council chairman (or ccc).   He was here when I pulled into the parking lot, though.  Ugh.  I sat in my car a moment for that self collection before coming inside.  Did that sentence sound dirty?  Anyway.  There was no uncomfortable confrontation.  Just a calm, not at all unpleasant conversation that included an apology.  I hope that whatever the ccc said to him last night was specific enough to avoid any of the difficulties I’d been concerned about.  You know, avoiding people who aren’t me getting pissed and litigious about his more impolitic statements by simply getting him to stop making them.

The old guy to whom I gave my number used it.  Who would’ve guessed?  Not me.  He’s nice enough, but this is definitely not a thing.

Last night I drove home late in heavy rain.  Early this morning I woke up sweaty from a dream that I’d fallen asleep driving and couldn’t wake up.  Ugh.

I know this is a cover of a Son House song.  I just happen not to be very sophisticated and in a mood to rock out.

I just typed up a mildly worded letter to the head of the church council regarding the pastor’s propensity for inappropriate conversational topics and requesting his involvement.  My hand was shaking (you know, more than it usually does) when I handed it to him.   I don’t know why.  I guess it’s that I really don’t want to hurt the pastor’s feelings and I also really don’t want to make my job suck more than it usually does.  Fingers crossed.

Have I ever told you how fond I am of the church council chair?  I am.  He’s the drummer in the praise team.  Twenty odd years ago he married the very wildest daughter of a sweet church couple.  He was a semi professional drummer with feeathered earrings and feathered hair.  She was bleached blonde, a little bit into coke, and a lot into frosted eyeshadow.   Slowly but surely, they crept their way into church.  He’s the chair of the church council.  She’s the leader of the youth group.  Their son is studying to be a pastor.  Their daughter lent me her name for a food drive.  The kids have dyed emo hair.  The boy has tattoos he’s sure to regret by this time next year.  But they’re kind people, generous and funny, who believe firmly and act conscientiously.  Oh, and the father in the family?  Still has a tiny trace of a mullet.

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