October 2010

Yeah.  The daycare people chipped in and bought me a “sorry we’re a pain in your ass” gift.   It was just a standard office-y gift: scented candle, leatherette journal.  But I was oh so pleasantly surprised.

Yesterday the daycare’s cook baked muffins, whole wheat pineapple carrot ones.  That doesn’t sound delicious.  But they are delicious. Her recipe serves thirty people, but they only have sixteen kids.  She brought me one yesterday right out of the oven.  Today, she gave me two of the leftovers.  Mmm.  Second breakfast!

And I’ve only been here an hour and a half, but somehow I’ve already completed my to do list for the day and am starting on tomorrow’s.

Lately I’ve realized that my blog’s music has been a lot of the same sort of thing.  Apparently I like Wilco much more than I was conscious of?  I’ll try to do better, mkay?  But I should add that the preponderance of music from Casiotone for the Painfully Alone is unlikely to abate: I have a crush on Owen Ashworth.


The woman who is the very most in charge of the daycare here is deaf.  Or deaf-ish.  She has a cochlear implant and also reads lips.  She only seems to come into my office when my mouth is full.  I’m not at all sure how to handle that particular situation.  Pointing frantically to a baggy of shredded wheat just seems odd, right?

I’m still getting over my cold.  Yesterday some friends of my parents came by.  I was taking a sinus-related Sunday nap upstairs.  They stayed much longer than my nap lasted, but I stayed up in my room and hid until they left.  You see, my name has lately made it onto the list of people who are beginning the ordination process.  I fired off a “what the hell!” email and have taken care of it.  Friends O’ My Parents are pastors.  I was afraid that they’d seen the list.  Which is unlikely.  And that they’d want to have a conversation about it.  Which was still more unlikely.  But it seemed likely enough to justify watching a tv edit of a pretty bad suspense movie.

Why did I tell you this story?  It makes me sound like a child, right?  A child who’s being railroaded into the ministry by some pushy-ass clergymen.  Clergy people.  Whatever.


OGfPS is coming to town Thursday.  He’s staying at one of those apartment-style motels for business travelers and wants to use his kitchen to cook me dinner.  In addition to taking me out wherever I like.  I have repeated my conviction that I will not be sleeping with him and am therefore not super interested in visiting his hotel room.   So who wants to go on a picnic in late October?  Apparently, me.

You know, there are a lot of unexpected things about adulthood.  Like toilet repair, for instance.  When I was twelve, I’m not sure I would’ve believed you if you’d said that I’d one day google–anachronism!–how to fix the little chain thingy in the toilet tank.  And then fix it.  Or that I’d have one thousand conversations on whether or not I smoke pot or am into anal sex.   Or that I’d go ’round saying “that’s lovely, but I’m still not super interested in doin’ it” to a philosophy professor.

This month has been a surreal one: a lot of the very sort of attention I’d like best–please oh please oh please take this job offers and impassioned, unambiguous liking–from all the wrong sources.

I’m gonna go blow my nose.


Yesterday the local newspaper came to the church office.  The pastor read it and came into my office in full-on rant mode.  The fellow who edits it–he attends this church, I should add–is a bit on the politically right wing.  Right wingnut, that is.  The pastor is so annoyed he lets slip a “God damn.”  He pales.  Clamps his hand over his mouth and apologizes. I laugh and tell him it’s not a big deal.

I read the paper–I cut out mentions of church goers–and also enter into full-on rant mode.   I slip in a “motherfuckers.”  I pale, clamp my hand over my mouth, and apologize.

Was that on purpose?


I thought you were doing it to be polite.


Okay then.

You just asked me whether I called people “motherfuckers” to be polite.  Either we’re the worst or awesomest church ever.

I am extremely tempted to make my facebook status a reflection on the coincidence of my sister’s birthday–the sister who spent a fair portion of my adolescence repeatedly and none-too-kindly inquiring whether I’m a lesbian–and a day of solidarity with gay teens.  But properly grownup people don’t hash out their sibling rivalries over the internet.

She’s a teacher.  This worries me sometimes.   I really, really hope the subject never comes up in her classroom, but I fear it does.  Sorry, gay kids.  I tried to answer her “what the fuck would it matter if I were?” every time she asked, but I hardly think that made your life or mine any better.

I am also tempted to eat the third biscuit the day care’s cook gave me.  I was saving it for the pastor.  But it’s calling my name.  Biiiissssssscuuuuuuuuuittttttt Ennnnnnnthuuuuusiiiiassssssttttttttttttt.  Like that.

My sinus unpleasantness has coalesced into a plain old cold.  Hooray.  No.  Really.  I am a satisfied customer.

In other news of unpleasantness, I’ve decided to stop worrying about Old Guy from the Pixies Show quite so much.  I like him a little.  He likes me a lot.  I’ve been very forthright on this point with him.  He’s a proper adult.  He can drive ten hours to see me on a flimsy excuse and take me to a fancy restaurant if he wants.  It’s his business.  I’m not giving him false premises under which to operate.

Part of the reason I’ve been so antsy in this regard is he has at least some ability to, well, advance my career.  He’s a professor.  Not an adjunct or something.  An actual professor.  The second most important person in his department, according to the university’s website.  He’s made a couple of sidelong mentions–this is less douchy than it sounds–of the help he could give me if I were to apply to graduate school where he teaches.  He’s shown a couple of my emails to the head of the creative writing department, as proof of my cleverness and my desirability as a student, for instance.  The department head wanted to know what kind of stuff I write, apparently.

If I believe this guy.  Maybe I do.  Maybe I don’t.  I don’t know.  He’s sort of sweetly backward, so it seems unlikely he’d manage such an elaborate ruse.  But I’m still not sure I believe his assurances that my acceptance to an MFA program is just an application away.

I’m dazzled a little by the prospect of getting out of here by any means.  But I’m certainly not going to, say, sleep with him for a recommendation.  I’m not going to date him so he’ll feel like helping me out.  There’s just this sweaty desperateness attached to my current situation that makes me distrust everyone and myself most of all.  Like I said: it makes me antsy.

But I’ve decided to put all that right out of my pretty little head and go about life like usual.



The Most Annoying Salesman Ever is sending me a gift card.  He sells toner and makes political jokes I find offensive as someone who’s as fan of jokes.  Oh, and politically offensive.  He is impossible to escape from on the phone.  A conversation that ought to take five minutes take three or four times that long.  And so on.   They made some sort of corporate kerfuffle and seek to apologize for the delay in delivering a large volume of toner we don’t really need in any kind of a hurry.

Unsurprisingly, we have no policy on accepting gifts from vendors.  In any event, a spare $30 isn’t going to change any of our purchasing practices.  We buy local.  And when we can’t find what we need in this teeny town, I haggle like a crazy bitch for the lowest possible price after spending a good amount of time comparison shopping.

I have an ethical dilemma.  Should I send back the gift card?  Shall I keep it and spend it on the church?  Shall I consider it an asshole tax and buy myself shoes?  I’m inclined toward the last.  This is the problem with being poor:  it really brings out a tendency toward larceny.

Ugh.  My sinuses are full of evil.  I tried to pour warm saline into them, per usual, this morning.  Now I’ve never been waterboarded, but I imagine it feels rather like that.  I oppose waterboarding.

I think someone should mention how great my church’s social media presence is.  I do it.  And I do a good job.   We’re about to have a push to get more followers on Facebook, and it will be, for church social media anyway, cool.

Seriously.  I can’t write anymore.  My face hurts.  Argh.

Whew.  I’ve been busy lately.  I should add, that this busy-ness was not necessarily quite extensive enough to preclude me from firing off a post or two.  But mostly I haven’t felt much like writing because the busies lead to the tireds.  So.  Whew.

Some of this won’t be about my job, but here we go:

My sister got married.  That was a lot of work, because said wedding including a sit-down dinner for two hundred.  I baked the bread.

I also went on a crazy crash diet out of general neurosis.   I forgot a couple of things when I launched this attach against sensible eating: 1) I soooo don’t believe in crazy crash diets and 2) when I lose weight, my boobs disappear.  There are a lot of awesome pictures of me holding up my strapless dress with strength of will alone.  Okay, strength of will and carefully positioned elbows.   Hitching up one’s dress constantly is the very opposite of stylish.

The whole lay speaker thing is one I should follow up on.  I told the guy no.  My official excuse is that I really need to find myself a shitty part time seasonal retail job.  And I do.  I’ve filled out a couple online applications today.  It’s rather more complicated than that, though.

The pastor at the church where I work has heard the rumor’s that I’m considering the ministry.  Considering is a mighty strong word.  He keeps telling me how much work it is.  I find this hilarious.

My aunt, whom I’m very fond of, is in town and has been since the wedding last weekend.  I really like her.  Unfortunately she talks incessantly.  If you are actively having a conversation, she’s funny and interesting.  If you are not, she will ask you a steady stream of narrative-style questions: I see you’re drinking water.  Are you thirsty?  Do you like your water best with ice or without?  Did the ice melt or did you just not put any in there?  Would you prefer a coke? I wouldn’t mind to get you a coke.  Shall I go get you a coke?  Do you like ice in your coke?  Why don’t you want a coke?  Would you like some grapes?  Don’t you like grapes?

Saturday I took her to a botanical garden and a flea market and then out for dinner to give my mom a bit of a break from this cheerful, well-intentioned onslaught.  Aunty’s my dad’s sister, but, because my mom’s retired, she’s been spending most of the time with her.  After what was basically a seven hour conversation with helpful tips for better driving interspersed, I came home, took a bath and a sleeping pill, and went to bed before eleven.  That is the very definition of how to exhaust an introvert.

While she and my mom are at a farmer’s market this afternoon, I’m going to nap on the couch.  Just try and stop me.

Ugh.  I always feel mildly bad about complaining, because she is such a great aunt.  But the talking… it’s just so…. much to bear.  Ugh!

Boys have lately become a complicating factor in my life.  Old Guy from the Pixies Show has lately become quite smitten with me.  It’s the kind of smitten a girl should know better than to take personally, and I do.  He’s smitten with smittenness more than with me, and I keep trying to mention thing that would turn off any sensible boy.  I live with my parents!  The big toenail on my right foot is just pieces of toenail reassembled and held on with superglue!  I slap automatically people who try to touch my ears!   No dice.

I do enjoy talking to him.  He’s smart and funny and kind of reminds me of someone I had a crush on in college.   But he’s pretentious as fuck and a practitioner of unspeakable geekeries.   Not the biting the heads off of chickens sort; the role playing games sort.   I might’ve preferred the former.

OGfPS is coming into town at the end of the month for a work thing that I suspect could’ve been handled over the phone.  He wants to see me.   I told him that I wouldn’t sleep with him, that I’m not at all seeking a relationship with him.  Even this has not dissuaded him from driving ten hours.   Since it’s ostensibly a work trip, I can’t really tell him to stay home.  I foresee an awkward conversation in my future.  And possibly a blender.

Don’t ask.

I  made a sort of blatant inquiry of a boy I do like recently.  I regret that a little, while I’m hanging out waiting for his email response.   I feel like I’m going to get shot down.  Maybe because he knows my toenail is gross from too much running.  Maybe because I have weird hair and live in the midwest.  Who can say.

You know what I really regret?  The way gift giving and celebration generally are structured.  Think of it.  Who really needs presents?  If you’re getting married, it’s the happiest day of your life.  Alledgedly.  What do you really need with fancy food or loads of presents?  You’re happy.  On the other hand, I think that a girl who’s about to get a “I like you, but…” email could do with a motherfucking toaster oven.  Or a big, beautiful bottle of champagne.   And cake.  Definitely cake.

Maybe I do hope he brings me that blender after all.

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