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.

Seriously.

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.

 

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