November 2010


This morning I came into work to discover that during Saturday’s church workday my office had been cleaned.  It needed vacuuming, and the window sills could stand a dusting.  But imagine my surprise at discovering that everything on my desk had been arranged into one very tidy but utterly mixed-up pile.  I am afraid a good portion of my day will be spent restoring order to what looks like orderliness but is in fact a giant mess.  My favorite part, of course, is the little note on top that says “dosen’t this look much better!!  glad I could help, Crutchratt !! Have a great day!!!!!”

I don’t recognize the handwriting, so I am spared the impulse to thank the person responsible for my wrecked desk for what I assume was meant as a kind gesture.

I have definitely hurt my ribs coughing.  Yesterday, mid-cough, something popped, and today I actually have a bruise.  Ugh.   I’m trying to sleep my sickness away.  That’s the new plan.   I’m leaving here for a nap as soon as the rain slacks.

Is it just me, or is this blog lately too much about boys?   I mildly regret all the chatter about OGfPS in recent weeks.  I don’t know what’s going on there exactly.  He likes me a lot.  But I like someone else rather more than I like OGfPS, but there’s an, um, unfortunate and apparent asymmetry to things with that fellow.  Or maybe it’s just that I have an unfortunate habit of picking out boys as unsettled as I am?

It’s stopped raining.  Bye now.

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Can you sprain your chest muscles? Ugh. Every time I cough I kind of wish I were dead. Ouch. The good news is, I’m running two 5ks next week.

One of my church friends from high school days has made up her very own religion. It’s kind of a melange of Judiaism, Christianity, and hippy-ness. With sort of a smug mama vibe thrown in. She also makes all of husband’s and kid’s clothes. They’re hilariously-homemade looking. She has a blog. It’s also hilarious.

I was just interviewed for an article about our church that’s going to appear in a denominational publication.  Now they’re interviewing the pastor.  He’s making “corrections” and “additions” to what he heard me say.  They’re irrelevant.  One of us here knows what she’s talking about, after all.

I’m going to buy some cough syrup. Or maybe I’ll pickup some whiskey and lemons instead.

This morning I had two packages to mail, one’s going to a gentleman on whom I have a wee crush and the other one was for work.

Now, Crushed Gentleman.  That’s your uncle, right? says the Post Office Lady.

No.  My only uncle without my last name is named Uncle.

That’s right.  That’s right.  Married your aunt who died, bless her heart.  A nice man.  He always had him a good head of hair.  Does he still have that pretty hair?

He does, yes.

So you’re sending packages to two different fellas?  Any of them to cousin or something?  One of them that new brother-in- law of yours?

No, but–

You must really get out a lot, all them boyfriends.

She pursed her lips and glanced at the woman behind me in line.

So.  There you go.   I think I may’ve just acquired myself a bit of a reputation by mailing cookies and church paperwork.

Hide your husbands, ladies.  I’m mailing out peppermint shortbread.

(Incidentally, I just realized I’m wearing the same bulky turtleneck I had on when a girl from church confronted me about dressing like a slut and corrupting her pervy husband several years ago.  Do thick cotton sweaters have some erotic potential that’s lost on me? )

A song for Thanksgiving:

I’ve not been blogging much lately.  I’ve been busy at work, if you can believe such a thing.
Here’s a thing or two that’s happened lately.
My boss from the diner I worked at in high school called me up one afternoon and asked me to run a 5k for her.  She has a broken ankle and won’t be able to walk as planned, but she wanted to donate to the cause anyway. The race’s at the end of the month and raises money for a kid who just graduated college without health insurance but with a nice little case of lymphoma.  People around here generally oppose healthcare reform, a position which seems oddly against their own self interest.  But there’s this thing where people around here raise money like crazy for one another’s medical bills: carwashes and bakesales and silent auctions and anonymous donations to bank accounts set up for the purpose. 

The folks doing most of the fundraising are members of a very conservative Baptist church here.  My dad and his folks went there briefly when they moved here back in the 1950s.  The church didn’t just oppose dancing and drinking: they were also against girls playing sports, movies, and soap operas on the radio.  My grandmother thought that was plumb crazy, and they went to First Baptist instead.  My aunt lettered in volleyball.  Anyway.

The Bible Baptists are super pissed about vampires in popular culture.  They often have sniffy anti-vampire sentiments on the arrow marquee outside the church.  But it’s a church that’s pretty much full of old people.  Thus they don’t realize it’s hilarious that their sign says “fund raiser for Team Jacob” nearly every week. 

Anyway.  I’ve been running a lot of fourteen minute miles with this cold.  I gotta pick up the pace if I’m going to be running public in front of people I know on behalf of my favorite former boss.  Cold be gone.

Actually, I’m a beginning to be afraid I have something that might require medical attention rather than a cold.  I can hear myself breathing.  That seems like a problem, right?
Yesterday I gave the children’s sermon.  It was about being a “contagious” Christian and contained gems of advice like “don’t lick doorknobs.”
I’m about to get a raise.  Finally.

The pastor just explained to me the concept of white privilege and why I should be aware of it.   He irritates me considerably sometimes, but I do enjoy his politics so.  This moment nearly made the day after Election Day tolerable.  Also, I’m wearing a hat.  And my scandalous new shoes.

I feel like yesterday’s post is a little like my civil rights for gays post in that it requires a little clarification.  Or maybe I’m just neurotic.  At any rate, I would like to clarify that I am the furthest thing from a so-called gold digger.  No!  Really!  I am super uncomfortable with boys paying for things.  I can’t say I don’t occasionally enjoy doing something that I would otherwise be unable to afford on someone else’s dime.  But I took OGfPS out for coffee following our picnic in the park.  To keep things even.  Sort of even, anyway.  Also, it was chilly outside.

I am immensely pleased by the shoes because they are awesome shoes.   I am more pleased by the thoughtfulness of their procurement.  My  “ooh, great shoes” was a throw-away line in a conversation about bands of the late 1980s.  The shoes were a tangible proof of listening.  Boys: girls love proof you were listening.   That’s my free advice on scorin’ wit da ladies.  You’re welcome.

Not that anyone’s scoring with this particular lady at present.  As if that’s any of your business.

I have a cough.  A terrible, terrible cough.  I fell over coughing in the shower this morning.  Good times.

Today I was searching for a suitable scripture for the church facebook page and got to thinking about Micah 6:8, about what it means to love mercy.  I do not consider the love of mercy to be a natural inclination or something all that easily attained.  Sure, I love mercy when it comes my direction.  But mostly I want the bastards to get what’s coming to them.  That’s my Election Day thought: fuck George Bush.

This weekend was eventful.  Eventful enough I had a plausible excuse to avoid church.  The pastor’s starting a new sermon series.  His sermon series are always based on books and irritate me considerably.  I could read the book in an hour or two instead of wasting my time on his simplistic hillbilly renderings of the text.

OGfPS was in town this weekend.  We went out twice.  I can unequivocally say, oh gentle reader,  that I am in love…

with these shoes.

I hope that didn’t alarm anyone unduly.  I thought it was funny.  Also, true.  On Friday we went out for drinks and then dinner.  On Saturday we went for a walk downtown before having a picnic in the park.    Afterward, I went to a Halloween party and then a teenage-style sleepover party.

Saturday I was wearing my very favorite shoes during this walk.  I stumbled on an uneven spot in the sidewalk and, somehow, the ankle strap on my right shoe snapped.  I staggered bravely on for a few blocks, holding my high wedges on with an appealing combination of  curled toes and leg dragging.  Finally, I plopped down on a concrete ledge to take off my shoe and dig through my purse for a solution of some sort: a bandaid or a safety pin or anything at all.

Can I see that for a moment? says OGfPS.  He takes my shoe from the concrete ledge–and then takes off with it.

Wai…t.

Damn.

He’s gone around the corner.

Well now, I think to myself, this will make a fine anecdote.  I’m out with a boy–and by boy I mean man in his late thirties–and he steals my shoe and disappears.  That’s how I like to spend my Halloween: barefoot and blocks and blocks from my car.  Since I’m downtown, I’ll be faced with more than a few broken beer bottles on the sidewalk between me and Meg White(Car).  I sigh and think that this situation is exactly the sort of thing I expect from my dating life.  And I wonder how much longer I should wait on this guy and my shoe before resigning myself to this hilarious but far from satisfactory fate.

He returns before I’ve quite resolved to leave and is carrying a bright pink shopping bag.

Here.

Inside are a pair of shoes I’d admired when we’d walked past a shop window a few minutes before.

You’re very sweet.  But I can’t accept this.  This is… too much like taking money for the powder room…  You’ve already driven all this way and all.  I’ll be fine: I can just walk barefoot.  I have flipflops in my car, I think.

Money for the what?

Powder room.  Like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I always allude to this movie, and I get the impression that few people have actually seen it, despite its broader cultural resonance.

She was a call girl, right.

Right.  Exactly.  I can’t accept a gift like this is:  it’s weird.

Would you have taken flowers?  If I’d bought flowers would you’ve told me they were too much and you couldn’t accept them?

No, but–

It’s the same thing, practically.  If anything, the shoes were less expensive than, say, a dozen roses and will last longer.   And the sidewalk, despite the warmth of the day, is probably quite chilly due to last night’s temperatures.

The shoes, by the way, were from a shop that seems to cater mostly to the budgets of college hipsters from the university a few blocks away.  It’s a place that advertises jeans for fifteen bucks.

Then he launches into a small lecture on utilitarianism.  Because he’s a philosophy professor and apparently can’t help himself.  I put on the shoes and slip my broken ones into the shopping bag, which he insists on carrying.

My feet start bleeding almost right away, because a nice long walk in brand new shoes with five inch heels is a recipe for that particular brand of pain.  But I really don’t care: because I am in love with these shoes.  They go with every single thing in my closet and manage to be just the right brand of anachronistic for the several decades of vintage I wear.   When I got home yesterday, I propped them up by my tv where I’d probably put a vase of flowers.

I still don’t know my exact feelings about this guy.  But, damn, he is nice to me.