That was a cartoon sad sound.  Not the sound of kissing.

I had an eventful morning at work.  I’ve taken a job doing the bookkeeping for the daycare.  For a really, really nice hourly wage.  It’s not a very many hours at all, so the news isn’t all good.  Also, I’m not a huge fan of bookkeeping.  But every little bit helps.  Or so said a woman I once saw peeing in the ocean while she tried to drown her husband.

The people from the state agency that pays for the daycare were supposed to come by today at nine thirty to install the software on my computer to do the books and then show me how it’s used.   They didn’t show up til eleven 1115.  At 1120, my computer crashed.    While I attempted frantic repairs, State Agency Lady and I made small talk.  It was awful.   It’s hard to explain, really, how it became so awful so quickly.  But jeepers.  We went from “nice weather” to “oh, I don’t want to live anymore.”

Have you always wanted to be a church secretary?

No, although it does have some very fun aspects.

This is part time, right?

Yes.

So do you go to school?

I did.

So you must have, like, money you live off of.  A trust fund.  That must be awesome.

Oh.  No.  I’m looking for something full time.  The economy kind of sucks.

Don’t I know it.  I’m surprised you didn’t apply here to the daycare.

I don’t have those credentials and I don’t like kids.

What are your credentials?

I have a BA and have done some graduate work in ESL.

What’s your BA?

English.

What did you get that degree for?

[I don’t actually remember what I said, but I was thinking sarcastic thoughts that had to do with student loans and personal enrichment.]

That’s nice.  So you don’t like kids?  Do you not want to have kids, like, ever?

I should’ve mentioned what a terribly personal question that was and how inappropriate for small talk.  I mean, for all she knew I had some sort of terrible accident that caused my uterus to fall out and her questions would cause me great emotional pain.  Or, at the least, I should’ve told her that I like kids quite fine one on one but dislike being in rooms where six of them are crying at top volume.   That’s the truth anyway.  Instead, I shrugged.

I’ve got three kids, love ’em to death.  They’re 15, 20, and 17.

I was a little surprised she named them out of chronological order.  I wondered about that.  Maybe the fifteen and twenty year old are the same sex?  Or her favorites?  Or the seventeen year old is a stepchild?

Fun, I said, and rebooted my computer for the third time.

If you want kids, you’d better make up your mind.  Unless you want to adopt.  You’re about my age, right?

Maybe.  How old are you?

Forty two.

Well, I said, you look very young for your age.  I’ll be twenty nine in a couple of weeks.

Oh, you have some time then.  Are you seeing anyone?  Any daddies on the horizon?

Jeepers.  I didn’t know whether to fall over laughing or burst into tears.  In less than two minutes this woman made me feel like my academic credentials were useless, that I look old, and that apparently I’m some sort of unloved baby-hating she-beast.  All of this while my work computer crashed and crashed and crashed.

So later I told her I liked her pants.  I told her I didn’t have the nerve to wear corduroy because it can make a bit of a sound when a girl walks and I do admire her sartorial courage.

That’s right.  She called me old, so I called her fat.

I’m in fine form today, niceness wise.

Dang.

Sorry, Jesus.

Maybe give me a bit of a hand tomorrow?

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