beating the system

Tonight I decided to break out my Swiffer Wetjet and mop the kitchen floor (another baby step in my journey out of the funk). Two boxes of disposable mopheads? Check. Batteries? Check. Alas, I was out of the very expensive liquid cleaner.

What to do? I damned the man. That's right, I angered the Swiffer gods by beating their system of selling mops that eat up pricey cleaner that you must replace every third use.

I can refill my refill, damn it! I ALWAYS have bleach and dish soap!

I tried prying off the lid, but Swiffer apparently foresaw cheap bitches like me and made their lid unremovable.

Did I stop? No! I cut a hole in the bottom of the bottle that will now be my permenant Swiffer homemade formula holder.

This boring image represents my small triumph over capitalism.

Side note: My dog felt so confused about me cleaning that she followed me around the house and sat at my feet every time that I paused. She is now sitting right up next to me. When your dog is emotionally traumatized by 2 hours of quiet cleaning, it is time for a serious lifestyle change.

Revelations

My life has been in a funk lately. Let's correct that. My life is STILL in the funk that began, oh, let's say in April. Yes, it is December. The funkiness of my funk has grown over eight months to my present state of loneliness, bitterness, and general bitchyness.

I'm tired of the funk. This is why I began a war on my own misery by making changes:

1) Find a counselor and spiritual advisor. The counselor is for immediate issues with family and identity. The spiritual advisor is to keep me from walking away from ministry and/or burning down the youth building. I'm still looking for both. It is kinda like dating...it takes a while for someone to call you back and then you don't know if things will click.

2) Cancel cable.

3) Be pro-active to reverse my present lack of sexiness.

Two weeks into this change, I still pretty much resent the world but I have had two life-altering revelations.

Revelations According to Jenny
Chapter 1
I do not miss having cable. Mailing the DVR box and remote to Dish Network was surprisingly cathartic. I, a TV junkie, do not miss cable. Instead of sitting in front of the TV, I will clean, cook, organize my house, decorate, start swimming again, give away a lot of clutter, and otherwise become an awesome homeowner. So far, I just watch shows online but this is a journey, right? ("This is a journey" is what I tell myself while sitting in bed for 5 hours straight watching Dexter on a very sketchy website)

Chapter 2
Rich people are more beautiful because they can afford to be more beautiful. Okay, so this isn't exactly news to me, but I had it confirmed this week. The path to this revelation was painful and expensive...

I decided to use money I'm saving from cable to begin electrolysis. Electrolysis is a horrible, barbaric, expensive process that women pay for in order to get rid of unwanted hair. Someone shoves a needle into your hair follicle and electricutes you, killing the follicle. They do this for every individual hair. I have a lot more individual hairs than you might think. It is not as painful as I feared, but it turns out that your skin can only take so many stabs and shocks in one day.

After the first day (of many if I stick with it), my face looked like I'd been stung by 100 bees. I spent the rest of the day at home out of the public eye not watching cable. Most people wake up the next day with a fairly normal face. My ridiculously sensitive skin still looked like something out of a horror movie. I met with a new electrolysis lady to talk about my horrible disfigured face. I am not willing to spend a year looking like I tried to deep fry my chin. The woman said that mineral make-up will hide the redness and actually help my skin heal.

Mineral make-up? My mom raised me to stand in the drug store holding various shades of Covergirl up to my face and to buy the one that is on sale. Having the horrible skin that I do, I know that base just makes things worse. It settles into wrinkles, cakes up in dry spots, and creates more red zits that then need to be covered in base.

In the treatment center, this woman brushed powdered base on my face. I was adequately leary of the product simply because she was so enthusiastic. It took 10 seconds. Holy fuck. All of the spots were gone. The grotesque mess had disappeared with no sign of make-up. My face looked normal. It even looks good in the harsh sunlit reality of my car mirror! Rich girls grew up with this amazing kind of shit, but to me it was a 33 year-old's miracle.



So there you have it. I don't miss cable and I am now the owner of rich girl make-up. I'm sure that more revelations are to come. I hope that some have to do with my soul. This is, after all, a journey. I wonder if there is a new Dexter episode online yet.

MY kind of porn (aka red boots)

Today I ordered a pair of red boots. A good question at this point would be: Jenny, how many pairs of boots do you already own?

I can think of five right now. To be fair, I really only wear 2 of those pairs and one really needs to be thrown out. I also fell and scuffed my good church boots last week.

Did I need red boots? No. These caught my attention from the tiny laptop screen and called to me. They are a very safe, simple design. I can order dark brown or black and wear them to church every week...but red. Red is what I need. $70 red boots are the only thing worthy of a 33 year-old who is trying to figure out who the hell she is supposed to be in life.

A simple red boot says, "Hey, I am grown and responsible but you don't know me. I am still a woman of mystery."

At least that is how it goes in my head.


These are not the boots I ordered, but this is how I expect to feel in them...without showing my panties to strangers.

p.s. The boots are already improving my life. I researched and learned the proper use of "pair" and "pairs" for this post.

I do not like porn

Yes! It is official! I don't like porn.

What brought on this revelation? A three step process:

1) I have a friend who likes porn. She is a very healthy, godly, married Christian woman. I'd forgotten about porn (not about its existence but is possible existence in anything near me) until she told me she likes it. I haven't rented or seen porn in probably seven years.

2) This was my birthday weekend and everything awesome or busy or important that I had planned fell through. An awesome concert...cancelled. A blind date that I've been emailing daily for a month...cancelled. All of my friends? Busy. Lock-in with youth...cancelled. A pity party combined with too much time and a bit of pint up sexual needs all led me to rent a $13 movie through my TV. It was more expensive but sounded like the only one that wasn't just lesbians.

3) I watched 60 seconds of hard core porn. I probably would have been better off if there was some sort of storyline, like a pizza delivery driver. How was I supposed to know?

60 seconds is all it took to totally gross me out and confirm a life-long dislike for porn. $13 well spent? That is arguable.

I am already learning fun new things as a 33 year-old. What an exciting year this will be!

Cake

I love cake. My favorite cake is a simple white (NOT yellow) cake with white icing. I'd call it "wedding cake" but somehow wedding cakes seem to be messed up. They are dry or have a strange ingredient like raspberry or almond extract.

When I am craving cake, however, it is always chocolate cake. Chocolate cake with fudge icing. There is nothing more satisfying than chocolate cake when I am hormonal.


(lust = chocolate)

Every now and then, I'll buy something different, like pineapple or cheesecake. If someone offers me a spice cake, I enjoy it but I'd never drive to the store looking for one.

When I was little, all of the women in my life told me that carrot cake and red velvet were the best. They always made a big deal out of it if someone had a carrot or red velvet cake. I've experienced too many bad, dry, nasty carrot and red velvet cakes to ever seek one out. When they are bad, they ruin the hope of ever finding a good version.


(Don't believe the hype. I will disappoint you)

There are a lot of people who claim to like cake, but really they just like something to hold the icing. Those people are not worthy of the awesomeness of cake. Icing should never overwhelm or try to hide a cake's quality. Really dry or bad cake with a lot of icing is not good cake. The distraction does not work for me. On the same note, a really good cake doesn't need icing at all. The icing is nice, but it is just an added bonus.

People who are distracted by pretty icing will buy the really cool looking cupcakes that sat in the baker's display for 2 weeks. Those will almost always be a really well decorated lump of dry crappiness. Children usually fall for this and really shallow adults.


(I am cute and utterly useless for anyone seeking real cake)

I was in the car with friends on Saturday and a man drove up next to us. I didn't notice, but my friend said that he looked over and pulled down his sunglasses to get a good look. They caught up so I could see (yes, just like in high school!). He was a really good looking black man.

In that moment, it hit me! My passions for baked goods and the opposite sex are profoundly parallel. I love my men. I love my cake. If I try too much of either, I eventually get sick and want to quit althoughter. The craving comes back eventually. Right now, I am looking for a good man:

There are different flavors that I seek for different reasons
None of the types of men my mom wanted for me when I was little are actually good for me
I go for substance over fluff any day. Give me a poor black man with a great heart, strong work ethic, and a loveable personality over a wealthy asshole any day!
I don't go looking for spice, but I'll probably take it if it is offered.

oh, so that's how you want to play?

I have to admit that I am on the short path to burnout. I need to find some quality spiritual restoration. That being said, here is my attitude tonight:

A dad emailed this to me:

Hey jenny. Thanks for taking Hannah out tonight. I do wish you had waited until a weekend night. Hannah was so tired when she got home that she did not do her math homework. We usually try and keep her in on school nights.

My thought? Fuck you very much, asshole. I took your daughter and her friends out because they texted me at 3:30 on a Friday wanting me to give up my evening to be their entertainment because you wouldn't take them anywhere. A Monday dinner was my way of saying "I love and value you" while keeping my boundaries. I was exhausted when I picked up your daughter and her friends. After dinner her quote was, "Let's do something else! We can't just go home! I don't want to go do homework yet!"

So? I let them come along to Kroger for 10 minutes while I bought Crystal Light. I dropped your daughter off at 8pm. YOU weren't home. Neither was your wife. Or your 8 year-old daughter. Where were you with your younger daughter on a Monday night?

What time did you finally get home? What time did your 15 year-old say that I dropped her off? Did you know that 15 year-old girls are lying bitches? They are. And yours wants to get pregnant by 18....

But I'll honor your wishes and try to invest in her less. Obviously math was impossible for her after 8pm. BTW- she was on Facebook at 10pm. Go fuck yourself.



Of course, I didn't say any of this to the clueless bastard of a dad. What did I do instead? I emailed the woman in charge of my denomination's reference and referral and asked her to send out my resume across the nation. Agressively.

Yes, I think I might be burnt out.

No! Really?

Today I've decided to take offense at society in general. I turn 33 in two weeks. Apparently 33 is the age that pushes a single woman from being young to being shockingly old for having no family.

Here are three instances that lead to my offense. They all happened in the last 24 hours:

1) I meet a 23 year-old pharmacy student at our college house tonight. I mentioned that I was in my 30's. She looked shocked, as if I said that my right arm was made of wax and chocolate. "NO! Really?...Wow, I wouldn't have guessed that. I would have said you were, like, 27 at most."

Thanks? Being 32 is now something that I need to be comforted over? Those 5 years between 27 and 32 shifted me into a sad, pitied spinster?

2) In a conversation with other college students, we were explaining to someone the new phenomenon of planking. They played this stupid game on "The Office" and now college students take pictures planking everywhere. We decide to get a photo of a girl planking on a chair. I give her tips and tell her where to lay her arms.

Her friend says, "Um, no offense but I was just wondering...now don't take offense to this, but is this something that people did when you were young?"

Me: NO

Her: Then how do you know so much about it?

Me: I watch "The Office" too.

Her: Oooooh.

When I was young? Back in the olden days? Thanks, 21 year-old. Offense taken.



3) My mother. Yes, my mother. The woman who gave birth to me called yesterday:

Her: You have a birthday coming up! In two weeks! What, are you going to be 31?

Me: No, mom. I am turning 33.

Her: Really? Wow. I can't believe that. I guess that I still see you as 27 or 28.

Thanks, mom. Now I know that you will be praying to Jesus about the fact that I will die alone.

I know that 33 is not 21. Yes, at 33 I am a grown woman and I do have limited years to find a husband and have children. Society still sucks. 33 is NOT 40. How did I reach an age that requires strangers and mothers to comfort and pity me? Fuck you, society.

Big changes?

I've officially gotten back "out there." Well, sorta. I've taken the step to go back on the free dating website but am not yet serious enough to pay money for bad dates (from match or eharmony). I've only had my profile back up for a few days.

Last night my ex messaged me on the site. The funk musician ex. It has been 1 1/2 years since we dated and I haven't really looked back since we broke up. Chatting was light and pleasant until he threw out the phrase "I've gone through some big changes lately but I'm still the same guy."

Stupid me. I had about 4 seconds of hope after that phrase. Big changes?

Has he gotten a real job?
Quit smoking pot every day?
Does he have car insurance?
Is he no longer in love with the girl downstairs?

Maybe he has really changed and now he is going to get me back and we will get married and have beautiful intelligent and muscial mixed-race children.

All of that in four seconds. I forgot how much false hope grows out of getting back "out there."

Me: Really? What changes?
Him: Well, I finally finished my masters degree and moved to Asheville

Maybe he has straightened his life out! We won't date, but I now know that people can change!

Me: Awesome! What are you doing in Asheville?
Him: Working in a kitchen and getting to know local musicians.

Oh, the same minimum wage job and loser dreams you had before. Excellent.

Me: I love Asheville. You are lucky. Is it as wonderful as I think it is?
Him: It is a cool city. Everyone here is full of themselves, though. I've also moved around a lot in 6 months. I've had a lot of wierd live-in landlords who were crazy but finally found a 38 year old woman as a landlord.

Whaaaat?

Me: Where do you find these people?
Him: On Craigslist.

Ooooh, that's right. Nothing has changed. You have no credit and don't pay your rent so you are reduced to finding creepy roommate situations on Craigslist until you find a woman to live with that you will secretly fall in love with and never date.

Same job. Same resentful attitude toward society. Same irresponsiblity. Same fucked-up approach to love. Your big change is that you are now an irresponsible loser in a different city.

The ex then tried to arrange a booty call that required me to drive 5 hours to see him. It was offensive on so many levels.

So now I am back out there! The adventures already begin!

because I can't put it on Facebook...

my invention

Tonight I stumbled upon a new awesome thing: Extreme Lawnmowing!

How does one stumble upon extreme lawnmowing?

Step 1: Put off mowing until the you have dandelions that are mature enough to turn into white puffs of seeds in the next 12 hours.

Step 2: Wait at work for an extra 40 minutes with a kid whose big brother is always late picking him up.

Step 3: Notice stormclouds on the horizon as you pull into your driveway 10 minutes before the sunset.

The result is me flying across the lawn at the top lawnmower speed. It was dark within minutes, which forced me to turn on the headlights. I do all this while watching huge bolts of lightening move from the horizon to overhead.

It. Was. Awesome. I will wake up tomorrow to a lawn with huge patches of unmowed grass, but I knocked out most of the dandelions that would otherwise have multiplied by noon tomorrow.

Extreme lawnmowing = top speeds in the dark with lightning flashing overhead.

who could ask for more?

I woke up this morning in a bad mood. A wonderful dream about being loved was ripped from my mind and replaced by the sound of an alarm. And an empty house. And another day of work. And a horrible, resentful mood.

It didn't go away. I had to explain to my male co-workers that I had a bitch seething just below the surface...watch out.

At 3pm, I realized that feeling bad inside and out may actually be due to getting sick. Achiness and an unexplained hatred toward the world = a nasty cold in 2 days.

I left at 4:15, went home, got the dog, and left again to gather supplies for a wild Friday night in bed (movies, food, gatorade). Because I felt bad, I did not put my jeans back on. I left the house in a dress that is 4 inches too short to be respectable. I figure that I am technically dressed and I will drive past actual hookers to get my pizza, so I can risk looking foolish for 2 minutes.

I pulled into the grease-stained parking lot of the gas station to get my red box movies. While standing in front of my machine outside and dodging cars that drive precariously close to me, a lady pulls up and says something out the window. She is eating fries and I can't understand her.

Me: I'm sorry, what? (polite smile)
Her: Girrrl. (with a fry literally hanging out of her mouth) You WEARIN' that lil' dress.
Me: (beaming but trying to play it cool) Thanks.

Grease-stained parking lot, over-crowded crappy gas station, and fries hanging out of her mouth...this woman just made my day.

Thank you, lady. YOU are why I love my town. Who could ask for more?

deep thoughts...

Unlike Cher, I would not seem more beautiful or talented if it was announced that I was a man in drag.

deep thoughts...

Schoolteachers who knowingly use the word "ain't" or, even worse, "ain't no" are the societal equivalent of doctors who knowingly smear shit all over the walls of a hospital.

Job Volcano

I need to vent.

Issue #1: The crazy ex-secretary. Our secretary began losing her sharpness and love for working with us about 2 years ago. We finally encouraged her to retire a week ago. The craziness is a mixture of ongoing physical pain, jealously of a retired husband, loss of cognitive abilities (probably due to the pain), and general anger at the world.

Now we have an ex-secretary who "retired" while threatening to sue the church. We have all been walking on eggshells for 6 months now. To make things worse, she broke her leg while walking to the car drunk from her own retirement party. The angry disabled and now injured secretary in a small town....t-r-o-u-b-l-e.


Every time a church member takes her food, we cringe and pray. Our staff should really throw a big party, check on her daily, and send out multiple prayer requests but we are still a bit shell shocked and tired of her shit.

Issue #2: The un-wise and irreplaceable children's minister Our children's minister really needs to quit her job and go work somewhere full time. I call her "un-wise" because she keeps putting faith in a husband who cannot and will not get a real job to support their 5 children. Neither of them want to give up their happy $12K/year jobs to grow up and earn real money for their children. Multi-millionaire grandma covers their butts.
I call this picture "Lazy Husband"

This sucks because our children's minister is utterly irreplaceable. She is awesome, gifted, beloved, and a GREAT co-minister. She will leave a huge hole in the ministry staff because she knows everyone and is in touch with everyone's needs. We are silently waiting for her to quit. She needs to quit. He idiot husband will never get a real job.

Issue #3: The new secretary Our Personnel Committee found a new secretary. Unfortunately, this person is a church member, the wife of the university provost (who fires our church members on a regular basis), a perfectly pious Christian, and a CHURCH MEMBER. In the world of church dynamics, you never hire a church member. It is unethical and simply a waiting time bomb. How do you go to worship while knowing everyone's secrets, knowing how much money the person next to you gives, and having fought with the pastor on Friday afternoon?

We told them not to interview church members. They did. We told them this is a problem. They don't care. We had a nice condescending meeting in which they tried to practice damage control with me and the children's minister...making sure that we understood their decision and were on the same page. I practiced self-control and did NOT punch the head deacon when he repeatedly accused me of being overly cautious and saying that it "can't be that bad." Talk to the secretary at home who is thinking about suing us, jackass.

Since this is something that I can't change, I've adapted my attitude and will make the best of this. I will work with her and love her. Now it is a waiting game for Wednesday when they present her to the congregation for vote and the shit may hit the fan. I will also continue walking on eggshells and will save all candid conversation for the safety of my office.

Issue #4: The pastor, retirement, and my career I recently made my profile active with the ministry search program. I realize that if I want to find a wonderful church to pastor (as the head pastor) or ANY church in Texas, I need to search for a few years. My plan is to stay until the pastor retires, help with transition, and then move on.

The pastor just added onto his house and improved his kitchen. He's talked about needing to work on the kitchen for years now. I sat down with him to frankly ask what it meant. If he is going to be here for another 10 years, I can't stay that long. Lock-ins and youth ministry are killing me. If he is about to sell the house, I need to know. He said that he plans to retire in a year or so. Okay. It is good for my profile to be active. (I haven't told him my profile is active...no one in North Carolina can know these things)

Then he threw a curveball at me. He thinks that they will look "internally" for the next pastor. Essentially, he said that I am already in the running for his job. Now that is out there. Can't take it back. He's leaving and he thinks I might be his replacement.

First, I've heard hints of this from other people over the years but even from his mouth I do not have a lot of hope of being the next pastor. They love me now, but it will be pretty impossible to hold up against a 40 year-old PhD with a lovely family and actual experience as a pastor (a lot of people will apply and at least 3 will be as described). I do not at ALL expect to be offered his job, but now it is out there and I am paranoid that he will think I am trying to prove myself.

There is also the awkwardness of some people wanting to offer me the job and then a lot of people wanting someone else...I would have to leave REALLY shortly after that. It is kind of like continuing to date someone after a refused marriage proposal.
Awkward. Once rejection is out there, things just need to end.

Issue #5: The Music Minister is a close-minded ass There isn't a lot to say here. He is excellent at leading worship with a choir but refuses to even attend our contemporary service, more or less help to plan or lead it. He hates contemporary music and has gotten away with ignoring that half of his job for 3 years now. It all came to a head last week when early service was HORRIBLE and we had literally 50 visitors to experience the agony. He wouldn't even enter the room because he knew that what he offered us was crap. Asshole.

Issue #6: The lesbians Two of my best friends at church are a lesbian couple. They got engaged a few months ago. Recently, another lesbian couple started visiting (who got to know our church when we hired them to babysit during choir for 3 years on Wednesday night). This new couple is also engaged. At VBS, another church member invited a new family whose mothers were not just lesbians but interracial lesbians with 3 kids. Everyone loved them and the kids.

We are quietly welcoming and loving these lesbian couples. We are empowering them to lead in ministry and worship. When they get married, things will be less quiet. It will be ugly and the pastor, who finally admitted to me that he doesn't support gay marriage, refuses to do anything preventative or educational. He just wants to retire before it gets ugly. When it comes out and gets ugly, we could lose half of the church no matter what decision we make...half will leave if we support a wedding and half will leave if we don't. Tick, tick, tick. Things are heating up just below the surface. This volcano may do irrepairable damage if it erupts while we are unprepared.

These are just the big issues that I am processing EVERY day.

On a better note, my friends and I discovered a Mexican restaurant next door to the movie theater that serves awesome and very strong margaritas. They help a lot, especially since I can't talk to my friends about most of this. Get drunk, walk to a movie, sober up before I drive home. Tequila is God's gift to stressed and confused ministers.

deep thoughts...

Indian food is like a man worth keeping...much hotter the next morning.

seasons for singles

"When Harry Met Sally" was on TV yesterday and Harry said something that I've known for a few years now. It was clearly fall in NYC and they were walking through charming scenes with falling orange leaves. Harry mentions how much the holidays suck for single people. Of course, it was written in some funny way like "I often want to go to bed in November and just not wake up again until after the New Year."

That. Is. So. True.

I am looking at the last 2 months of my best season to be a single woman. It makes sense that I always want to fall in love in October but never in July. Why?

My birthday is in October. It usually falls on the weekend of my family reunion, which I can never attend 1100 miles away. All alone for my birthday and missing family.

Thanksgiving is sad (although less sad now that I have friends to share it with). That is a holiday for family recipes, arguing over the TV remote, and cooking with my mom for 3 days. Again, family is 1100 miles away! I get an awkward pity call from family instead.

Christmas lasts for an entire month. Even when I go home for Christmas, it doesn't make up for the previous 3 weeks of having no family and no date for countless Christmas parties. There is nothing more depressing than decorating my house for Christmas and no one ever seeing it.

New Years. Enough Said.

We recover from New Years and begin to settle into the comfortable cold of winter. I enjoy hiding my holiday fat under layers of clothes and go months without shaving. All is well!

Until Valentine's Day. Fuck you, Valentine's Day.

Yes, fall and winter are horrible seasons for single people. Last year, I had an emotional breakdown when the man I thought might lead to a charming family Thanksgiving dinner quit calling at the beginning of October. My crying fits and self pity lasted for 5 solid days. Why? I'd put all my holiday eggs in one basket and the basket turned out to be a self-absorbed ass.

Fall may be around the corner, but today is August 2nd! Summer is wonderful and exciting! I don't have energy for dating right now! I am happy with meaningful friends and a busy job! My dog is awesome! This is a good season to be single, even if I know that October will eventually come back around to bite me.

I hate PMS

I would like to write a poem called "I hate PMS."

I

hate

P.
M.
S.


(I am weepy, horney, lonely, anxious, and lovesick for someone that doesn't exist. Oh, and my face is broken out even more than usual. How do you deal with emotions that you know will go away when your body just starts f*cking bleeding? Stupid hormones. )

sad, sad bat

I hit a bat on my way home tonight. Actually, the bat flew into my windshield, so it hit me. I watched it hit the top and then slide down to get tangled in my windshield wipers, which seemed impossible at 55 mph (the sliding DOWN part, not the hitting part).

Poor bat. Sad bat. I drove my last 2 miles home watching the unmistakeable bat wing flap in the wind while hoping that it was just knocked out.

At home, the mag flashlight and a straw proved to me that it was dead. I felt sad. I also hope that an animal eats it in the night so that I don't have a rotting bat at the end of my sidewalk in the morning.

I've always loved bats the same way that I love frogs, turtles, lizards, and snakes. Maybe more the way that I love snakes...I like to see them and think they are awesome but don't want to touch them. Bats look like cute little diseased mice with wings. In my mind, that statement turns out positive.

This is not the bat I killed. I don't actually touch bats. This picture does show how cute and small and innocent they look to me.

People...

People.

You should read that in an exasperated voice, as in "PEO-ple...arrgh."
Tonight gave me a little reminder that people are the same everywhere and at every age. It seems that the drama that we began practicing on the playground in the 4th grade doesn't really go away. We just change the language. This isn't news to anyone who is even slightly involved in society.


Tonight's example of people being people came in the form of the good ole' who should date whom. Me being the who and the only other single person in the church being the whom.

Me: Charming offhanded joke about people not asking me out when I walk around in public dressing tacky. This was appropriate to a conversation about a man and woman who met in Wendy's when he commented on her homemade straw necklace.

Them: "We were just talking about this. I think this is taken care of. Someone is just waiting for the right time. That is what we (whoever the hell "WE" is) think. In a year, we will be looking back at this conversation and laughing."

Me: "Um, okay. I'm not going to ask."

Now I have to change how I talk about being single. I thought I was making a funny joke that related to wearing tacky clothes. They hear such jokes as a cry for help and apparently spent quality time talking about my love life (a love life I'm not interested in right now) and deciding who is in love with me.

The "who" in question is not, in fact, in love with me. They are not waiting to ask me out because they are in love with the pretty little blonde girl at work who flirts with them daily. I am excited for the "who" and give the "who" advice on asking out the little blonde girl. There is a right moment being waited for, but I am not involved.

I did not explain this. I did not call out my friend and her "people." I allowed her the mystery and hope for something that doesn't exist.

Why? Because people will be people. Adding to the conversation adds to the playground drama. I'd rather just walk away and mutter "PEO-ple...argh."

I'd like to think that such wisdom is a perk of being in my 30's. Yes, I am a fountain of wisdom and self-restraint.

p.s. To be fair, I found myself feeling just like I did in the 4th grade with playground drama. I felt important because people were talking about me and special because they thought a boy might like me...even if it wasn't true. For other girls to THINK that a boy would like a certain girl means that the said girl must be somewhat cool. Right? Right.

if I could only change...

I've recently been reflecting on turning 33 in 3 months. Dan Brown made me feel better about this by writing several paragraphs in his last book about the number 33. It is a magical, powerful number in the Bible. I feel excited and empowered! Kinda. It WAS Dan Brown, which means that most of it is bullshit.

33 seems to be a daunting age for me. This is mostly because of my lack of husband and quickly aging eggs. It is difficult to remember how young 33 is in the grand scheme of life when every six months without a date takes me a step closer to the back-up plan of being a single adoptive mom (which will, in turn, solidify my lack of marriable qualities).

These things are going on in my head while I ponder career choices and the housing market....and then yesterday Julie Roper added me on Facebook.

Julie Roper was the mean popular girl at church from the 3rd grade all the way to graduation. Julie Roper didn't actively hate me. She didn't tease me or spread rumors. She just ignored me and did the best she could to never sit near me, speak to me, be associated with me, or recognize my existence. She ignored me every week at church for 10 years. Her friends, which made up most of our Southern Baptist Sunday School class, followed suit until late in high school.

Julie started to say hello to me in the 10th grade because she learned that I would hug her in front of people if she did not recognize my presence first. It was a mean game on my part, but the only way that I could enjoy the seeming disdain that she had toward un-pretty overweight badly dressed girls with awkward social skills (aka me).

(Julie and the other popular girls were "bowheads." This is what we called pretty little preppy girls in the 80-90's who wore big bow clips. We also used the word "preppy." There was a mean song about bowheads in the same sense that you make fun of cheerleaders. Which all of those girls were. Damn them)

Time eases biases. Facebook is also a great way to see who got fat and who is a loser. That is only reason I can think for her to add me as a friend. I accepted.

Julie Roper opened a porthole to my past. She is a good Texan woman who stayed in North Texas, married in her early 20's, and is raising Texan babies with her very Texan looking husband. She is still friends with all of the other good Texan girls and boys from my Southern Baptist upbringing. Her page allowed me to spy on people that I haven't thought about in 10 years.

Spying led to memories. Spying led me to realize how different I am (being childless, single, and NOT in Texas). Spying brought back all of my awkward mixed feelings from high school. I've looked at my Facebook page and wondered what they would think about me. It is all about work and shows that I am still fat and single. What do they think about me being a youth minister? Do they think or care at all? Am I sad in their eyes? Wierd?

Now Julie Roper and Facebook have turned my normal 30-something confusion into a 30-something confused need for approval from people that I haven't seen in 10 years. People who, for the most part, barely liked me to begin with.

I wasn't in their cool club when we were teenagers and I've just been hit with the harsh reality that I will always WANT to be accepted by them. I don't want to actually reunite with them, just to know that they think I am awesome and that they are jealous of my glamorous life of youth ministry in a tiny town.

Damn it. Maybe I'll spend less time tomorrow worrying about these people who were happily faded into the background of my life story before yesterday.

Hungry

Due to an ongoing search for new birth control that doesn't make me break out OR leave me bleeding 20 days of the month, my body is a little out of wack.

I just finished the 10th (yes, TENTH) day of Aunt Flo's visit. That is over, but apparently PMS 2 weeks ago kicked my metabolism into a different drive. Is it faster or slower? Only the scale will tell.

Now I am either ravenously hungry or feel completely full. All the time. I eat a meal of any portion or level of healthfulness and feel stuffed. The full and satisfied feeling lasts for 2-3 hours, which means that I am aware of FEELING FULL for 2-3 hours.

And then the hunger strikes. My stomach actually growls. Am I in the 7th grade again? When did my stomach last growl loud enough for other people to hear?

I physically feel hungry at least 6 hours of the day. This is because I refuse to feed a starved feeling body that told me I was full only 10 minutes ago. I also refuse to eat around the clock...unless there is a pity party involved.

Here is my nugget of wisdom from a jacked up body: Physical hunger, the feeling of an empty and growling stomach, is easier for me to ignore than emotional hunger. Anyone who has an unhealthy relationship with food knows the difference.

Is my stomach growling? Oh well. I don't need a cup of ice cream. The pain will go away.

Am I feeling lonely and depressed about something important in my life? That damned cup of ice cream won't shut up until I eat it. I MUST eat it, for it will replace the lack of comfort and love in my life.

Sad, but true. I can ignore my body, but not my emotions. Maybe that will change as I get closer to 40...that gives me 7 1/2 more years to find out.

grow some lady parts

This is my catch phrase. I taught it to teenagers a few years ago because they kept yelling "grow some balls!" during ultimate frisbee games.

Balls? That doesn't make sense. Balls are the most sensitive, vulnerable, and wimpy part of the human anatomy. If you hit a man in the balls, he is down. If you injure a man's balls, he may lose one. You even have to watch how you TOUCH a man's balls...which is not exactly a beloved national past time (at least for me).

The vagina, on the other hand, goes through a lot of tough shit. It sees blood on a regular basis. It adapts to whatever is thrown at it. It can be ripped apart while a HUMAN passes through it and still heal to see another day. Women are forced to accept pain on a regular basis because our lady parts are rearranging themselves (also known as menstruation).

Is someone being weak? Tell them to grow some lady parts. Balls will only give them another weakness.

Tonight I wanted to tell a college student to grow some lady parts. "My parents don't understand me." Waaaaa. "I don't know where home is anymore." booohooo. "My friends don't call often enough or text back when I want them." poor thing.

These are valid life experiences and are especially jarring during college when you seem to live in transition. I know this in my head because I am a well-trained minister. Emotionally, though, I just want to tell this girl to start growing some lady parts. Apparently, I am a cold hearted bitch in my 30's. Oh well.

I love this place! Oh, now I hate myself...or do I?

Today I went to a different grocery store that is 10 minutes closer to the big city. I've heard that it is a step above the local Food Lion but still smaller than the super-fancy yuppy stores that I used in Atlanta.

Hello Lowe's Food! I love you! I walked in and was reminded of all the grocery luxaries you give up living in a small town. Boar's Head deli meats? Check. Fancy bakery with pretty cakes and an entire display made just for muffins? Check. Great produce and plenty of good looking single men shopping on a Saturday afternoon? Double check!

I was immediately aware of my clothing choice when every high school bag boy looked at my chest and then smiled wide friendly smiles at me. Ego boost? Check! I love this place!


The woman at the deli counter had a different take on my cleavage showing maxi dress, loose crazy hair, and lack of make-up. When I got to the counter to order, she smiled really big and said, "Now, is this your husband?"

I turn around to glance at who she was referring to...a big, beer-bellied, white haired biker dude complete with leather vest and bandana on his head.

"Um, no. (friendly smile to hide my shock) I don't know him."

Whaaaat? Should I hate myself? Does messy hair and no make-up make me look like a biker chick? Do I look that old?

Apparently, I've lived in a farming town long enough that I've let myself go. I can no longer walk into the somewhat fancy grocery store and fit in. I belong with the biker dude.

A small part of me thinks it is kind of bad ass to be mistaken for a biker wife. The minister who is married to the bearded biker(who was actually married per the ring on his hand and well groomed under the leather vest). That is a fun thought.

Nah. That small part of me does not overshadow the shame of being the trashy girl in the still not-that-fancy store close to the big city. It is time to start exercising and putting on make-up again.

hopeful living

Beautiful weather, the return of short summer dresses, and a haitus from birth control all leave me inspired. I now want to make changes to my life that will feed hope for the future.

It is time to start working out again. A lot. I don't care about losing weight (although I should) but I need to rebuild muscle and stamina. I will go back to the pool. I downloaded music and prompts for Couch to 5K, which I know will last about a week before I give up in pain.

I shaved my legs ABOVE the knee and began the long process of transforming my feet from a calloused mess to smooth and beautiful.

Yes, people, it is time! I am ready for hopeful living! This is the beginning of a journey to prepare for great things ahead...

I decided this week that I want to spend a long stretch of time preparing for sex.

You read that correctly. Sex.

As of today, I will live as a woman who hopes to have lots and lots of sex in the future. Not just getting laid, but good sex. I am talking about love nest weekends in which you do nothing but eat, drink, sleep, and get it on. Over and over again.

If I found the man of my dreams right now and we made love, I would be mediocre at best. I am way too out of shape. The prep time for anyone to see me naked in the next couple of months would be exhausting. I'd be worn out before we even started!

Now I am going to live as a woman who hopes to have great sex far in the future. I don't have time, energy, or a desire to fall in love any time soon. I don't even want a man in my house or on my phone. I do want to have something to look forward to...to live in hope.

Hope for a lot of great, sweaty, dirty, loving, committed sex.

Lap pool, here I come!

I need a day off from my free time

Today was one of the last days off I will have for another two months or so. Did I go to work? No. (although I am now starting a 11pm-7am shift, so "day off" is disputable)

I am still exhausted.

12:30am- a text saying "Osama Bin Laden is dead!" that didn't bring me joy but pissed me off because I got a text at 12:30am

6:00am- wake up sweating from a nightmare about hiding babies from bad guys

9:00am- wake up from nightmare about trying to find the babies again

11:00am- wake up happy that I slept a total of 8 hours!

11:30am- Read email from my friend, the school counselor, saying that a teenage girl might give her baby up for adoption. Is my wonderful, rich, kind, and barren cousin in Texas still interested?

Noon- call mom to get cousin's phone number. Spend 1 hour listening to her tell me about my sister's relapse into alcoholism and how much she is screwing up my family.

1:00pm- resist the urge to drink because I am so depressed about my sister

1:15pm- talk to my cousin about the baby. Tip-toe and tap-dance around a huge, emotional, and life-changing topic. Listen to her cry and struggle.

1:45pm- email friend my cousin's phone number


(now I had a stretch of time in which I ate Blue Bell ice cream and watched TV in my pj's. it. was. awesome.)

5:30pm- Get a call from frantic teenager. She just had sex with her boyfriend and the condom broke. Listen to her spend 1 hour voicing all of the panic and fear that I've heard from so many other women. And myself. I agree to go to the drugstore with her tomorrow to learn about the PlanB pill and get spermicide to use with condoms.

6:45pm- Pray that I can support this kid without losing my job.

All through the day, I had to read people's comments on Facebook about Bin Laden's death. Whether they were good or bad comments, it made me feel tired just to be a human.

An adoption arrangement, a relapsing sister, and a panicky sexed-up teenager. All were accompanied by a historical bullet to the head. This day off left me exhausted. I need a break.

worst trade ever

Well, my cold is nearly gone, which is awesome.

I was happy until 11:30pm when my stomach turned. What? Oh wait. Maybe the 10 trips to the bathroom today weren't because of too many cough drops.

Pepto chugged? Check.
Toilet and bathroom wiped down? Check.
New towel placed on the floor in front of toilet? Check.

Now I am sitting on the couch and waiting to see if I am going to spend the entire night on my knees...in a bad way. Actually, the alternative way to spend the night on my knees is equally bad. Not a fan.

ANYWAY, if this turns into a stomach virus, I am going to start re-evaluating my life. God is punishing me for something.


You benefit from my queasy stomach. This is the least gross, cutest toilet picture I could find.

walking petri dish

You know those sci-fi movies where one person is sick, and walks all around town spreading their toxic liquids around the world all the while looking nastier by the moment? That was me this week. Correction, that is STILL me.

I am now on day 5 of a nasty cold that came just in time for the chaos of Holy Week. Normally when I get sick (which hasn't been often this year), it is because I stayed up all night with teenagers or quit eating anything healthy for a few weeks or something of that nature. I can point to an event or decision and say "damn, I deserve this."

This cold is different. It hit me out of the blue in a stretch of time when I was sleeping well, eating well, and even working in the yard (as opposed to sitting on the couch with my dog). There is not a cold epidemic in my town...it is just me.

Miserable, feverish, dark green snot, coughing, sore throat, infected ears and everything. It is still a common cold. The doctor can't do anything for you.

I am happy to report that 3 days of complete silence (sorry friends for not answering the phone or being coherent enough to text to say that I am not answering the phone) and countless cups of hot tea allowed me to preserve my voice for early Easter morning preaching. After the sermon, I quit drinking all of the damned tea and actually spoke to people from a safe distance. Now my voice is going, going, gone. Who cares now?

Okay, I'm done whining! Here is the cool-to-me experience from having a cold:

I blew my nose into a tissue and threw it in the toilet without flushing it. Who wastes water on just tissue? Not this earth-day woman! The next morning, the germs from one tissue somehow multiplied and grew an actual ring around my toilet. OVERNIGHT. That is nasty and awesome at the same time!

Happy Easter, world! This preacher is now going to bed with her most recent lovers: cough drops, tissues, nyquil, and vicks vapo-rub.

life altering moment

Today my understanding of myself in the world changed forever. It all started when I put on a cute outfit to go to work...and realized that I didn't want to sweat in it tonight while outside with 30 wild teenagers.

I went home and made a hasty change. Jeans, converse, and an old shirt. On my way back to work, I realized that the old shirt looks horrible on me. That is why it was still hanging in the closet. The only obvious solution was to run to the store and buy a cheap replacement shirt (under the guise of running errands for work).

That is a great thing about being 32. I allow myself those awkward moments when I feel like I must change clothes or spend hours tortured with self-loathing. It doesn't happen often.

These events all led to a foolish decision. I bought a belt. A BELT. That you put on your BODY. What???? Fat girls don't wear belts, especially if their fat sits above the waist like a tire around your torso. Belts are the enemy.

Still, I gave the store $20 and went home with a cute shirt and a belt. 4 hours later, I've just tried on half of my wardrobe with...a belt.

How has the world shifted? I. Look. Better. In. A. Belt. The key is to put it on top of a shirt/shirtdress around the fattest part of my stomach. Above or below the tube obviously makes it look worse. Until today, it never occured to me to put a thick band of black elastic around the fattest part of my body.

A strange thing happened. I looked smaller. And younger. All of my outfits are fancier. It doesn't work with everything, but this is a belt! On my plus-sized stomach! It is not a miracle cure for fat. I still look like a fat girl in a belt, but I look like a slightly less fat girl who is much cooler and younger in a belt.

Tomorrow I will wear a belt all day. If it pops off my body or settles into an undiscovered roll of fat in an unflattering way, all will be right with the world. If I look cute all day, I have to accept that everything I know about myself is false.

My Night With Sinbad

Tonight I spent the evening with Sinbad, the charming and family-friendly comedian from 1993. At the same time an old school friend was with Sinbad....2000 miles away.

My night with Sinbad came via the movie "First Kid," which was showing on my 2nd tier cable movie channel. It was awesome! Aside from a few painfully ugly pairs of pants, the movie was as funny and pleasant as I remembered it being when I was little. Sinbad is still damned funny.

I didn't plan on watching "First Kid." Sinbad hasn't graced my TV screen in years. The irony didn't hit me until halfway through the movie.



You see, at the same time that I was hunkered down in a granny nightgown watching cheap cable with my one-eyed dog on a Saturday night, my friend was playing host to the real Sinbad. In Hollywood. At some celebrity auction fundraiser or something.

I was in the granny nightgown. She was in a designer dress making friends with the star of the movie on my TV.

I went to undergrad and graduate school with this woman, but our lives couldn't be more different.

I live in a small town with wholesome family-oriented friends who all go home from the pot-luck dinner at 9pm because it has "been a long week" and "we have a soccer game in the morning."

She is a gorgeous blonde who has cocktails with other gorgeous people in designer clothes at exclusive clubs.

My Facebook posts are about lock-ins, yard work, and church announcements.

Her Facebook posts include movie-quality pictures to illustrate her movie-quality stories...photo shoots, new bar openings, weekends in wine country, and other shit like that.

Here is the shocking thing about my evening: I am not jealous. At all.

Yes, I had a crisis moment. It came when I realized that I am truly happy watching TV on a Saturday night with my dog. The thought of putting on high heels and making small talk with important people while trying to be beautiful and charming sounds...exhausting.

The highlight of my Saturday occured when I walked around my yard and realized that I have red roses, yellow roses, purple pansies, and pink tulips blooming at the same time. At my house! That I own!

It seems that I've become the kind of woman that I feared becoming 10 years ago. My old school friend is living the life that I wanted- not because of celebrities and Hollywood, but because every week brings a new, grand adventure. I am happy for her, but not at all jealous.

A full day off work. Plants that I haven't yet killed in my yard. A good dog and a comfortable nightgown. If you add some fried chicken and a beer, I'd be living in a country music song. This is the life!*

*Being 32 means that I have the right to change my feelings in a week. The same things that bring me joy today may be suffocating tomorrow. Oh well. I'll never wish to spend my night in high heels with the real Sinbad.

The Boogie Man

Something happened this last week that has left me too afraid to sleep. I feel like I am 9 years old again, having seen a scary movie that takes over my thoughts even in the daytime.

Unfortunately, there are not people under the stairs or a man with a chainsaw. My grown-up monster stays just beyond the next corner, threatening to jump out and take away everything.

You see, this week a friend ended up in the news. This friend is a 75 year-old man who also pastors a neighboring church. He is sweet, caring, and very naive. Ministry is his life. His identity.

He was charged with sexual misconduct with a nursing home patient. A nurse turned him in when she saw him receiving sexual attention from a mentally impaired patient. We were shocked. I am a ridiculously loyal person, so I assumed that a nurse who hates pastors turned him in for giving someone a hug.

Tuesday we find out that he admitted everything to the police. This old pastor and the patient had been kissing and fondling for months now. He sat in the police station and described everything, not asking for a lawyer because he didn't know how much this would blow up. Or where he was. Or what was going on. Or that it was wrong.

The charge? Four accounts of sexual misdeamenor.

He is the new villian in the news. Before they even knew the details, both the TV and newspapers had his distraught mug shot and name posted everywhere. What a great selling story! Another sick sexual predator taking advantage of innocent old ladies under the name of God!

My friend is guilty. It leaves us all speechless as we figure out how to love and support someone who is in their own created hell.

Although I gag at the thought of him touching old lady boobs or someone even KNOWING that he has sexual organs, my friend is not the Boogie Man that I fear. My nightmares come from the police and the news.

You see, his name and his family's name were ruined before anyone even knew details. Any one of us could be accused of sexual misconduct. If one person testifies against us, the police will come to our work, put us in handcuffs, and haul us to an interrogation room for countless hours. They will yell at us, toy with our emotions, and treat us as if we've actually done the horrible crime at hand. Police don't care about emotional damage or our reputations. They are paid to get a confession.

The local news put out a story within hours with my friend's picture on the television. Their first report had all the details wrong, telling a much more violent story. They corrected their details with time, but no one has a huge news story saying "we were wrong." When we read or see about someone "suspected" of a crime, no one remembers the follow-up story clearing their name. It is buried in the 3rd page next to an ad for a car dealership. That could happen to any of us. My face could be on TV with "sexual assault" plastered under it simply because someone accused me.

The police didn't care that this man was in such a diminished mental state himself that he couldn't remember anyone's phone numbers or names. They took advantage of the obvious dementia to get him to talk without a lawyer. We don't know what is wrong with him, but a system of police and news have ripped everything away before his wife can make sense of him kissing another woman.



Now the Boogie Man is back in my imagination, haunting my quiet thoughts. I couldn't sleep last night. Instead, I lay in bed and thought out scenerios. What would happen to me if a church member accused me of a sexual crime? I rarely give kids a hug. Guys get a pat on the shoulder and girls get an arm around their shoulders. I am rarely alone with kids. If so, I keep a distance of at least 5 feet. I do these things without thinking because you cannot be a community leader without living in fear.

What about that college kid who is a pathological liar? We talk about a lot of sexual stuff because she is in her first lesbian relationship! What about the girls who were sexually molested as children? The angry guy who will lie to get revenge over something as small as a ultimate frisbee game? The old lady with dementia?

What about the parents who believe everything that their child says? If a mother believes I told her 14 year-old daughter that she can have an at home abortion by taking 5 birth control pills*....she will definately believe a crime accusation.

Teachers, doctors, counselors, and ministers....we have a Boogie Man. He can come unexpected in the night and take away everything. We are completely defenseless to do anything about it. I just pray as I try to sleep that he is not waiting in the closet now.

*I have never used the word "abortion" around teenagers and never talked about birth control pills with that child. This is a true story and her mother truly believed her.

without fail

How can I guarantee that I'll get to walk a lot at work? Wear heels! This is one of those rare days that I lived on the wild side. I wore 2 1/2 inch heels with my jeans.

High heels, or even low heels, are a rare thing for me because I am 6 ft tall. I never adjusted to wearing them daily like many of my pretty little short friends. Because of this, I have about a 2 hour limit in the most comfortable of heels. If I am sitting at my desk all day, I'm good. I can look sexy walking to the bathroom and back without paying the price of bleeding feet at 5pm.

Of course, that isn't how my world works. I take a chance on fashion and pay the price. Every time. It is no wonder that I wear boots, flip-flops, or converse 362 days of the year!

Today I arrived to work in a very cute outfit: black heels, bootcut jeans, and a black and white striped dress/shirt combo. I planned to just leave my office for one event. We walked over to a lecture 3 blocks away on a university campus. No problem! I am a beast! I stood for 30 minutes talking to people at said lecture. 6ft 3inches of sexy in still comfortable shoes! We go to lunch and park 3 blocks away from the restaurant. Okay. A little far. I'm still good. I enjoy seeing my profile in shop windows...I look like other women look every day.

Back at the office, the phone rings. The janitor's wife has an urgent message. Where is he? I walk from one end of the church to another. And again. And then back to another building. And then back to the front office to write a note for his car. Oh, wait, that isn't his car in the parking lot. Walk BACK to the office to leave the note.

Yup. I've walked a mile in my shoes. No more sexy, confident 32 year-old. It is only 3:30 and I am now barefoot and blistered. Tomorrow I'm returning to flip-flops.


p.s. There is a big difference between www.bigdaddy.com and www.godaddy.com. The former is definately not the place to go for church website work.

bugs in my ear

Damn my college roommate. She taught me the wonders of cleaning your ears with q-tips. Before I met her that fateful day in 1997, I had no idea that I am blessed with eargasms.

(In case you didn't know, this is the sensation of awesomeness that us lucky few experience while cleaning our ears. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does it is GOOD. Like scratching a magical itch)

Now I clean my ears every night, especially after showers. The byproduct of this habit is that I get the occasional outer ear infection. Apparently God made ear wax and we are supposed to leave it there for protection and q-tips can leave tiny scratches in our ears that get infected.**

Now I feel like I have little ants crawling in my ear. Did you know that is what an outer ear infection feels like? I can't bring myself to go to the doctor and wait in a room full of people who have the plague just to get little eardrops. For now, it is me and the imaginary ants.

**That was meant to be read in a sarcastic and bitter voice.

trapped squirrel

SO. Scott, the ex-boyfriend is back at church. This means that I no longer have the ability to avoid seeing him. After two years of absence and a marriage to the woman that he was cheating on me with, he just waltzed back into my world and acted like nothing ever happened.

To put it lightly, it has been awkward. The entire church knows about him treating me like shit. They witnessed his bad behavior as he publicly dated his ex-wife within weeks of dumping me out of the blue. They read his passive-aggressive Facebook posts trying to talk shit about me....even though he dumped me.

Now he is there every Sunday and Wednesday chatting it up with a small crowd of uncomfortable people. Last week, I made peace with this and decided that I'd just say "hi" and ignore him. I've had two years to heal, love other people, forgive, and move on. That doesn't make it less awkward, but it helps me be less angry when I see him forcing his way back into my world.

Last night he asked me out. He timed his exit from church (after I'd already held youth late, hung out outside, hid in the kitchen, and made a run for it just to avoid him) so that he'd walk out with me.

Him: Bye
Me: Bye

Him: Hey, listen. I didn't know if you'd like to get some coffee and talk. Nothing big or meaningful, just coffee and talking. But I'll leave that up to you. I just wanted to sit down and have coffee sometime. But I'll totally leave that up to you.

My first thought? Gee, thanks for leaving it up to me. How generous and super-nice-guy of you to LET me decide if I want to spend time with you.

I wish I'd had the presence of mind to say "no thank you."

Instead I just froze. One foot in the car, one foot on the ground. My butt hovering in the air mid-sit. I clung to the car door and froze. I think I mumbled "oh, okay" and then got in the car as quickly as possible.

There is no concluding thought about this episode from my life. No insight, no wisdom, no venting. This is my present state of misery.

I hate Christians

This week I've decided that I don't want to be a Christian. This will eventually be a conflict with my career of choice. I have a feeling that this is not my first post of this nature, but it is still a problem.

Why are people such assholes? How am I supposed to love people in the church who are racists and bigots?

First, there is Black History Month. For white people who've never left small town North Carolina, Black History Month is apparently a way of being forced false history and a political agenda. I've come to resent Black History Month because it makes me realize that the people I love 11 months out of the year are actually horrible, horrible racists. I am SO SORRY that someone asked you to learn about the heroic work of people that you'd rather hang from a tree (a little dramatic, yes, but I'm pissed). How do you look a friend in the eye after they post racist comments on Facebook?

Second, there is bigotry. Two weeks ago, a gay child moved from the public school to the private school. At the public school, he was being bullied, beaten, and threatened on a daily basis. He turned to the Christian school in desperation because Christians will at least be held accountable to treat him well. Right? No. The teachers and students treated him like shit. After 2 days, he returned to the hell of public schools. This teenage boy turned to Christians for safety and found them to be more cruel than the gang members he was trying to escape.

The abuse of a gay kid hurt me deeply because kids in my youth group go to that school. The headmaster, co-headmaster, coaches, and teachers of the private school are also active members of my church. These are people whom I love and respect. They showed hate to a gay kid for being gay and used God as their excuse. "He wasn't even a Christian, he shouldn't have enrolled." Really? What about the 1/3 of your student body who is not Christian but who attend your Christian school because of other educational, social, behavior, or sports-related issues? Your 4th grade girls gave another child a dildo as a welcome present but you didn't kick them out. Would it have been different if they were lesbians?

I hate Christians. I hate that I can't shame people because they sign my paycheck.

I've heard of this happening

Ex-boyfriends show back up. Just when you get good and comfortable in life....happy with who you are and happily forgetting your bad past decisions....the ex-boyfriend calls.

Felipe called on Christmas Day. I answered because I'd erased him from my phone, so I didn't know the number. Sitting in my parents' house in Texas, far from the worries of North Carolina, the ex-boyfriend called for the first time in 7 months. On Christmas Day.

S. H. I. T. I pulled a trick that I hadn't used since high school. Mom walks through the room and I motion to her to call my name. "Jenny! We need you in the kitchen!" Oh, damn. I've got to go. So sorry. Bye now!

Now I'm settled into January and no longer worried about the ex of 2010. All is well!

No. All is not well. Scott shows up to church. Scott, who I haven't seen in 2 years and who isn't even a blip on my emotional radar, walks into church and talks to everyone as if he never left. He came back 2 weeks later with his son, going to both Bible study and worship.

F. U. C. K. Actually, the most appropriate reaction is WTF??? This is what I've had whispered to me, texted to me, and mouthed across the room as all of my friends now have to make small talk with the ex. He now goes to community games and sits with my friends as if he'd never cheated on me, broken my heart, married his ex, and been gone for two years. While he is NOT my problem, he is now a thorn in my side. A thorn that must be in the middle of his second divorce to the same woman...the only reason that he would show back up to my church.

Why can't bad decisions stay in the past where they belong? I've moved on. Why can't they? Why should we bother to grow and learn with age if assholes from your past can just up and call on a major family holiday or walk into your church?

Um, hello! Leave my family and friends alone! I wasn't a great girlfriend! Find somewhere new to park your penises!


p.s. the only thing more tragic than my life right now is Pierce Brosnan singing on Mamma Mia. Who knew that music could suck the sexiness out of such a beautiful man?

the comfort of a good chain...

Today I found comfort in a girly drink and over-sugary grilled chicken in a chain restaurant. Sometimes it is wonderful to have mediocre food and a girly drink that tastes the same way it did 10 years ago!



I walked into TGI Fridays feeling sad and vulnerable in the unique way that you only feel after a bad pap smear. Bad results? No. Everything is healthy as far as I know. I just don't think that there is such thing as a GOOD pap smear.

Nurse:

Hello. Go to the room on your right. Okay, now if you can please take off EVERYTHING. This tiny blue piece of paper is for your chest...open in the front. This other white paper is for your lap. The doctor will be in shortly.

Now that I am in my 30's, I know that the doctor is never in "shortly." They leave you sitting on a table in a cold room wearing nothing but paper and your socks. I had my favorite childhood book in hand to keep me company while sitting naked in a tiny room that left my buttcrack exposed to the busy hall every time someone opened the door.

Today my previously kind and gentle doctor was having a bad day. He frowned a lot. Everything he did in the test department hurt. A lot. Apparently, the pain is worse when no one has been in your nether regions in almost a year.

After the gracefully short exam, I put on my clothes and went down the hall to meet with the doctor. It wasn't his normal big, warm office. We sat in a tiny space with a peanut shaped desk that had zebra-striped marble on the top. A huge painting of a swordfish filled the wall. It looked like it was a high school art project.

I sat clothed, but still aching inside where the doctor had his hands only minutes earlier. Awkward. He talked at me for a few minutes without looking away from my file.

"I recommend that you lose weight. Even just a pound a month will put you in a better place (no shit, Sherlock)."

"There are a lot of options out there for birth control...we really just have to keep experimenting randomly until we find something that solves your problems."

"Although there is contraversy, I don't think you need to be on this perscription for that ailment. I doesn't really help."



I finally talked a bit, forcing him to look at me. Even so, I left the tall medical complex wanting to find a cave where I could hid in the fetal position until the world faded away. I get that we all have bad days, but it seems wrong that an OBGYN's bad day occurs while their fingers are deep in your vagina.

Anyway. A girly drink and 1/4 of a bad meal later, I drove home feeling slightly better. Thank you, TGI Fridays. You medicated my aching soul with alcohol, starches, and sugar.