Bethalou

Sometimes I hate being a girl and having to feel (be) vulnerable. So last night Ruth and I were studying in the church basement. After studying we had a short dance break and then went to say hi to some folks who were having a goodbye party for our church administrator. While we were there, we ran into K, who works in the church. This is a guy Ruth and I have to deal with on a regular basis, and I needed to get some information from him about singing next Sunday. K. is a little off to begin with–he has this passive aggresive way of talking to you when you don’t do exactly what he says, and he pushes me to the limits of my abilities and patience until I snap at him. For example, he consistently gives me more solos than I can handle in one night (songs that I’ve never heard before) until I snap and get ticked. Or I missed two weeks ago and last week he said “Glad to see you made it, this week.” Okay, so I ask K. if we can meet to get me this information, thinking that we’ll be in the regular church area, and Ruth says she has to go home. Then K. says “Well, why don’t you just meet me in my office in a few minutes?” Aaaalright. Ruth and I go back to get our stuff packed up and I say that I don’t want to go in there alone and Ruth says “You’re not going to” and we proceed to K.’s office, in the basement. K is not there yet. Literally five seconds after walking through the door I get a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach and my hair stands on end. It was the strongest gut feeling I’ve ever experienced. Ruth apparantly had the exact same reaction, and she said “We need to get out of here.” I said “We can’t just leave” and we pretty much just did. I told K. (from about ten feet away back at the goodbye party) that I had to get up early today and we left.

It’s wayyy against church policy for a church employee to be alone in their office with a student (it’s a college church), especially after hours when there aren’t people around. With all the lawsuits in the Church, every employee knows this well; they hear a spiel on it a couple times a year.

And you can’t just ignore your instincts, even if technically nothing is wrong (which it was).

So I got home last nights a little shaken up. I called my aunt and uncle’s house to talk to one of my parents. They had just seen Ruth walk through the door and wanted me to come over and tell them what was up. So Ruth and I wound up telling this story to a group of way protective aunts and uncles and they suggested talking to somebody at the church. Does this reaction seem out of proportion to you? I can’t tell.

By “later” I meant “tommorow”.  Yeah, Biaggio was cute, though he kept refering to the letter “E” as “Ezra” and “F” as “Fffffffff…” And so, the day has begun. For about a half hour this morning some Mr. Rogers music mysteriously came on over the clinic intercom. Made me want to go to the Land of Make-believe. You know- take a nap under the big tree/tenement, chat with King Friday, sing a song with the cat in the clock. It all sounds fine.

Plucky Poland. Okay, so the ever-efficient EU had this meeting to reconnoiter about voting distribution and Poland says: “Hey Germany, give us some of your votes because WE WOULD BE BIGGER IF WWII HADN’T HAPPENED.” Is this absurd or am I…racist? Can you retroactively give voting rights to people who aren’t alive? Who will represent them? How will those representatives know how to represent? Is it crass to ask these questions?

Yesterday I shot bow and arrows after work. Just hanging out, shootin some arrows. And what did you do today?

Sorry Brit, I hate the puter today. Yes indeed, poor Daniel, but how do I get the rest of the world to commiserate with us? I tried approving your comment, but to no good. Dith, how to? Yes, Dith, along with all of the interesting things for you to figure out (in Russian), please help me fix my hot damn blogggg. 

Girls, I’ve decided this blog thing is going to have to suffice for my daily quotient of girl-talk, so if it seems particularily aimed at the two of you, it pretty much is.

You should both know that Searle is the flakiest of flaky folks, he takes about three weeks to return messages and about four to act on a promise to “call you one of these nights”. The man is adorably absent? Or somethin. Don’t tease me you silly man.

Will write more later, have an appointment with a five-year-old named Biaggio.

Tommorow I and a band of holligans not unlike myself are operating a gun club without adult supervision. Does this seem wise? The eldest of us (myself and a smart lady named Jill) are just beginning our twenties. People in their twenties can’t be trusted to be sober and staid, whatever our intentions. Add: guns and gaggle of old farts in plaid. It’s going to be a riot. A hot riot, according to Belinda the Pregnant Weatherlady. That woman needs some sensible shoes and sweatpants, not business attire.

Speaking of babies, I had a kid at the clinic today who asked me why everyone was screaming. Broke my heart. What do you say? “Because they’re getting ginormous needles stuck into them and soon you will be too.” Innoculation isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I came home last night to a crime scene from Gulliver’s Travels. My cousins had drawn in chalk outline a bunch of tall skinny dudes and short round dudes and dudes with huge heads and stubby arms and lifesized replicas of themselves. Scattered across the sidewalk were chalk footprints and handprints. Last week they were chalking out slurs and insults: “Eli eats worms”, “Adam has girl germs”, “Sam is a putz”, “Daniel’s Canadian”.  

Today is Thursday; it is also sunny. Last night there was a tornado warning so I slept inside. For those who don’t know, I’m on a sleeping-outside kick. It’s nice, really. Instead of freezing and sneezing in my dusty, air-conditioned bedroom I peacefully drift to sleep with the crickets and the moon. The two drawbacks are the noisy wind flopping my tent’s rainfly around and the sun beating up my brand-new tent during the day. I’ve solved one problem with earplugs, but the other remains a source of guilt. I may have to put the tent away soon and indulge again when the guilt wears off or when I become intolerably claustrophobic in the house.
I’m currently at work, which is another minor source of guilt. We would assume that I would be working at work but really, my job involves little time spread throughout a full day. The children come to my office, they listen to the headphones, they read the vision chart and they go away, leaving me to create this dandy page.