Sunday school 2

There is indeed, a relevant reason behind all this crap I’ve been sharing about my Sunday school experiences. I currently go to this Lutheran church (Christ the Servant) out in Reston, Virginia, which is a 15-minute drive from where I live (Falls Church). I go there because it is where David worked right before he died, and I went there with him, and now I feel like I share memories of him with the people there.

I finally joined the church a couple of weeks ago and they immediately put out a flier titled “Adult Educational Opportunities”. There are two classes being offered. Both sound worthwhile, and both are being taught by retired ordained pastors who go to the church. One of the classes takes place at the traditional Sunday School time of 9 AM Sunday morning. Well, that cuts slightly into my Mocha Latte time at the Starbucks up the hill from the church, but that is no major sacrifice. Scott Gustafson teaches it and it is about a book he wrote himself, so it will probably be worthwhile.

The other requires a substantial Metro Access trip after dark, as it takes place on Monday evenings aft 7:30 PM. (Metro Access is the DC area para-transit system for people with disabilities.) I went to that one, too, although I’m no real sure what it is supposed to be about. (It has something to do with evolution.) Pastor Wetzel said to me after class. “Wow. I’m surprised to see you! You sure had to do a lot to get here!” to which I should have said, “The class sounded fascinating! I didn’t want to miss it!” But no, not me. What I actually said was “I’d do anything to get out of the place I live!”

Sunday School

WOW – I’m doing some thing totally unusual for me…. I’m going to Sunday school! Twice a week!!! I’m not a particularly religious person (unless my mother is reading this blog, in which case I am a devout believer who has always attended Sunday School regularly.) In truth, I haven’t attended since I graduated high school. Unless, that is, you count the year I taught JR, High Sunday school when I was Second Year in college. (At UVa, we called ourselves Second Year instead of sophomore just to prove we were better than everyone else!) My motive for teaching that year probably had a lot to do with my co-teacher – a HANDSOME pre-med student named Cliff. It all ended in an inglorious crash landing, however, when my little sister Sue. a student in the class, came in before I did one week and told everyone, including Cliff, “I don’t know if Debbie will be here or not. The police called our house last night and said she was out drinking with Bobby when they had to arrest him.”
Gotta go – more tomorrow about Sunday school now.

Time to Rhyme

I live in a tiny room,
A room that’s really not
Sufficient to accommodate
The tons of stuff I’ve got.

I straighten, sort, and throw away,
But still my things don’t fit,
And, no matter what I need,
I can not locate it.

Were I to be a Buddist monk
I would fit here just great,
For Buddist monks live austere lives.
Not much accumulates.

But no, not me, I’m not austere.
I’m sure, without a doubt,
That I’ve not got one single thing
That I could live without.

And so I try to organize.
And now I’ve done so, see,
I decided each thing’s proper place
Is just where it might be.

Cleaning by semantics is
A very pleasant chore
(Although it doesn’t help me find
The stuff I’m looking for!)

biology

Haven’t posted in a few days because I was so damned depresssed that all I could do is sit in this damned little room in the dark and listen to music and play Yahoo’s Literai for hours and lose miserably and get even more depressed. SO last night I got to thinking about the myriad of reasons I have to be depressed – which are, to name a few:
1) My best friend, an absolutely wonderful, talented, thoughtful, loving gay musician who was my soul mate and the center of my life died last year of cancer. God, I love him. His name is David Willis.
2) The pompous, hateful, spiteful Electoral Board of the City of Falls Church, Virginia fired me because they didn’t like my wheelchair. I have this in writing with all three of their signatures on it. This after 24 years outstanding service, including pulling off the biggest and busiest election in Falls Church history the previous November. I’ll write more on this in a later post, including the numbers and stats that prove what I’m saying.
3) One day I had a regular life, disabled but regular, living in an apartment and doing my own thing, and WHAM – I fall down, injure my leg slightly, and – without really understanding how it happened – I’m living in an old folks home, and probably will be for life. I’m only 52 – that’s too young to be put out to pasture.
4) I don’t have enough money to be here forever, which means I have to find someplace even less desirable to live. This place is $6000/month. I get $2,000 pension and about 2,000 disability. I am closing on my condo at the end of the month, and I’ll clear about $100,000, but that won’t last forever.


ANYWAY,I thought I was depressed for all those very good reasons, but it turns out that I was actually depressed because I was on the verge of going on the rag big time. Aint biology fun?

Dad's birthday

Today was my dad's 81st birthday. I went home for lunch and we had cake. I made him a card, but Sue and I will get together with them this weekend and do pesents. Mom is managing to keep she and Dad managing ok for now, but I really wish they were in a more protected situation. I guess Mom just isn't ready to accept that kind of change. (Neither was I!!) The realator who is selling my condo (who I've privately called "Tina Burrina" for years for absolutely no reason, because her name is Tina Wilkinson. Perhaps the reason is because I drank quite a bit back when I bought my first condo from her. Tina, of course, knows nothing of this)... ANYWAY, the realator said she told Mom and Dad that she told Mom and Dad that she could sell their place easily if they they wanted, and Mom responded, "But what would happen to my dining room table?!"

bad day at the home

It has been a real frustrating day, mainly because of the way it started, I woke up at 7 AM because the shift changes then and the incoming employees all talk loudly and greet each other right outside my door. OK, fine, its time to get up anyway, but then they just leave me in bed until they happen to get around to helping me get up. Today it was 8:20. The thing is, I feel like a trapped prisoner until they get there. Today I called on the phone three times, and they were always surprised that I hadn’t been helped yet, but nobody ever did anything about it. In real life, when I was on my own, I often slept later than this. I think it is being helpless that bothers me.

getting by

Last night was New Years eve, so I arranged to meet my sister, her friend Shirley, Ron (the lover of my best friend David, who died recently, I'll tell you about him later), and Ron's friend Darryl (?Darren?) at a nearby Thai resturant or dinner. Iy was good to be out, but it fshouldn't have seemed unusual to me - I'm a 52 year old person who went out to dinner just after sunset at a nearby restaurant - no big deal - but I've been so coddled here that it was absolutely frightening. And that's really sad. The funny and embarassing part oa this story is that when I first went in the restaurant