Tonight was the first installment of the annual six-part series of torture we call Vacation Bible School. Besides both being church-run summer programs for hyperactive children, RFKC and VBS are two different worlds, because, for one, the camp kids aren't rich and bratty, and for two, people inexplicably encourage the VBS kids to scream. I don't know who originally equated acceptance of Christ to SHOUTING AND THRASHING AROUND, but pushing the sound barrier is the main VBS tradition. Despite all the unbearable auditory stimulations of the opening program, my job this year is, admittedly, about as pleasant as it could be: I reside in a quiet, secluded room on the third floor, where I sing and dance with preschoolers. Today we learned sign language for "Yes, Jesus loves me," formed a conga line while shaking tambourines, and did that borderline distasteful classic about being in God's army, where you pretend to shoot each other. Oh, and smiled in awe as they attempted to all recite their names. Some looked thoughtful when it came to their turn, like they weren't quite sure how to answer. Others screamed their names vigorously and way out of turn. "MY NAME IS MADELYN!" one whispered violently. Psst. Her name was Madelyn.
Leading a group of four-year-olds along with a CD reminded me of my old dream to become a professional child chorus singer. Not that I loved music or anything, or had more than a screechy octave-and-a-half. Not that I wanted to be, or could pull off, a soulful Star Search-era Britney Spears. No, I just longed to be one of the many nasally voices on those annoying Christian parodies of '70s pop music my mother played in my stereo as I fell asleep.
My mom indulged this fantasy for a few years. We flew to LA on a regular basis for auditions. Got a lot of prepubescent spray tans. I was teething, and she put Vaseline on my gums so I wouldn't frown and get a double-chin. After only minimal pageant success and a few regional and foreign commercials, we returned home, defeated. I turned to crack cocaine. Some prostitution. YouTube's really the only thing keeping me off the streets these days.*
...God, I don't know-- I must be a lot more tired than I thought. ANYWAY, everything before the last paragraph was true, and I promise my next blog post will be less delirious.
Sexy: Hugh Grant in Love Actually and Music and Lyrics. He's a jerk in Bridget Jones, and a little wimpy loser in all other movies, but he really gets his characters right in the aforementioned two.
Unsexy: *Crazed stage mothers, a la my little asterisk-marked fantasy.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
S'mores this summer: 3
Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3