Everyone loves a good scandal, right? Well hold on to your hats ladies and gentlemen, because I’m about to give you some good stuff.
A lot of times, when I am being introduced to someone new, the friend that is providing the introduction will drop the phrase, “She’s the preacher’s daughter…” Why this is inserted is one of the great mysteries of my life. But I usually add after that phrase, “Don’t hold that against me.” Now don’t get me wrong. My saying this has nothing to do with my dad. But it has everything to do with the stereotype that comes with being a preacher’s daughter.
For years, PKs, specifically pastor’s daughters, have been the subject of all sorts of tasteless country songs and movies.
Our spokeswomen are none other than Katy Perry, Jessica Simpson, and Condoleeza Rice. One out of three isn’t bad, I suppose.
Preacher’s kids actually have their own Wikipedia site. This page talks about the two ways a preacher’s kid can go: obnoxious goody-two shoes or rebellious devil child. There is no in between.
Now, most of you reading this have already put me in the obnoxious goody-two shoes category; but let me tell you, this PK has had her fair share of near run-ins with the law. Watch out.
I’m going to start you out with a mild misdemeanor, just to prepare you for the worst that’s coming.
I’m a fan of exploring the church–otherwise known as snooping. Call it what you will, but I know my church from top to bottom. Literally. One Wednesday night during my senior year of high school, I was wandering the third floor before the youth service. I walked past a window, stopped, and slowly backed up. Cue suspenseful background music. I stood, gaping, at the coolest thing I had seen at this church. Ever.
The fire escape was open and there was a clear path to the roof.
I propped the door open, leaving a way for me to sneak back inside and hoped that no adults would stroll past as I was scaling the ladder. I spent the next twenty minutes basking in my new found freedom and startling incoming church goers as they glimpsed me walking across the roof.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking like you don’t even know me anymore, right? Well, allow me to blow your mind even further with my other crimes.
One day, I was driving home from work in the encroaching darkness. As I approached my street, I saw a little dog wandering around in the middle of the road. Now normally, I leave the strays to themselves and let their owners take care of runaway issues. But, for whatever reason, I took pity on this ugly little furball and stopped. I opened the door and picked him up. As I shut the door, I checked the tag and realized with disappointment that it did not have his address.
Great. I was stuck with this smelly dog, and I had no idea where it belonged.
I decided to ride around for a bit and see if I ran into his owners searching for him. I cruised through the neighborhood, imagining the delighted and grateful looks that would be on the faces of those who had lost this
short-legged hairballcherished pet.
Finally, I see a older woman walking back into her driveway. I slowed down, very creepily, and said in my sweetest, most syrupy, I-just-saved-your-dog’s-life voice, “Ma’am, is this your dog?” She walked over to my car, looked in, and said, “No, but I know who he belongs to. He’s so-and-so’s dog. Her house is right over there.” As I followed her finger to where she was pointing, I realized that that was the very house where I had picked up Fido in the first place.
I had stolen Mrs. So-and-So’s dog! I had literally been riding around my neighborhood with a stolen canine. Talk about your wayward child.
I thanked the lady and waited until she got back in her house before pulling back over to the dog’s home. Instead of going to the door and admitting my mistake or pretending like I had rescued him from another part of the neighborhood, I just stopped, set him on the sidewalk, and drove away.
My ultimate example of lawlessness is a little more edgy. I know you’re probably gripping the end of your seat with unequaled suspense, thinking, “What could possibly be more edgy than stealing a puppy?”
Last Tuesday night, I came out of the gym at UNA and made my way through the parking deck after an excruciating loss in intramural basketball. I had parked facing the gym, close to a set of stairs. I walked up, shoved the key in the lock and tried to turn it–to no avail.
Confused and frustrated, I did the only logical thing: I called my dad.
As I waited on him to come rescue me, I called a friend of mine to come wait with me. Alone in the parking lot at ten o’clock at night is not the best situation to be in. I hopped up on the back of the car, perched cross-legged, so my dad could easily spot us.
My dad pulled up about twenty minutes later and my friend went back to the gym. Dad whipped out his can of WD-40 and sprayed my key not once, but twice. After the second try, he paused, and started walking to his car. He turns to look at me and says, quite forcefully, “Get off the car!”
“What? Is it still not working? Are we just going to–”
“Elizabeth, get off the car!”
I was affronted that he was snapping at me for something that clearly was not my fault.
“Elizabeth, sweetheart, get off the car. Now! That is not your car.”
Sure enough, I had been sitting on top of someone else’s car, moreover, trying to break into someone else’s car for over half and hour.
So there you have it. My scandal. A pastor’s daughter who has mastered the art of trespassing on roofs, stealing puppies, and (almost) breaking and entering into other people’s cars. Now you know the truth: I am a genuine delinquent .
Sign me up for a record deal. Lookout Jessica and Katy; there’s a new preacher’s daughter in town.