I get these emails. No not those spam-things from Nigeria claiming to be some long lost cousin. All my cousins live in Nashville, not Nigeria, anyway.
I mean real email. Although, since the advent of Facebook & texting, I don’t get as many as I used to, do you?
Speaking of advent, not that I was, or that it is, but it is Lent. You probably noticed. I’ve been a little tied up as of late, myself, what with Tim and head coach Mitch taking the state title in basketball, (Great job Knights!) and the Redhead’s son, who is now an Air Force pilot, getting married soon, so the girls and I gave the bride-to-be a shower and yes, in case you were wondering, I cried. Not at the wedding. At the shower. The wedding isn’t till this summer.
The Redhead’s daughter bet my daughters that I would cry at the shower. She knows me far too well. I still remember her telling me after her momma died that she probably would never cry in front of me and she never has. I’m too old to hold back tears anymore, not that I ever did anyway. My girlfriend Lois, she said she never saw anybody who could cry like me. Said it was like something off a movie show. I can be laughing and bawling all in a matter of seconds. I suppose it’s true, but it’s not like that’s a flaw or anything. Why, where I’m from, that would be considered an asset. It’s only out here in the Pacific NW where hippies and cowboys pride themselves for being made of hearty stock and all that people consider crying a weakness.
I never understood that.
Says so right there in the B-I-B-L-E.
Speaking of the Bible, did you catch that article about Creflo Dollar begging his folks to ante up$300 each so he could buy himself a $60 million jet? You would think that last name would put people off, but that’s not the case. Dollar has something like 442,000 followers on Twitter.
People like Creflo just make me want to slap somebody. Anybody. I try not to go out much when I am feeling like that. I fear that when Michael, the barrista at Starbucks greets me in the morning, I might respond by cussing him. On days like that I stay home and read something besides articles about Creflo Dollar.
Usually that means reading about Congress which makes me so mad even I entertain the idea of donning a burka and pretending I am a citizen of the United Arab Emirates. I don’t believe in public shaming as a rule. For Congress, I make an exception. I wish we had public stocks so we could humiliate all of them the way they do us all the time.
I sent Sister Tater a note this past week and told her I was missing the smell of Pine-Sol. Mama used Pine-Sol to clean everything. Floors. Counters. Cupboard doors. Sheets. Windows. Toilets. She may have even shampooed the dog with it. Of course, Mama was a smoker so I think that she thought the Pine-Sol got shed of the tobacco smells, but alls it did was make the house smell like somebody was smoking in a thicket of pine trees.
Other mamas smelled of gardenias and cinnamon. My mama smelled of cigarette smoke, Chanel No. 5 and Pine-Sol.
Sister Tater said she was missing the smell of Pine-Sol, too, but we both knew what the other one meant – we were just missing Mama.
I know you all probably wondering where I up and disappeared to. I can’t bring myself to write much here lately. It’s not cause I don’t have things to say. Obviously. I always have things to say. Just as of late, I’m like who gives a care?
What’s the point in carrying on about all the wrongs going on, or all the rights going on for that matter? The wrongs just make us all feel beat down and all the good stuff, well, that just seems like bragging and that ain’t right.
So believe it or not, I can get real quiet sometimes. I go inside my head and stay there.
Of course, it’s crowded in here. Lots of voices talking to me all the time. Like the one today that was shouting at the goshdern stupid graduate school assignment that kept me shut up in the house writing for three days straight. Typed out 10,000 words in three days. Not about anything that would interest you, that’s the pity of it. But that’s grad school for you. It isn’t designed to be interesting. It’s only designed to be expensive. Like one of those garments you find at those high-end boutiques that cost you ten times what it would if you bought something just like it off the rack at TJ Maxx.
That explains why there’s a University of Phoenix in Nashville, I reckon.
Anyway, like I was saying before, it is Lent. I was raised up Southern Baptist, so I always thought lint was the stuff you had to scoop from the dryer. One of my girls told me recently she didn’t know why I make a big deal out of Lent now given she never heard of it when she was growing up with Sarah Palin for a momma. And by that I only mean that I was conservative and fierce and thought I had a direct line to God like Sarah Palin.
Aren’t you glad you didn’t know me then? And if you did know me back in those days, thanks for loving me through all that. Nothing like getting old to help a person see the error of their ways.
I think that’s because when you get old you spend more time looking back than you do forward, so the mistakes glare in the rear-view mirror like hot sun on a long stretch of lonesome highway. A person can’t help but be blinded by their own foolishness.
And for the record, despite what my daughter suggested, I don’t make a big deal out of Lent. I am amused by all the folks who give up Facebook or chocolate or wine for Lent. I think people ought to give up bitching and complaining for Lent. But I guess that would be too big of a sacrifice, heh?
Instead, they give up all these outwardly things and then spend the entire Lent season bitching about the sacrifices they are making. (Is it okay to cuss and say Lent in the same sentence? I mean for Protestants? Catholics are too good-natured to care).
Oh, yeah, I just remembered. I started out telling you about one of those emails I get. (And no, I have not had one single drop of wine. I am easily distracted, that’s all. You would be, too, if you had spent the past three days writing 10,000 words that nobody is ever going to read, including the professor who assigned the dern thing. Although, to be fair, I might have overdid it a tad. I can be obsessive that way. Overachiever, middle-child that I am.)
So about that email?
Here is is:
OMG!!!! I had the blessed and God-adorned ounprtopity to attend GGG on Friday (7/13). Earlier that wk, I had just uttered (to myself) that I didn’t want to go to any venues where there was loud music or drinking I wanted a nice and calm wknd. My great-niece arrived from Connecticut and one of her friends had backed out and she had a free ticket and if I wanted to attend. I screamed yes and thank you so much for considering me. It was detined for me to be there because Bishop Jakes spoke something to and within me. I’ve been playing tug-of-war of how I will market myself when I retire. I’ve also been sitting on a gift/talent of writing, thinking that it wasn’t good enough and after the show, there were some young ladies who were promoting assistance for those who write and gave me a business card; so that was confirmation again. The entire night was confirmation; so I’m taking the necessary steps to go forward. But I’m also realizing that I can’t get to the promise w/o going through the process and that there will be some rough and difficult times, but God has my back and my front; so I can accomplish it.
I don’t have a clue who the writer is, so if it is you, I’m sorry for outing you. But the other thing I don’t have a clue about is why somebody would send this to me. I think what they are trying to say is that God has given them the gift of writing, and that because he gave them that gift they expect that very soon they, too, will be writing to their audience and asking them to ante up $300 for a $60 million custom jet.
But it makes no sense to me as to why they sent it to me. I can’t hardly get anybody to pay $12 for a book that took me eight years to write. (Of course, the fact that it took me so long to write it might help explain how come people don’t want to pay $12 for it. People don’t care for remedial writers. They want somebody who can crank out a book every three months.)
I didn’t have the heart to write back and tell this poor gal (or maybe it was a guy, though men don’t use exclamation marks nearly as much as women do, have you noticed that?) that writing can be a burdensome gift at times. Like right now. I ought to be sleeping but I got things to say so I’m up writing.
People always talking about how they got confirmation on this thing or that. But if you ask me, the best confirmation a writer can get that they are meant to write is a paycheck. Wonder, is a $60 million jet and two Rolls confirmation that God called Creflo Dollar?
You don’t have to read this if you don’t want to. Grad school has gotten me used to people not reading what I write.
But if you do read this all the way through, thank you. I hope you don’t mind the rambling. Sometimes, I find rambling a lot more helpful than ranting.
It’s like Flannery O’Connor always said, I ramble to know what I am thinking.
Or maybe she didn’t say that quite like that, but she’s dead, so what does it matter?
She’s probably glad she didn’t have to write a blog or live to see the day Creflo Dollar begged his followers for jet money.