As a Southern woman, sometimes I
feel like I was born at the wrong time. When I hear the stories on the news of
horrible acts of violence and senseless sin, it makes me want to cry. I kid you
not; one of the headlines on the news the other day was ‘Norwegian Hunter Misses Moose,
Shoots Man on Toilet’. I didn’t read the story to learn of the fate of the poor
man that got shot, but can you imagine if he died…on the toilet….from being
shot? How are you gonna explain that one to Saint Peter? I can hear Petey getting’ the welcoming
committee ready right now. “Hey, ya’ll ain’t gonna believe how this one got
here! Paw-Paw, we’ll let you in since you lived a good life as a Godly man and
walked the walk during your days on dirt, but we can’t let you through the
pearly gates unless you pull your britches up and tuck your spleen back in.”
Should I ever die in an accident, I hope it’s the kind that makes Saint Pete
ask for a few more details.
With the way the world is now, with
constant fighting, wars, and monstrous acts being shown daily on The View, most
of us have probably wondered if Jesus is strapping on his walking shoes and
getting ready to pick up His kids. Let’s just hope it don’t turn out like the car
rider line at Blondie’s preschool. I can’t prove it because I wasn’t there, but
I recognize it from the footage: it’s
where Dale Earnhardt earned his wings.
These preschool teachers that bring
the kids to their cars are wonderful, and I thank God for them. They are
careful, they make sure the kids don’t run out in traffic, and they help them
get their backpacks and 427 coloring pages in the car. And did I happen to
mention that they’ve saved my butt so many times by labeling my daughter’s
pictures? Nothing puts the fear of God into you like having to pick which
drawing is your portrait: the
blue-haired, club-footed Cyclops on a hot air balloon/unicycle, or the elusive
green-spotted, three nosed, conjoined panda kitten with sparklers sticking out
of her butt?
But in the car rider line, you may
as well be on ‘Survivor: Appalachia.’ I have seen women get out of their cars,
and proclaim that the woman in front of them is involved in the world’s oldest
profession. I have seen demolition derbies break out at the daycare drop-off. I
have had Snooty McSassypants get out of her new Audi SUV, and tell me she was
gonna push me out of the way if I didn’t move. Excuse me, darling, have you
seen my truck? I drive a Navigator, possibly the same model that Moses used to
lead the exodus of the Israelites. Lady, unless you’ve got ten more of those
Audi’s to help you, you’re gonna need to read Psalm 10:6 from the King James
Version, “…I shall not be moved…I will have no trouble.”
Big Bessie, as I call her, is an
awesome truck. She’s got about 730,000 miles on her, give or take a few, but
she is a lady. I know girls that had weddings in the First Baptist Church that
had more miles than that on them, and they had the nerve to wear white. Bessie,
bless her heart, ain’t worn white in a minute, but she’s loyal, and I love her.
We bondo-ed, I mean bonded, instantly when we brought her home from that guy
that lost his license on that third dewey. Bessie is a woman, though, so she
can be a little temperamental. Though her tramp stamp is a Lincoln emblem, she
still gets so insecure sometimes. Some days, she’s remorseful about her colored
past, so she won’t let me see how many miles she has on her. On other days, she
feels unattractive so she won’t let me turn the lights on. But it’s okay
because all ladies have days like that, where we just want to go sit in the
carwash with all that pretty, rainbow-colored foam and have a big, strong,
straight-out-of-the-factory operator take care of business. Ladies, just
remember: we are all beautiful in the
eyes of God…even if we’ve got black stains on our grill and a big ‘ole back
bumper.
Sometimes I feel like I am Bessie
when she’s in the car rider line. I look around and feel like I’m surrounded by
younger, more compact models with their Organic Orange Blossom fragrances and
fuel-efficient tanks. But Bessie and I are Southern ladies, and we don’t
operate that way. We smell more like our favorite men, Jimmy Dean and Maxwell
House, and we tend to fill up our tanks with biscuits and gravy.
If I do say so myself, Bessie is a
lot more transparent with her mood swings than I am. When Bessie has a bad day,
she smokes like a freight train and coughs and sputters like she’s just
finished off a case of Marlboro Reds. She may start off the day with a full
tank, but by the time we’ve taken three kids to school, made another trip to
deliver their chocolate milk-covered homework to the school secretary, gotten
groceries, picked the kids up from school, and gotten back home again, our
tanks are slap empty, and it’s gonna take more than a little bit of corn gas to
keep us going. Sometimes, Unleaded just ain’t enough.
That feeling of being exhausted and
emotionally bankrupt at the end of the day is for the birds. There are days
when bedtime can’t come fast enough, and even if we were to sleep through the
entire box set of ‘Lonesome Dove’, we’d still be worn out. We have to get up in the morning and take
care of business. Well, you don’t actually have to, but in light of how today
turned out, I strongly suggest it.
“Um, yes, Mrs. Cox, this is Delores
down at the preschool. I saw your husband drop Blondie off this morning, and I
wanted to make sure everything was alright.” So, let me get this straight. This
poor woman that listens to 150 screaming kids all day is worried about my mental state? It must be worse than I thought. I assure her
I’m fine, but she keep pressing on.
“Well, Mrs. Cox, we were just a
little concerned about her wardrobe choice this morning, and I’m thinking you might not have seen her before she came
to school today.” Oh, God, please tell me she didn’t dress herself. Last time
she picked out her own clothes, I had voice-mails from Maury Povich, Jerry Springer
and Ricki Lake before my coffee got cold. From the sound of Delores’s voice,
I’m gonna need to turn my ringer off when we get off the phone. Apparently, my precious angel had
gone to preschool donning a pair of leopard-print tights; no britches; her
older brother’s ‘Pull My Finger’ t-shirt; a unicorn ponytail; pink, Cinderella
snow boots; enough make-up to make a fallen woman blush; a United States
military-issued gas mask; and, naturally, a milk mustache.
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