I had some suburban time to kill before a meeting last night, so I headed over to my folks’ place for some free wine and fancy cheese. My mother and I chatted in the kitchen and discussed my blog.
“You know, Bethy, I like it when you write about little things that happen to all of us, but turn it into some wacky story. And I was saying to Daddy and Alex last night that it makes me look at all these little things happen to me differently.”
Get a load of this:
My mother goes to the gym every Sunday after mass. The gym in inside the very big, very cutsey Community Center, where they have geriatric tai chi, yoga for 2 year olds, paraplegic pilates, etc. Every Sunday, my mother, whose celebrity equivalent it pretty much Annette Benning in American Beauty but less psychotic, walks past Praise Jesus Ministries, which are services taking place in one of the community rooms. And every Sunday, the Reverend, who my father describes as “George Foreman-esque”, enthusiastically waves at my mom. Needless to say, my mother enthusiastically waves back.
This Sunday however, the Reverend was outside chatting with a member of his congregation and waved my mother over to him.
“There she is, that marvelous, beautiful smile I see every Sunday!” He grabs my mother’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “You need to come on down to our services.”
“Well, I would,” responded my mother, “but we attend Mass at Mt. Carmel on Sunday mornings.”
“I see!” He bellowed. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Brother Thomas and this is Sister Yolanda.”
“Well it’s very lovely to meet you.”
Brother Thomas then grabs her shoulder with one arm, throws his other arm around Yolanda, looks to the heavens and yells, “Dear Lord! Thank you for Sister Joanne and Sister Yolanda and this beautiful day you’ve given us, here today! In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
Go ahead, Sister Joanne…