So Many Things. So Very Many Things.

I always say, "I have nothing to write about on my blog anymore, Attorney General. You are providing me with no real life-experiences. Take me on a vacation. Take me out on date. Just drive me around the neighborhood!" And then he reminds me, "Did I take you to Dairy Queen last night?"

And I am reminded, once again, of his never-ending and abounding love for me.

And I thank God for him.

And then I roll my eyes at the atrocious lack of real-life experiences I am being given on a daily basis. (Though, for the record: I am taking my mother to see her doctor in Houston on Wednesday. So stay tuned. Surely to heaven something wonderful will come out of that little excursion.)

So, in a fashion that isn't fit for print, here are a couple of things I'd like to say before I close down my blog for another 14 days. Oh hush...I'm kidding.

~~~

My family has often joked about the fact that I tend to have some difficulty in "following along." I don't ever understand rules to games. I have yet to understand one single thing Jason Bourne is doing or saving or killing or shooting at. And I usually sit straight up in bed 20 minutes after Law & Order is over and shout, "I knew she did it! I knew she did." Even though I had watched her be convicted some 30 minutes earlier.

So, what I'm saying is....it takes me a bit.

Take this weekend for instance. We saw Cars 2. For all of those out there who care, I don't like Cars. Not a big fan. Love Toy Story. Adored Nemo. But Cars? Aah. So imagine my delight when the AG took us all to see Cars 2 this weekend. Which I was fine with. There was popcorn. It was air-conditioned. And we enjoyed ourselves. But I will leave you with this: If you have to look at your husband 1 hour and 14 minutes in to a Pixar movie and ask, "I don't understand what is going on. I don't even know who the bad cars are. And I hate anything even remotely having to do with James Bond."

Did you know that James Bond has absolutely nothing to do with Cars 2? Well, he doesn't - even though people are talking in a British accent and driving cars that have guns on the side of them. So even at this moment, I'm totally confused.

~~~

How is y'alls summer going? Mine is okay. We swim alot.

Remi is a great swimmer. Really great. She can dive and hold her breath for a long time and float and do the backstroke and she's really really good. Honest!

Rocco is 100% completely mesmerized by "oobies."

This presents a problem.

We may have to stop swimming for a while.

~~~

I heard a story the other day that has stuck with me.

My Pastor went and preached a wedding in a trailer house to a couple who had just gotten saved. They had been living together and once they gave their hearts to the Lord they wanted nothing more than to do right by Him, so they got married. When the wedding was over they gave him the only "payment" they had.

A bag of cucumbers and tomatoes.

I miss the simplicity of giving sometime. The excitement of taking what I have - as little or as much as it is - and giving it. To God. To others. To my family. To my friends. To those who need it.

I over think it. I balance it in my checkbook. I consider it when payday comes. I add it up in my head and deduct it from my monthly. I set aside time to figure out when I can set aside time. I make a plan to make a plan to make a plan to give. Of myself. Or my time. Or my talents.

And I forget that sometimes cucumbers and tomatoes in a brown paper bag are plenty. When given with a level of obedience and excitement.

It's that simple.

~~~

And lastly, on a completely unrelated note: George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend.

I found out this news on Thursday at Chili's as I was eating lunch with some friends. And for one pretty long moment I felt this level of excitement. The kind of excitement you feel when they guy you wanted to ask you to prom asked the girl with swan-like neck instead but then you found out she had a 4-wheeler accident and was going to be in a wheelchair during prom. (TRUE STORY!) And so you get all overcome and excited again because - there's still a chance!!! And that is honestly how I felt before I remembered that I was
a.) married
b.) the mother of two small children
c.) eating at Chili's

Chances are he's not a fan of any of the three.

But my friend brought me back to life when she said the article she read said that if you want to get lucky with Clooney you need to make sure you're a "little-known brunette." That is his apparent taste. So I suppose I will continue to stay married, parent my children and dip my chips in Ranch dressing because I'm a "well-known blond" and I don't see that changing any time soon.

G'day, my lovelies.

Somethin' Bad's Goin' Down At The Maxx.

We have a joke in my family. And by "family" I mean, me and the Attorney General. And by "joke" I mean, he laughs - I do not.

Here's the joke: Give Melissa five minutes in a Lifeway Christian Bookstore or a Marshalls and she'll be in the bathroom before you can go "Look! This shirt was originally $40!"

There's just something about those places that have an effect on me.
A big effect.
A big, bad effect.

Yesterday we didn't so much go to a Marshall's as we did a TJ Maxx. Have you ever been to those two stores? They are exactly the same. Marshall's is like the older, classier sister and TJ Maxx is like the younger, slightly prettier but not quite as demure, young sister. And Ross is like their white trash cousin that their momma made them put in their wedding.

Now that we understand each other...

Yesterday the AG dropped me off at TJ Maxx while he went to park. I walked in. I grabbed a buggy. I walked to the sunglasses. And within 3 minutes I was sprinting - SPRINTING, I TELL YOU - to the restrooms. There was not one single modicum of class or self-respect in that sprint. It's a full out, supporting my body weight on the buggy, sweat beads forming, kind of run. At one point I touched an Asian woman on the shoulder and said "Bathroom! Where is the bathroom?" To which she replied, "I no work here."

Ugh.

Finally, I found them. By the men's section - because nothing says "Hey bro, look at that sexy thing over there pushing her cart with her boobs and wiping her sweat from her upper lip at the same time" - like a woman in an IBS emergency.

I made it to the restrooms without a moment to spare. And thankfully, there was one lady in there who was finishing up washing her hands and drying them. "Oh good, she can't be in here long," I thought. Wrong!

For the sweet love of bread, what is taking this woman so long? I wonder what there is left to do? Her hands are clean, they were dry. Her hair was a 1/2 hour and a good hairbrush away from being reparable. So what is this woman doing?

I sit in the stall. Quietly. I wait.

But I got no more time. Time is not always our friend. Sometimes it marches on. Sometimes it stampedes. This was more of a stampeded than a march. So I did the only thing I could think to do, besides, I didn't know her and as I always tell myself, "Melissa, you'll never see that person again for the rest of your life." So I mustered up the courage and with sweat pouring down my face I bellered, "LEAVE!"

And she left.

And then...a bunch of stuff happened and none of it was pretty and none of it should be repeated for fear that it might land me in some IBS experimental testing - for it was not normal and almost otherworldly.

And I'm not being dramatic.

And now I'm going to "cut to the chase" as the folks say and jump past the part where I pulled myself together and wiped my brow and made my way out of the bathroom. And I'm going to skip over the part where I found the AG shopping without a care in the world. And I'm going to forgo telling you how it hit me - again! - within minutes and how the last words I heard the AG saying as I fled down the Men's Active aisle was, "Will this shrink if you dry it?"

And I'm going to go right to the part where this time when I entered the bathroom there was another lady in there. But she was in the stall. And apparently - apparently - something bad was goin' down with her too. Poor lady. You know she wanted to tell me to "LEAVE" but she was wise enough to know she might bump into me again in the housewares aisle.

So there we were.
Just the two of us.
In a two stall bathroom.

Her with her black patton pumps and navy slacks and me with my Irritable Bowel syndrome and my need for complete privacy.

The silence between us would have been deafening had it not been for the fact that nothing, and I do mean n-o-t-h-i-n-g, about her restroom experience was silent. She was apparently from the old school of thought that says, "If you feel it - then feel it. All of it. Deeply. Loudly. Let it out. It's good for the soul." Because she did. And I wondered if I was being punked. Might this be Eddie Murphy sitting next to me making some of his inane bodily sounds? Had I walked in on Tyler Perry doing something as Madea?

But I hadn't. I knew I hadn't. She was as real as I was. And truth be told, she didn't want to be in the stall next to me any more than I wanted to be in the one beside her. But we were two strangers......in a terrible bind. Two strangers.....one with a penchant for poor retail bowel performance and one who had apparently overeaten Chinese that day. But we were there nonetheless. And had the moment not been one of the most awkward of my entire life I would deem it silly. But it wasn't silly, it was real. She was real. She was really hurting. And so was I. And she was, in a manner of speaking, screaming out for help. And so was I. Only I wasn't. I was mortified. I was also quiet. She wasn't; for pete's sake, at one point I thought there were two of her in there. Are you getting the picture here?

A few minutes later I left that bathroom.

I walked out.
I leaned against my buggy.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and took a few slow, deep breaths.
I gained my composure and began looking for the AG who was no doubt looking at more golf shirts, and I saw a young mother with her sweet little 2 year old headed into that bathroom and felt the overwhelming urge to warn her......"LEAVE!" But why take away a story from her? Who's to say she's not at her house right this very minute writing a blog, too?

And who's to say next time it won't be about me? The poor woman in the stall next door. Though if I'm wearing black patton pumps and navy slacks I may be deserving of all that's coming at me.

The End.