If At First You Don't Succeed, Fry, Fry Again.

What can I say to all of you? How do I say thanks? All I can say is you all are fried and true friends, that's for sure.

When it comes to recipes thank you all so much for your frydance. I mean, guidance.

By the way, I have a million more of those if y'all are interested. Just email me.

Let's see, so far I have...

Baked Red Potato Casserole
Cheater S'mores
Warm Nutty Caramel Brownies
Jalapeno Cream Cheese Corn
White Castlerole
Apple Pie with Crumb Topping
Mashed Taters
Macaroni and Cheese
Thanksgiving Cheesy Potatoes
Paula Deen's Gooey Pumpkin Cake
Fried Okra Salad
Sweet Potato Casserole
Corn Casserole

So needless to say, our table will be laced with some kind of corn and some kind of potato. I think that's a given.

So Meridith and I will be looking these beauties over and deciding on what we'll be serving for our Country Fried Thanksgiving, and as soon as we decide we will serve it to our families, render a verdict and send you a prize.

Yeah, that's right, I said a "prize." Which is what we say to Remi when we don't have the money for a "toy," she hasn't been a good enough for a "gift" and we are walking out of the Mexican restaurant and she wants to play that little game with the mechanical claw; that, my friends, is a "prize."

What I'm saying is, don't expect much.

We'll be broke after buying that 43 lb. bottle of vegetable oil.

But it's not too late to get in on that mechanical claw prize action!! So please, send on. Don't be diswayed (is that a word?) by all of the recipes we've received so far. Trust me, we got so excited just looking at all of them. We can't wait to decide which one or two or eight to make...so get busy and send us your faves.

By the way, just for the record, I would like some feedback on Meridith and I's latest squabble.

She says that Macaroni and Cheese would be kicked up a notch if we were to sprinkle those little fried crunchies from Long John Silver's / Captain D's all over the top.

I say that sounds mooey disgusto.

Whereas she says my addiction with trying to add Dr. Pepper to every thing - and I do mean everything, i.e. boxed caked mixes, chili, roast - is annoying and terrifying all at once.

Who's right?

On another note, tonight is Bunco - and that makes me happy. Mainly because I finally found a group of women who play for the real thing. Money. Which makes me feel very dangerous. Because nothing says danger like rolling dice, while eating Chex Mix and listening to Air Supply.

Let's all say this together, shall we?

Melissa, Get. A. Life.

And stay tuned tomorrow when I tell you the story of seeing my mom in Houston. Her and my dad decided to stay an extra night in the hotel after the AG and I flew home, and as they were driving the AG and I back to the airport she said the first thing her and dad were gonna do was "go back to that hotel room and get in bed."

I kid you not.

I don't think she meant it like it sounded, but no one can be sure.

And if I end up with a little brother or sister at this stage in the game, I am gonna be sooooo mad!

Making It Official.

Hey, guess where I am?

The great state.

What? You still don't know? I said the "great state." That should be a dead give-away.

TEXAS!

I'm in Texas! And do you know why?

Because today, right now in fact, as you are reading this blog, I am sitting in a courtroom waiting for a Texas judge to announce that the adoption proceedings for "one Rocklin Cooper Radke are official and finalized according to the state of Texas and the court of law. God bless us, God bless us all. So say I. And yada yada yada."

I can't be sure it will be said exactly like that, but that's how it plays out in my mind.

And then he will ask us how we feel about raising Rocco. And then he will ask to see him. But unfortunately Rocco will not be there because traveling with him means traveling with Remi and traveling with Remi means traveling with a band of wild, drunken gypsies.

So I will say, "Oh, your honor - we couldn't bring him, because his sister is really bad. So he stayed home with his Grandma and Bonga but we did bring some pictures."

And then he'll say, "Well, I'd love to see one."

And then I'll say, "One? That's rude. Cause I have 18."

And then he'll say, "Well, I don't know that I can spend time looking..."

And then I'll interrupt and say, "So here we are at the grocery store. And here we are at the Fall Festival and here we are..."

And then the judge will hit his little stick thingy on his desk and then it will be over. And Rocco will be mine - all mine - in the court of law. Which to be perfectly honest, and I mean no disrespect, is a perfectly wonderful thing but changes nothing in my heart.

The boy's been mine.

And then I will look in the back of the courtroom and see Nonie and Poppy (because they will be there with us - which is rather amazing considering they came out to be with US, just US, even though they knew their grandchildren weren't going to be coming. Don't you just marvel at the fact that miracles still happen?) And I will look back and see Nonie crying and Poppy
beaming with pride.

And then the AG and I will let them take us out for a good Texas steak. Because it would do their hearts good to treat us like that. And I just want to please.

And then we will get on a plane and come right back home because I will need to squeeze Rocco extra hard and remind him that he and I don't need a silly judge to tell us that we were always meant to be.

And then he will smile that little crooked smile at me like he does whenever I say, "Rocco, it's your mama," because he thinks it's silly I still tell him that when he so obviously knows.

And then we will fall asleep.

Together.

Have a good weekend, my lovelies. So say I. And yada yada yada.

A Country Fried Conundrum

So Meridith and I are hosting Thanksgiving this year at my house.

I say “hosting” as if there are 25 people coming who we are really trying to impress with our pomegranate tea and homemade pine cone centerpieces.

I say “hosting” as if I know what in the heck I’m actually doing and I do it well and I do it all while wearing a dress and heals and listening to Enya in the background.

I say “hosting” as if I have ever listened to one word Martha Stewart has ever spoken. I have not.


No, when I say “hosting” what I’m really saying is this…Meridith and I are fixing the meal for Thanksgiving for our parents and we’ve decided that both of our dad’s better update their wills because we don’t plan on fixing anything that won’t stop a heart dead in its tracks.


See? That’s what I mean by “hosting.”


Yes, gone are the days of turkey and dressing, ham and sweet potatoes. What is this, an episode of “Little House?” Seriously, folks. Meridith and I are today’s modern woman. We don’t cook anything we don’t fry and we don’t serve anything that doesn’t come with add-in ideas on the back of the box. And ooohhhhh, it’s gonna be good – ya wanna know what we’re calling it?


A Country Fried Thanksgiving.


Doesn’t that just make you wanna come over and eat with us? You know it does.


It was really tricky how we decided the menu. Let me explain, it went like this, we went around the table and asked the AG and Brandon (Meridith’s brother, therefore, my cousin) and Remi what sounded good. What was it they just had to have on their Thanksgiving table? And then, if we liked said food we added it to the list – whether it even went together or not. But if we didn’t like what they suggested we just rolled our eyes and skipped right over them.

So for instance, when Brandon said he wanted homemade mashed potatoes and gravy we added it to the list.


When the AG said he wanted green bean casserole, we rolled our eyes and said “why do we even continue to address you?”


When Remi said she wanted Chex Mix – Chex Mix was added to the list.


See how that works?


Brandon wants corn casserole? Sounds good to us.


The AG again asked for something green. We ask him to leave the table and go choke on something fattening.

Remi wants Skittles? Skittles it is.

It’s an easy process. Unless you’re the AG.


So it’s a Country Fried Thanksgiving, complete with chicken fried steak and fried chicken tenders. See how the words “fried” and “chicken” were in both of those items? HEAVEN!

See how the words “steamed,” “grilled,” “sauteed” or “Splenda” was not used? GENIUS!

But I'll be honest, with the exception of the two types of meat (chicken fried steak and chicken tenders) we got nothin'. And this is where you come in. We need your country fried recipes. Your best ones. Your most delicious. Your most deadly.


Just go over there to that Email Me button and click on it, then send me your Granny Helen's favorite side dish or appetizer recipe. (Meridith asks that you make sure it includes butter, sour cream and/or bacon. We're religious. So it's important we eat healthy.)

Nah, it doesn't matter what it has in it - just send it on. If we choose your recipe to serve on our Thanksgiving day then we will take a picture of it, we will get first taste responses from our families (that should be good for a few laughs) and you'll get something for your trouble.


Want to know what you get? ME TOO! I have no idea at the present, but it'll be grand. You can count on it.

So send 'em on, my lovelies. And remember, it needs to be country, and sinful, and rich and fattening and utterly delicious. It can be any color and any consistency. But the calorie count has to be pretty hefty, I'm not gonna lie. Or it's a waste of our time, okay?

Don't waste our time on Thanksgiving, that's just mean.

Yeah! This will be fun!

Even a Canker Sore Needs A Little TLC. And So Do I.

Okay, so no one liked yesterday’s post on Bond. I came to this assumption by the fact that I had three comments, as opposed to my usual five. So you didn’t think it was funny…that’s okay. I don’t need y’all to like every post I write. I know who I am in Christ.

I would now like to go on record as saying although I do, in fact, know who I am in Christ, I would prefer that y’all like every post I write. It just doesn’t hurt as bad, ya know?

So I’m riding in the car with the AG yesterday and I say, “I don’t think anyone liked my post on Bond. You didn’t even mention it.”

“What was I supposed to say about it?”

“You didn’t think it was funny?”

“It was fun.”

“Cause I thought it was funny. Real funny.”

“Really? Maybe I read it wrong. Tell me what was funny.”

“Hello! All those laser beams I talked about and then showing that picture of Roger Moore as a wrinkled old man.”

“Like I said, it was fun.”

Fun? Can you believe that? Fun? Who wants to be fun? I once had a canker sore, now that was fun. But you ain’t never seen no canker sore be funny, have you? I think not.

So the Attorney General’s complete demise of my self-esteem and overall worth as a human being really got me to thinking last night when I was in the shower. (And just so you know, I do some pretty heady thinking in the shower, now granted it’s usually deep thoughts like, ‘what kind of shampoo will I buy once I’ve used all of this stuff up?’ And then there’s the 15 minute ‘do I shave / do I not shave’ debate.)

So like I was saying, I got to thinking…

And here’s the deal. At some point in every mother’s life she is inevidably going to go through a season of feeling unappreciated. It’s nothing serious fellas, no need to go buy ten books on How To Keep Your Love Alive, just give her a little love. Am I right, ladies?

Just tell her “thanks,” every now and then.

Tell her you like her hair.

Tell her the jeans she has on, well, she’s swimming in them.

That’s all I’m askin’. I’m not askin’ for the moon here, folks. I’m just sayin’…

You don’t have to tell me my food was wonderful. Just tell me, “ya know, that meatloaf you made me, I actually kept it down. Not once did I even throw up.” See? That’s sweet right there, I don't care who you are.

You don’t have to tell me I look thin, just tell me how proud you are that I haven’t put on any more weight since the spring or “remember the summer of ’04? At least you’re not back to that size.” Don’t tell me that don’t feel nice, cause it does.

You don’t have to tell me my hair looks great, you just might want look over lovingly at me on the way to church, run your fingers through my hair and say, “I am so glad that when I run my fingers trhough your hair it doesn’t fall out in clumps.” Precious.

You don’t even have to comment on how clean the house is, just make sure and point out that as long as TLC hasn’t contacted me to be on the How Clean Is Your House show that you’re proud of me and you appreciate it. That’s love.

That’s all I’m askin’ for. Like I said, it ain’t the moon. Just show mama some love.

Oh, and this post? It had better be FUNNY.

"Bond" is also a Dental Adhesive. Which may come in handy just any day now.

Doesn't today just feel like a 007 kind of day? It does around our house.

I mean, if you know me at all then you know I have been counting down the days until Quantum of Solace.

I mean, who doesn't believe:

Microscopic radio phones that burst into flames and shoot poison darts into people.

Or a lipstick tube that begins to talk and and walk and breathe radioactive energy and death rays.

Or when a Ford Taurus becomes an Aston Martin convertible and converts gas into a deadly fuel that makes ugly girls become beautiful bikini clad CIA agents.

Nobody can make that kind of stuff up - know what I'm sayin'?

I mean, that kind of stuff? Right up my alley.

NOT.

The Attorney General, however? He's alllllllll over it.

He seems to find the whole genre completely believable and not at all predictable. (But then again he is a firm believer that our nation would not be in the shape it's in today if there really were...a Jack Bauer. Lordy, don't get him started.)

But I have to tell ya, if my opposing enemy were named Hugo Drax, Goldfinger or Dr. No (all real Bond villains, mind you) and if there primary purpose in life was to finance Soviet Operations in the Caribbean, rob Fort Knox or escape bankruptcy by playing a game of baccarat (all real objectives, mind you) then I'm not entirely certain this is the man I would put up for the job.

Happy Birthday, Rebekah.

I can think of several different things to write about today. Really, I can.

I was going to tell you how the Tennessee Titans are 9-0 and my husband has just about decided to put our house up for sell and move into the club seats at LP Field.

I was going to tell you how we all curled up on the couch this weekend and watched 88 Minutes with Al Pacino. And how the Academy of Arts and Sciences would probably like to write me a letter and ask me to refrain from watching their awards program ever again due to the fact that I find Al Pacino to be one of the worst actors I have ever seen.

Or I was going to tell you how my mom called me on Friday morning and the first thing she said was, "Hey baby, are you busy? Can you talk?" To which I said, "Well, no, it's not really a good time. I am running into the pediatricians' office. It's freezing and raining outside, Remi's crying and I'm trying to feed Rocco." To which she replied, "Okay good. Listen, I was wondering...do you think you can make me a hair appointment when I come in for Thanksgiving." I love that woman.

But I'm going to be honest. My fingers will not allow me to type anything but this...

Please go here and read my friend Teresa's blog.

Do it for me, because I love her.

And because she's worth it.

And because even if she's not, Rebekah most certainly is.

And then leave her a comment and let her know you came by; a "Happy Birthday, Rebekah" will more than suffice.

Teresa and I have similar foxholes. And I am proud to call her another Soldier In Arms.
So scoot over, Teresa, you are not alone.

Saturday Night. My Place. 9 O'Clock.

Dear Attorney General,

Thank you.

That's all I wanted to say, really.

Thank you.

Thank you that yesterday when I was feeling overwhelmed and under-appreciated you slipped a few bucks in my hand and told me to hit the road.

Thank you for suggesting I go see a movie. ALL BY MYSELF!!!!

Thank you for suggesting I get some popcorn and Peanut M&M's and eat them for my lunch.

Thank you for giving me enough money to wash them down with a large Dr. Pepper.

Thank you for making sure my kids were fed, dry and loved on while momma was away.

Thank you for running to the grocery store for me, so that when my movie was over I had nothing to do. Nothing. Just drive and listen to music.

Thank you for saying that chicken and dumplings were okay for dinner. Again. Because you know that they are one of my all-time favorites. And last night I needed a little "comfort food."

Thank you for letting me go to bed early and offering to stay up and feed one little Rocco; since you know tomorrow is "our-2-babies-get-their-shots" day and that is never a good day for a momma.

Thank you for being my very best friend.

I plan on making it up to you this weekend, my love.
Oh yeah....I said that!

Melissa

As Everyone Sleeps...

There's something to be said for writing your post at 11:43 PM. When your house is all quiet and dark and you can hear the deep heavy breathing of a little girl after a very full day.

Or the congested cough of one Attorney General who is fighting something off.

The baby snore of an eight week old, intermingled with coo's and toots.

And the deep snore of your dad, who came to visit. And his mere presence makes your house feel fuller, safer. Just like when you were 10.

Yes, there's something to be said for moments like these.

As I look around my living room tonight it gives off that "lived in" look that all Southern women seem to be raving about this season. Oh yes, you can have it too! Just take one plastic Halloween pumpkin, fill it to the brim with animal figurines and then dump them on your floor. Throw in an infant swing piled high with paci's and burp cloths, a shiny sequined dance skirt that (surprisingly) does not belong to me and empty ice cream bowls. Space them intermittently throughout the room and then plop yourself on the couch.

There you have it! This season's "lived in" look. It should be out in this month's Southern Living. Or maybe it's Trailer Park living, either way - it's gonna be first rate.

But that's not actually the reason for my post tonight. My comments tonight are more from what I HEAR in the dark than what SEE in it.

Ya know, tonight, I am not sad. I'm not mad. Or discouraged. I'm not fearful or angry. So the guy I voted for didn't win. So what! It's over now. Time to move on. Do I wish he had? Sure. I voted for him, didn't I? Am I angry he didn't? No. He had a 50/50 shot. I knew what the odds were.

What I feel tonight is the motivation to pray.

But before you roll your eyes and move on to somewhere else on the Internet - let me explain. It seems that too many of us "Christians" have tarnished the very phrase "to pray."

"Well, we're just gonna have to pray for our nation, it's going to hell in a hand basket."
"At this point all we can do is pray."
"I'm just gonna dig a hole in my backyard, move my family into it and pray."
"Pray for me, I'm moving to Canada."

Has that been you? It's been me, I must admit. How condescending that is to those who we feel might need the prayer. Are we really going to make a difference in the life of anyone by telling them that we'll pray for them, out of disgust? Has that ever really worked?

I've tried it. It hasn't.

So tonight when I say I'm motivated to pray. It isn't out of disgust or condescension. It isn't out of hate or fear or ingnorance. It's out of obedience.

There's a rule in my house. It's a relatively new rule. In fact, we put it into place on Election Night around 11:15 PM. It's called the...

"This is our President. We will respect the office and position that he holds. We will pray for the office and speak life over the office. It is the system that God intended for our nation and we will pray over that system no differently than we would pray had McCain won, Palin won or Elmo won. The office is to be respected" Rule.

It's a long title but the kids are really taking to it.

My friend reminded me of this scripture today that I hadn't read in some time. In the Message Bible it reads,

"The first thing I want you to do is pray. Pray every way you know how, for everyone you know. Pray especially for rulers and their governments to rule well so we can be quietly about our business of living simply, in humble contemplation. This is the way our Savior God wants us to live." (1 Timothy 1-3)

And there you have it. Our new rule.

It will be hard. There will be things I will disagree with, many things. I disagree with many things in our current government, but I try my dead level best (and fail miserably at times) to honor the position the President holds. Even when I want to hold him down and wring his cute Texas neck. And I'll do the same now. You have my word.

It was a historic night, wasn't it? Election night? An African-American man was put into our nations highest position and I got to see it in my lifetime. And I, for one, was glad I got to witness that. What happens now is up to God. It always has been.

The only thing that matters now are my prayers. And he most certainly has them. I am honored to give them. As good and lengthy as they are. And sometimes as short and shallow as they are. But what I have, give I thee.

I encourage you tonight to make our new house rule - your new house rule. I'm not asking you to hang up Joe Biden's picture or send a Christmas card to the White House. I'm just asking you to obey God's words...not mine.

I just heard my dad get up out of his bed and get his nightly glass of milk. And my eyes feel heavy now as I know it's getting late and my house is cozy and my family is safe and tucked in tight. And I appreciate the fact that just outside sit two fat dogs protecting my house and our precious neighbors who watch over my house just like it was their own.

And I am thankful for my life here. In this country. In this land. And I am thankful to God for it.

May He find me faithful in it, as well.

Somethin' Bad's Goin' Down At Marshall's.

I know we have a new President. I know it's a new day in America. But in some parts of the world, some things never change.

So while Oprah and Barbara Streisand were toasting each other, something bad was happening in Tennessee. And it was happening to me...OF COURSE!

Now I don't tell you this to gain your pity. I don't need your pity. (I'd love to have it, if you happen to be offering it up, but I wouldn't say I NEED it.) I'm telling you this because it's important. It's important that you know this story, just in case you ever happen to be in Marshall's. With me. At the same time.

Run.

Don't say you weren't warned.

I don't think it's news to anyone who reads my blog that something happens to me from time to time, something, oh, how do you say this, "digestional." Is that a word? No? "Digestational?" How about that? Still no? Well, no matter. It is now.

Maybe you're new here. If so, "welcome," and also read these. That way you won't feel behind on all of this I'm sharing with you. Otherwise you might think to yourself, is she really sharing this story? Is she really sharing with us what happened to her in the bathroom? How horrific, how crude, does she do that often? And you need to know - YES. I do this. Often.

Riddle me this. Does this happen to any of you? Do any of you have a particular place that the moment you walk in to it you run screaming for the bathroom? You can't even look at the first item or greet the first person before you clutch your purse, grab your child's hand, and pray to the sweet Lord you make it on time?

Anyone?
Anyone?

Well, I do. And yet I continue to shop at Marshall's. And I continue to peruse at LifeWay Christian Bookstore. What is wrong with me? I have frequented these bathrooms so much that I actually notice when they add a plant, or change the air freshener to a different scent. I am on a first name basis with their choice brand of toilet paper and I often bump into Marci who cleans the Marshall's bathroom every 2 hours. I've seen pictures of her kids and know she's looking into having lower back surgery or continuing on with acupuncture - she's not sure which.

It's an embarrassing situation. But at least I can still make friends.

And yet all that came to a screeching halt the other day when my time on the handbag aisle came to an abrupt stop. And I mean, abrupt. It was so abrupt that I dropped the bag I was holding, grabbed Remi's hand and started yelling, "Find your daddy, find your daddy, find your daddy, find your daddy."

Thankfully we did find him. And as quickly as I could I shoved her in his arms. He asked me if I needed him to take Rocco, but Rocco was in the buggy and the buggy was holding me up. So I couldn't part with the buggy. Thus, I couldn't part with Rocco. He was simply collateral damage at that point. So even though the AG was nice enough to offer his services, all I could answer was "I got no time. I got no time. I got no time."

_______

And herein lies the part of the story where I talk openly with God.

"Dear Lord, please, I beg of you. Do not let Marci be in this bathroom. If it means that she is down in her back and can't even get up to care for her three children - then that's the way it has to be. Knock her out! Just whatever you do, do not let her be in this bathroom. It would be better for her, I assure you. Please God, please."

"Oh, hello, Marci."

___________

And now begins the part of the story where I wheel a buggy full of goods (plus one Rocco) into a bathroom that clearly states "all items should remain outside." Upon which a store manager follows me into the bathroom to tell me that...

"...taking items into the bathroom is not allowed, not because we think you are going to steal anything you understand, but just because you can't trust everyone, ya know? I mean, even my cousin Skid once tried to shoplift a wrench from Home Depot but he was caught and charged even though he was just a kid, ya know? And that's why we try and provide a way for people to not even look guilty, ya know? We ask that you keep your items outside just to avoid the very appearance of guilt, ya know?"

Oh my Lord. Just take the buggy. Take the baby. Take it all. Take my purse. Just get the heck out of here!

_______

Here begins the part of the story where Miss Store Manager takes my buggy and pushes it out into the hallway, leaves my baby pushed halfway under the stall, halfway out, and leaves.

And a mother comes in with her son. Her son is dressed for Halloween as some kind of military man, although dressing as Damien from the movie The Omen might have been a more fitting choice.

_______

Here begins the part of the story where Damien proceeds to look at me from between the stall door and the stall wall, while his mom uses the restroom two stalls down all while talking to her husband on the phone.

"Go away."

He continues to stare.

"Go away," I say to him.

Still. He watches.

"I'm very sick. And you might get sick, too. So move - you're gonna step on my baby."

"No, I'm not."

"So you can hear me? Well move or I'm gonna tell your momma."

Now he sticks his tongue between the door and the wall. I reach to grab it. I miss.

"Go on!" I say louder and louder hoping to goodness that Damien's mom will hear me and quit begging her husband to meet them for lunch. If my small chance meeting with Damien is any indication I KNOW why her husband doesn't want to meet her for lunch.

He walks away and decides to play with the water faucets. Beautiful.

_______

Now begins the part of the story where Damien sets out to humiliate me with great success. And God proceeds to punish me for watching Soul Train and copying their moves in my room when no one was looking.

"Mama, it stinks in here."

"What if we ate at Macaroni Grill? Doesn't pasta sound good?" She asks her husband for the umpteenth time.

"Mama! That lady in there is sick!"

"Do you think J's would be too busy? What about pizza?"

"Mama!!"

"Well, what do you want to eat?"

"Mama!! Mama!! She is sick. You need to help her...It smells like doodie."

Oh, seriously. This is not happening. I am better than this. I serve you faithfully, Lord. Why is this happening?

_______

And here begins - and ENDS - the part of the story where Remi Hope gets loose from her father, comes running into the bathroom and makes a friend with Damien, Satan's son. His military costume did nothing but intrigue her. I can hear her daddy in the hall, "Remi, get out here. Mommy doesn't feel good. Get out here. Remi, I'm not gonna tell you again. Get out here. Don't make me get out the spanking spoon."

But it doesn't work. Pleading only makes them more determined.

He finds Remi interesting as well, and quickly shows her how to stick her tongue between the stall door and embarrass her mother to no end.

It's the American way, I suppose.

And on that note I heard, "Well then, we can just grab a burger. Let's just grab a burger. He'll eat a burger and I'll eat a burger. Will you eat a burger?"

For the love of God man - go get a burger with your wife and Damien.

As for me, I'm headed to LifeWay.

Family First.

I'm not so full of myself that I think anyone gives a hoot who I vote for.
I am not so prideful that I think I can persuade.
I am, however, confident enough to hope that who I vote for - and who you vote for - will not keep us from being friends.

I appreciate our differences. They make me, me. And you, you.

That being said, tomorrow is Election Day. And I would be dishonest to myself - and to you, my friends - if I pretended it was just another day, and I gave you a recipe for Macaroni and Cheese or talked about what color I am dying my hair this week.

Tomorrow is important for me. Tomorrow will determine what my daughter's world will look like for the next four years. It will determine how my son's world looks like when he is four years old.

Tomorrow's election will set in motion a tide that can not be turned back. It will establish a society that either makes me in the minority or the majority.

It is that important.

And so today, it is important for me to tell you a few things about myself. Things that I would hope you might know. Things that I hope will keep you coming back to visit me - but that I shall never regret saying, even if you never darken these doors again.

I am a Christian.

I believe there is a God who saves and loves and forgives.

And who gets very very angry from time to time at our nations' rebellion.

And yet quickly moves to show unfounded mercy and grace.

I believe that for every man there is a woman. And for every woman there is a man. And the two should marry and continue to carry on the tradition of "family."

I believe that life begins at the moment of conception. I have seen life moving and swimming on an ultrasound in front of my eyes. This was not a dream. This was real. Real LIFE.

I believe that for every child born to a woman who cannot raise it or chooses not to, there is a family who longs to open up their home and welcome that child into it. Adoption is always an option.

I am the mother of two adopted children. They have changed my world. And they were a gift. From two precious women...and from one faithful God.

I believe that no matter who wins, no matter who is sworn in, no matter who addresses our nation for the next four years...that God is still God. He is, indeed, the same. Yesterday. Today. And Forever.

So to all my friends, who I have promised could hear me sing someday, here it is. Singing one of my favorite songs, Orphans of God, I put together a video of what is really on my heart this election day.

My family.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com