You know, I can sing okay. I mean, my voice is not embarrassing or anything. It's also not fantastic. I know this because not one of my friends has ever asked me to sing at her wedding. Or even to sing them happy birthday, for that matter. When we are sitting around the campfire at the beach, no one says, "Wow, Missy, you know what would make this evening perfect? if you would just sing a little Natalie Merchant! Please Missy, make our dream come true!"
Ain't happened once in my whole life.
And that is why I would never put on my best halter top and go before Randy, Simon, Paula and Whatshername, and try and belt me out some Celine.
It's kinda like how I once had a friend who was, well. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. And he told me he wanted to go to school to be a, um, what's it called? His girlfriend filled him in. Oh yeah. A neurosurgeon, yeah.
Those are the moments when you just smile and say, "Ohhhh. Yeah. Good luck with that."
Segue to: Beth was wonderful last night. It is being recorded, so of course every time they panned I stood up and waved my arms as wide as I could and did the hook 'em horns sign.
I did almost nod off when she was talking about how Christians should not be boring and considered the irony of that. But it was certainly not her fault - it was the fault of two preschoolers, both of whom have been sleeping a good twelve nighttime hours since they were four months old but who have lately begun alternating their wakeups so that I feel like I have twin newborns in the house. Very big very verbal twin newborns who jab me in the cheekbone while the rest of the world slumbers.
My father, born in North Carolina, raised in Tennessee and Texas, is the king of hilarious Southern sayings and my favorite is when he referred to a constant complainer by saying "If it ain't her arse, it's her elbow." Only he didn't say arse because the majority of his sayings were rated PG-13. Lately, between the hours of midnight and 4am, if it ain't Shep's arse, it's Eva Rose's elbow, and oh my skull I wish they would cut it out.
To which my dad would reply, "Melissa, you can wish in one hand, and (poop) in the other, and see which hand gets full first."
Only he wouldn't say poop.
I just want one full night's sleep. Just one.
"Well, Melissa, people in hell want ice water."
Either way, I am headed to bed. Because my children have been promised a trip to Costco tomorrow and if Melissa doesn't get some sleep, Melissa will not be able to find her (arse) with both hands and a flashlight.
PS - Could y'all please say a prayer for Lily Margaret? She is the daughter of Lauren and John, who opened their home to us during the hurricane. Lily is not quite a month old and in the hospital with RSV, pneumonia, a collapsed lung, flu...the list goes one. None of us who love them are sleeping very well. But there is power in the prayers of righteous women - please lift her up! Thank you!