Grits

It had been one of those days. It started off pretty decent, then, by some unforeseen force, headed straight down in a death spiral. And the eject button failed. Which was inconsequential, because I was without a parachute anyway.

I woke up on time, and felt well. The kiddo, excited about a field trip, was already up and dressed, eating his breakfast. We got out the door, and to school on time.

Dang if I wasn’t the greatest Mom on the planet.

I needed fuel. The pay-at-the-pump option was not working, and I didn’t have cash. Then Hardees had some major biscuit making malfunction, and there were no more sausage biscuits. The physician’s office failed, for the second time in two weeks, to call in my prescriptions. Of course, since Hardees had no more sausage biscuits, and I had no gas in my car, my proton pumps were in overdrive. I really needed those prescriptions. Frustrated, and quickly escalating to- well, plain pissed off, I went home.

I decided I’d make a little pot of grits. Meir and all her cooking wisdom came back to me, and I even smiled a little when I put in the five shakes of salt. (Now, y’all have to understand, she was on death’s door before she gave up the crucial “five shakes” tip.) My little pot of grits was done. They were almost perfect.

My mood began to improve. Hardees is bad for me anyway, and without my prescriptions I could really be in trouble with all that sausage!

Got my grits, got my spoon, got my water- still needed the butter. WHAT??!! How did we run out of butter??! Butter? Really? Southern shame!!!

I could not eat grits without butter. I could not drive eight miles to buy butter with no gas and no cash. I needed my acid blockers something fierce.

I kept telling myself, “Breathe, Girl! You be tripping over some butter!”

I decided to just go on back to bed. But I can’t sleep without a bath. So, I took a bubble bath, turned on the electric blanket and heated mattress pad, and got in bed. The lack of butter, though, must’ve made me crazy (yeah, yeah, don’t laugh), because I swore I could hear music.

I couldn’t catch the tune. But I definitely heard music. I turned my room upside down before I found it. Alan Jackson belted “Blessed Assurance” from my iPod. In a continuous loop. In my nightstand drawer. Where I put it, turned OFF, yesterday, when I called myself cleaning. And it was playing Run DMC when I turned it off. Run DMC, by the way, is a far piece from Alan Jackson.

“Blessed Assurance” was Meir’s favorite hymn. She’s still laughing about the salt shaker. I just know it.

Be blesssed, Y’all.

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