What's the Opposite of Teflon?

I buried PC this week. She was My Favorite Old Person. I wrote about her here and I think somewhere else on this blog, though I can't find where. I have also written about her on napkins and post-its and over there in that notebook. She was tough as nails, but she had a soft underbelly, too. Spending time with her was easy and always fodder for a good story.

One of the last times I saw her she asked after my love life: “Does he see you?” She said. “Really, really see you?” One of the best, most insightful questions ever, right? I told her that I think he does see me, and she smirked a little and gave me a highfive. Whether or not it should have, her approval mattered to me.

She passed over a Doral 100 for me to light for her, and then she randomly told me about her boyfriend from her freshman year in college. He seemed nice enough then, but now he's a registered sex offender. She wasn’t exactly proud: “He didn’t see me anyway. What an asshole.” She smoked that cigarette right down to the filter. She lit the next one herself.

At her funeral, I was very transparent: “In the interest of full disclosure, [all twelve of] you should know that visiting her was my weekly excuse to leave the office for hours and hours at a time. I’ll miss her for one million reasons.” Then I told a story about peas and Jesus and I thought about how glad I was that only three of us saw her in that hospital bed—bloated, yellow, and knocked out. The nurse took off her glasses, I brushed her hair, her brother felt awkward because I touched his dead sister, and then I left. That was ten days ago, and I have had a lump in my throat ever since. Any minute it’ll subside. Time sometimes helps.

When I became a priest I thought that the day-in/day-out of Other People’s Vulnerability would somehow toughen me up—make me strong—make me a rock. And, I guess, in many ways I am strong, I am rock. But the truth is that when I became a priest I did not receive the Teflon Cassock. And as it turns out, it’s not about being tough and hard like I thought… If anything, I have become more sensitive, more open, more soft. I mean, just watching people exchange the peace makes me tear up with joy. Presiding over the Eucharist still gives me chills. I touch people’s faces now. When I pray with people, I whisper in their ears and cry in their hair. Our knees touch. I see babies and (aside from the fact that my womb sometimes leaps with instinct) I cry. I see the sun reflect off a building a certain way and I get teary. I am quicker to hug, quicker to cry, and quicker to love in oooey gooey ways that I used to think gross and vulnerable and unnecessary. I have become more earnest, more sincere, more weepy.

Sometimes I wonder what it’s about—all of my girlish sensitivities. I think maybe I’ve always been this way, and something about being priestipants has just given me permission to roll over and let God scratch my belly. Like being more vulnerable and open—being upside-down and belly-up—somehow makes me more intuitive, more present, and even maybe a better pastor.

Or maybe not. But that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. Nonetheless, it are where I are.

Okay, to be clear: I am still really effing funny. My laugh is still way too loud and I still find joy in the small stuff (or at least I still try to). I still like plastic dinosaurs and bubbles and the smell of crayons. I still say really insensitive and inappropriate things sometimes. And I can still kick your ass in four square and I can still hold my own in a tough meeting. But I have lost a little of my edge. Rubbing up against me might not bleed like it used to. And, generally speaking, I believe that less bloodshed is a good thing.

Anyway. We were talking about Ole PC. My Favorite Old Person. Tough as nails with a surprise soft underbelly. Always fodder for a good story. She taught me over half of everything I’ll ever need to know. (A rough estimate.)

I think I’ll miss the end of our visits most of all. After she smoked six to ten cigarettes, dropped a couple eff bombs, passed out some unsolicited advice, and maybe even a fart or two, I’d wrap that hand stitched teal blue prayer shawl around her and ask God to protect her and keep her safe and pain free, clear-minded and open-hearted…When I would ask God to heal her and make her whole, she’d cry too. Big, fat softball tears. Not of pain, but of goodness and closeness to God.

Here’s to her. TBTG.

It's April.

Would you believe me if I told you that I am actually working on not one but TWO things to say on this here blog. Maybe the coming of spring is the kick in the butt my father's been waiting for to get me writing something down again. I don't know what Dad does all day when I haven't published anything for him to read.

Anyway. Happy April. I wrote a sermon. You can see it by clicking over there, or right here if that's too much for you.

It's my [insert quote fingers] Lucky Day!

Whereabouts? Interstate 75, Southbound between the Moores Mill and Howell Mill exits. I am travelling one exit down to meet a parishioner for a delicious pasta lunch.

When? Today.

What Happened?! I got pulled over by Georgia State Patrol and acted like an idiot. Here’s how it went down.

Patrol Guy: “It's your lucky day! Happy St. Patrick’s Day, ma’am.”
Me: “Hello, sir.”
PG: “Do you know how fast you were going?”
Me: “I’m going to guess between 70 and 75?”
PG: “So you know you were speeding?”
Me: “……….”
PG: “Ma’am. Do you know what the speed limit is on this stretch of interstate, ma’am?”
Me: “65.”
PG: “Guess again, ma’am.”
Me: “70.”
PG: “Ma’am, guess again.”
Me: “……….”
PG: “55 miles per hour, ma’am.”
Me: “Oh, well I was speeding.”

[License and stuff is handed off. Maybe it was because he kept calling me ma'am, but I’m trying really, really hard not to laugh.]

PG: “Ma’am? Where are you going?”
Me: “To meet a member of my parish for lunch.”
PG: “…………”
Me: [Doing that thing I do where I have to keep explaining so I may be fully understood, even if it is ridiculous and I’m shooting myself in the foot.] “Because I'm a priest. And sometimes my parishioners want to take me to lunch. We're going to Figo for pasta."
PG: “Well! A [insert quote fingers] priest! That’s an excuse I don’t hear everyday! I’ll be right back.”

So, he goes to his patrol car to process all my stuff. And instead of being concerned with the speeding ticket I’m about to get, I’m now obsessing over THE QUOTE FINGERS. I mean, really. Was that necessary? And an excuse?! Are you kidding me? Did he think I was making it up?! DID I MENTION THE QUOTE FINGERS?

He returns.

PG: “Well, Ms. Porter. Since you were so creative, I’m going to let this one slide.”
Me: “But, sir. I really am a priest. See?” [I point to my collar.]
PG: “Okeedokee!”

Did he just say OKEEDOKEE?

Me: “I mean, thank you and all. But really, I’m a priest.”
PG: “Alright ma’am. Why don’t you just let this one go before I decide to change my mind.”
Me: “Good call. Thank you.”
PG: "Be safe out there, [insert quote fingers] Rev."
Me: "[insert quote fingers] Okeedokee!"

And there you have it.

On Turning Toast Into Manna: The healing power of my parents.

When we were kids, my mom made the best. cinnamon. toast. ever. As an adult, I know that the secret was butter. But she could intuit the perfect amount of cinnamon and sugar, too. And it was always on white bread. And it was always—always—crunchy and crispy along the edges and kinda floppy in the middle. I have tried to recreate it and I can’t, no matter how hard I try. I think she has the ability to turn toast into manna. I’m just sayin.

To keep our bones healthy, she sliced Monterey Jack Cheese as a side dish. To this day I can’t even taste cinnamon without experiencing a severe jack cheese craving.

My dad makes the perfect scrambled egg sammich, but I never wanted that for breakfast, because it’s clearly late lunch/early supper/late-night-snack fare. It’s also, when paired with ginger ale or a can of sprite, the perfect Healing Food. Toast the bread, scramble the eggs, apply an almost undetectable layer of mayonnaise to one piece of toast, assemble sammich, and slice on the diagonal. Because everyone knows that triangles taste better than rectangles. Regular stuff, but when my dad does it, I swear to God it changes into magic food made with fairy dust or Jesus powder or something.

I’ve been home sick today, napping out a fever on the couch and snuggling with the pups. Mom came by this morning with all kinds of goodies. Drugs, mainly. And little cans of ginger ale. And though I can’t stomach the thought of eating anything, I had fever dreams about cinnamon and mayonnaise. I reckon there are some things we never, ever grow out of.

Oh, good. Back-to-back episodes of House are on now. Something to do.

Sail Away With Me To Another World...

Raisin and I were sitting in a booth in the smoking section racking our brains for the lyrics to any given Boys II Men song. Please don’t ask why. I can’t give you a coherent answer.

But this exercise, as futile as it may seem, led to one of our Best Song Lists Ever (and we've created some pretty good song lists). I won’t offer you the entire playlist, just because it’s very, very long, but I will give you a healthy dollup of our genius.

Here it is. The Cheesiest Freaking Lovie Dovie Songs That We Could Think Of:

(This list is not official, nor exhaustive. In no particular order.)

Saving All My Love For You--Whitney Houston
I'll Make Love To You--by the ones who started it all, Boys II Men
Islands in the Stream--Kenny & Dolly

Power of Two--Indigo Girls

(They Long to Be) Close to You--The Carpenters

Afternoon Delight--Starland Vocal Band (Who? I totally had to look up that one.)

In Your Eyes--Peter Gabriel

Crazy for You--Madonna (We're pretty sure this video featured marine life.)

Baby, Baby--Amy Grant

How Can I Live Without You--Trisha Yearwood

Take My Breath Away:

Sexual Healing--Marvin Gaye
You're the Inspiration--Chicago

Glory of Love--Peter Cetera

Even the Nights Are Better--These Guys:

The Only One For Me--Brian McKnight (This song is perpetually stuck in my head.)

Open Arms--Journey

Can't Fight This Feeling--REO Speedwagon

Don't Know Much--Linda Ronstadt & Aaron Neville

Tonight, I Celebrate My Love--Peabo Bryson & Roberta Flack!

What's your cheesiest freaking lovie dovie?

Smells Like Spring To Me.

I was out of town when this alleged "blizzard" blew through Atlanta. As Cato and I ventured our way across Alabama and into Georgia yesterday, we sent biting text messages to friends and family accusing them of lies--all lies--because other than the occasional patch of dirty white ice, there was no evidence that less than 24 hours before there were snowflakes falling the size of your thigh.

Not to mention that the daffodils in my yard look perkier than ever.

I'm just sayin.

So, in honor of pending Spring, I'd like to post pictures of Bananapants that I took a couple weeks ago when I opened the windows.

Snugglipreciouspoops, right?

In Honor of This Blog Turning One, Post Titles Now Get To Be Longer Than One Word. (It's like my reward to myself.)

Hi. As of tomorrow I have been maintaining (kinda) this here blog for one year. In honor of this Little Known, I have apparently decided to just not post anything at all for almost an entire month. No excuses other than life is weird and wonderful and horrible and difficult and sometimes writing something down for all the world to see is just too daunting and vulnerable for even the nuttiest of us.

So, anyway. The Online Crack Community has been INFECTED with a RASH of this Tell and Tag thing where people keep writing 25 Things about themselves, and then they tag, like, freaking all of their friends to do the same. It sounds innocent enough, but OH MY GOD, there was a period there there where I was tagged ONE MILLION times a day to write these freaking twenty-five things.

Well, I did it. (I like lists.) But instead of posting it to the Online Crack Community, I'm posting it here, and I ain't tagging a single one of yous. (Though you're all welcome to share your 25 with me privately or even in the comment section, if you so desire.)

Here are 25 Random Things About Me. Cute, huh?

1. I do not like moths or olives.
2. Turning 30 didn’t hurt.
3. My dogs make me a better person.
4. Hymn 382 from the 1982 Hymnal is the one song of which I shall never grow weary.
5. But I can’t hear the first six notes of the Beatles song “In My Life” without tearing up immediately.
6. I love bacon.
7. Expensive jewelry makes me nervous.
8. I love the way a room smells after someone has dried her or his hair.
9. The New Yorker is perhaps my single greatest indulgence.
10. Oh, I will always splurge on the nice, soft, slightly more expensive toilet paper.
11. I don’t think I’m as smart as you think I am.
12. Sometimes, in the midst of a really tight, solid liturgy, I can feel God smiling. For real.
13. I can’t get to sleep unless I’m wearing nine layers of chapstick.
14. I love whiskey.
15. Sometimes I speak in great hyperbole.
16. Maybe I have a green thumb. I wish I had the motivation to try having a green thumb.
17. I heart New York.
18. I love severe weather.
19. I do not return phone calls with any degree of regularity. This is my worst trait and habit, and I am sorry.
20. I am a priest. And the sacrament of Holy Baptism is why.
21. I am certain that fried goat cheese is a main course in heaven.
22. I am also certain that you’ll be there. Because God loves you more than you can even begin to imagine.
23. I usually cheat when I do crossword puzzles.
24. As long as the United States Postal Service keeps delivering snail mail, I will never not have something to look forward to.
25. Singing in a loud voice might be my favorite way to pass the time.