Friday, January 29, 2010

Journal of a Living Lady #364

Nancy White Kelly

It is said that to laugh is better than to cry…or in my case to murder. Last Thanksgiving my Buddy gave our dog the raw dressing awaiting its turn in the oven. The dressing was in the plastic bowl that usually houses our meal left-overs. These scraps are eventually added to Rocky’s dry food. I merrily laughed at that holiday fiasco. Everybody is entitled to one mistake.

Yesterday I decided to make my hubby a chicken and rice casserole. I boiled the chicken on the stove top and removed the pan so the chicken could cool for later de-boning. While the broccoli and rice cooked in the microwave, Sam, our Siamese cat, and I grabbed a quick afternoon nap.
Sure enough, Buddy did it again. He gave Rocky the big pan of chicken parts sitting in succulent broth. My delusional husband wrongly concluded that I had been so compassionate during that cold streak as to boil fresh chicken for our German shepherd. I am generally a nice lady, but not that nice.

I held up an imaginary butcher knife in the fist of my hand imitating Norman the maniac in Psycho. I teasingly told Buddy that I felt like doing him in. Hack. Hack. He laughed and I laughed.

Mark Twain says it well:

"The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter. The moment it arises, all your irritations and resentments slip away and the sunny spirit takes their place."

Buddy has been forgiven, but hopefully an acquaintance I shall call Sue will not repeat her faux paus.

Sue was waiting for a friend in a busy restaurant when her body told her that she desperately needed to pass gas. Sue didn’t want to leave her table empty while searching for the restroom. She glanced around to access her surroundings. Seated guests were chatting and the house music was playing really, really loud.

The petite and usually discreet Sue timed the expulsion of pressing gas to the rhythmic beat of the music.After a couple of songs, Sue began to feel better. She daintily unwrapped her cloth napkin and noticed that almost everybody in the room was glaring at her. It was at that moment Sue realized, to her chagrin, that she was listening to music on her iPod.

So my advice to all the Sues in Readerland, laugh aloud, say Mia Culpa, and observe your surroundings before you pass gas. And to my Buddy, the third time you mistake my grub for dog food, you will not be laughing.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Journal of a Living Lady #363

Nancy White Kelly

My church is a comforting place. It is nice to know that not only is my spiritual heart covered, but my physical one as well. When I look upward over my left shoulder on Sundays, I quickly spot my cardiologist smiling down from the balcony.

If either Buddy or I have a heart attack while straining on the high notes of Beulah Land, our mutual heart doctor could be performing CPR in less than sixty seconds. If he were busy doing quadruple by-passes somewhere in Atlanta, it is reassuring to know that our backs (and hearts) are still covered.

In our church, there are more nurses per square foot than inches. Our former family doctor, now retired, sits just a few rows behind us each week. Another physician friend, a retired obstetrician, also sits in the congregation. It is highly doubtful that Buddy or I would need his special services.

But, our hearts…well, maybe. Buddy and I both have had a few problems with our tickers. If cardiac arrest were to occur at church, I suspect that half the congregation would immediately be on their hushed cell phones dialing 911.

Being that the parking lot of the church adjoins the parking lot of the local hospital, it would seem impractical to call an ambulance. The men who drive the courtesy carts could deliver a victim to the ER faster than an EMT could start his engine, that is, if the patient was conscious. Jenny Craig and I have never met so pity the guy who might try to carry my dead weight over his shoulder.

One of these days the death angel will succeed in ushering one of us out of this world. Buddy and I have no concerns.
Our former Sunday school teacher has become a masterful funeral coordinator. He and his wife can pull together a meal for an extended family in hours.

While our current pastor is relatively new to the area, I knew his fine family in another era of my life. Even if he weren’t available, our former pastor should be. He would have plenty of colorful stories to tell, especially if it were Buddy in the casket. My favorite is the time Buddy suddenly donned my Easter hat and hugged the startled pastor in front of God, cable TV, and everybody.

When the church bell tolls for either Buddy or me, we are ready. An attorney friend in the congregation has already prepared the Kelly’s last will and testament. We will be buried in our pre-paid plots in the nearby church cemetery.

Yep, Hiram and Nancy Kelly can sit in church and not worry a smirching bit about the now or the hereafter. When the roll is called up yonder, we’ll be there by the wonderful, but undeserved grace of our sovereign God.

And that’s the truth!