You pay your hard-earned cash for the privilege of having the newspaper delivered to your stoop. You forgive the 13-year-old paperboy his girly arm when his toss only gets the paper so far as your mailbox. You can’t very well have coffee without skimming the crisp pages of your paper. So as long as it’s there, somewhere in the lot, you are willing to double-knot your fuzzy robe and navigate the shrubbery to find it. Inevitably the morning comes when you are running grumpy and late, anxious to rush through a cup of joe while speedily clipping coupons for Metamucil before your 7 am appointment with a joint specialist. You open the door, scan the drive, the bushes, the ditch and realize that your beloved newspaper is missing! As you shuffle through the lawn to search for the Good Morning Essential, you realize there are only two distinct possibilities:
1. That no good, dirty fingernail-ed, gun totin’, ain’t never been to God’s House a day in his life neighbor must’ve jacked your reading material. You refrained from calling the cops last time got drunk and peed on your garden gnomes, but a stolen newspaper MEANS. WAR.
2. Billy, the fast-pedalling, hard-working, mother-makes-him-wear-a-bowtie-to-show-his maturity paperboy must be running late. This is the only option that doesn’t send you running to the medicine cabinet for an extra helping of blood pressure pills.
You picture Billy, sweet smile that must really love Jesus, tiring his child legs out as the tires pump over-and-over a big hill. The basket on his red Schwinn responsibly holds the area’s finest Gazette as he dedicates his early mornings to keeping the locals informed. This image keeps you satisfied enough to forgive a morning without news.
Now, imagine Billy is maybe a twenty-three-year-old, moderately chunky, white girl, pumping the pedals of her hand-me-down Barbie bike (because who cares if the lilac paint looks a little gray and rusty? Those tires are barely flat! Your sister loved that bike when she had it. Seriously, you are the middle of five. Did you really think you were destined for shiny new things?). She drives all night and into the morning, taking comfort only when she glances to her feet and discovers her calf muscles look downright fabulous. There is no time for a smoke break. She even bypasses the Taco Bell Fourth Meal because people need the news and she must give it to them! A day later, you sigh relief as the papergirl collapses in your yard, barely able to breathe but still clasping a pristine Sunday Paper in her exhausted hands. She must love Jesus. And the news. And serving people via bicycle.
And so it is, perhaps a day late but safely in your arms once again, that you can read Monday’s Sunday Paper, and all is right with the world (or at the very least your blood pressure).
This week The Sunday Paper covers the globe from natural disaster to parenting advice to the glossy pages of advertisements oddly effective in ensuring you don’t buy what’s being sold. Sip your coffee, scrunch your chilly toes into those god awful slippers, and learn what’s outside your very cozy house!
Burke of Burke Krohe: Writer points out the most ridiculous commercials clouding up your TV screen today. In a post that manages to use the terms “animal husbandry” and “God Bless America” right next door to one another, “5 Commercials I Hate” proves that it is un-American to be lured to the checkout counter by seriously stupid ads. Prepare to be enlightened, y’all.
Equally progressive is Mary’s post “The Monster Truck Whisperer” from OINKtales. When you jump to conclusions, how often are your assumptions justified? When Mary uses her Mom Brain to predict how a timid mom will deal with a rowdy kid, she (along with her readers) are pleasantly surprised.
Enough Humor & Ha!Ha!, let’s talk about why I’ve prayed so hard over the weekend that I think I popped that ugly vein in my neck. Well, as many of you know, our dear friend & blogging extraordinaire Amblerangel writes of her daily life and adventures with her family in Hey from Japan- Notes on Moving. Japan. Japan? Japan! Upon hearing the news of the devastating lashing Mother Nature so cruelly slapped down on the country, I was scared and heartbroken for our favorite Mom Abroad and the countless other families lost or broken apart. In a mind boddling display of calmness, she recounts her experience with the earthquake and the next hours spent trying to find her kids. Proof that I am ill-equipped to ever journey beyond this Podunk town because I. CAN’T. HANDLE. EMERGENCY. Just reading “We’re Being Shaken & Stirred in Japan” made me want to suck my thumb and curl up in the fetal position. But always the graceful goose, she seems to be handling the scare in stride, even stopping to talk with her children about their perceptions of the disaster. Kudos to you, Amblerangel. I love my kid and all but my conversation would’ve gone like this: “I can’t help you, Baby. Can’t you see I’m far too busy FREAKING OUT?” Readers, please please please keep those positive, healing thoughts flowing Japan’s way. And to our favorite blogger, We are thanking The Jesus that you and the family are safe!
The following week you are horrified to find no paper on your stoop. You worry for Billy’s well-being, and stop his mama after church on Sunday to make sure he’s okay. She explains he has gotten into origami lately, totally obsessed with it, bless his heart. He uses the leftover newspapers to practice folding swans. You leave church with the sad understanding that you never can truly know a person anymore.
Now, imagine Billy is maybe a twenty-three-year-old, moderately chunky, white girl, kicking the brake stand of her hand-me-down Barbie bike. Maybe she ditches the bike (and her news-sharing responsibilities) because the Adult Time Siren sounded. Maybe her mother was in town over the weekend and serious choices had to be made: To blog or binge shop? Maybe she drank a Margarita, hit up a few stores with sales on rubber flip-flops, and spent copious time discussing important topics like Mother-In-Laws and The Appropriate Age To Wear A Floral Sun Dress. Maybe she had a minute to blog last night, but maybe there was a show on about fast food. Maybe she also went to bed to spoon with her hypothetical dog. You know. Just maybe.