Because Sometimes Memphis Makes You Proud ...

We live in Memphis.  99% of the time this makes me sad. Really, really sad.  Because our city shames itself a lot.  We forget that we are the city on the Bluff.  The one that held off soldiers to Nashville in the Civil War.  The one a kid named Elvis decided to try to be famous in. Where BB King wailed all night long  Where Johnny Cash became a household name.  Where a man stood up for what he believed in, and another man killed him for the same reason. This is where Martin Luther King, Jr. was last.  It's blues, it's barbecue.  It's Beale Street and Overton Park.  But usually this is dismissed

Usually Memphis is the city where the police are mocked.  Where people are great at killing each other and politics is more important than education when it comes to children. Where Graceland sits in the heart of sadness.  Where what gang lives where determines where school zoning lines are drawn. The city that Tennessee would rather forget.  And for good reason.

But sometimes there are great moments.  When neighbors help out neighbors.  When we step up and forget for a minute what color someone is and just hug them.  Nothing does that for our city like sports.  The University of Memphis Tigers are amazing. Basketball is our thing.  And we have a pro team too. The Memphis Grizzlies.  Oh yeah.  You've heard of them?  That's because they were just playing in the Western Conference Finals. What, what?  We are very proud of the Grizz!

But that's not what makes me proud.  What makes me proud is how Memphis don't care who you are.  That's right.  Memphis don't care about your fancy butt and multi-million dollar salary.  Here we treat people with respect, and that goes for everyone that's not you.  Recently Mr. Ex-Eva Longoria was here in town to play some basketball.  He does it well.  And he knows it.  So he walks into Restaurant Iris, one of the top restaurants in the country.  So much so that they already have a two-week wait just to get in. It's hot. It's what's hip in Memphis right now.  Everyone who is anyone is trying to get into that place.  You can't get a table.  But Mr. Flashy-pants shows his butt demanding a table.  And here's what makes me proud.  Restaurant Iris says "no".  No they didn't!  Oh yes ma'am.  They sure did.  They told him to go stuff it.  He wasn't getting a table.  I'm sorry, you're who again? Mr. IT DOESN'T MATTER. That's who.  It's their policy.  And the Commercial Appeal told it all.  Super simple.  You want a table, you wait like everyone else.  You're. Not. Special.

So often our society has become a "yes oh famous person can I please kiss your butt" society.  Rich and famous always seems to equal " I can get what I want and treat whoever I want like crap to get it.  Little guy be darned".  "Don't you know who I am?" becomes this arrogant entitlement for those who have been in the news for more than describing what the fire did to their house. Famous guy wants a table at a Memphis restaurant that is top in the country? Ain't nobody gonna make time for that!

That's why I'm proud.  Because sometimes everyone is equal.

Because sometimes you consider becoming a nudist ...

I'm pretty sure not.  I mean, have you seen me?  Me? Naked? In public?  That's a special sort of torture no one should be subjected to.  Besides, living in a nudist colony means seeing other people's junk. All. The. Time.  There's never a junk-free moment.  Doesn't it all loose it's attraction after a while?  I mean you know, it's going to be REALLY obvious if your neighbor thinks you're hot.  How do men in nudist colonies survive without getting bitch slapped all the time?  Then there's the whole diaper issue.  And monthly ...  Plus ... sunscreen?  I mean, how do you suppose?  Ewwwwwww .... nevermind.  Let's just stop that whole train of thought.  'Cause dang. BLECH.

I do laundry.  I know, I know. "We all do laundry Jess.  Do you want a pat on the back or something?"  We all always have dirty clothes.  Yes.  Yes you do.  Unless you are reading this naked right now, which hey ... there's a nudist colony somewhere looking for you.  But in an average week I do 12-15 loads of laundry.  One day is almost a hamper full here.  "Do a load a day to stay ahead" grandma said.  Bull-honky grandma.  Do 3 loads a day, stay ahead, maybe.  If you fold it and put it away right then. But seriously, who does that? (Okay, besides YOU smart ass.  Yeah, you, who just said 'Well, I do' because you are lying). Everyone either leaves it in the dryer and keeps "fluffing it"to prevent wrinkles, or you hang it up to dry somewhere and it's "not quite dry YET so I don't have to put it away" or you're like me -- wash, dry, throw on the couch.  We are couch throwing laundry PROS here.  We can wash it like no one's business.  But find someone to fold it? Where's that Laundry Fairy everyone always talks about? Yeah. Not here.  I've even stood outside clapping and screaming "I do believe in fairies. I do believe in fairies." Just so you know, that only works in Peter Pan.

Then of course if you fold it, you have to do something with it.  Who wants a laundry couch?  (No, dear husband, no need to point out that we have a laundry couch.  Some people have a laundry guest room, or a laundry kitchen table, or the dryer is still "Fluffing" the load from 3 days ago).

Three of the five kids are perfectly capable of putting their laundry away.  So we are slowly learning what I like to call "the obviousness of it all".  Shirts go where the other shirts are, pants go where the other pants are.  Rocket science? May as well be.  So this is why I suggest the idea of no clothes.  No clothes to wash, to dry, or to fold.  No fitted sheets to fold properly.  No, not WAD. Fold neatly.  Yeah, I said it.  Martha Stewart isn't the only one who can fold a proper fitted sheet.  So I'll keep on washing and folding.  Neatly.

Because sometimes you're blessed to have clothes.  And that's reason enough.

Because sometimes crazy takes you ...

People always talk about "going crazy".  Like it's a place you choose to go.  Nah, man.  Crazy up and takes you. One day you're sittin' there mind your own business and WHAMMO! Crazy snatches you up.  It's in life -- the day to day.  The mundane.  The "if I have to do this one more time" of it all.  That's when it comes for you.  You usually find your way back.  But in that moment, when the crazy has kidnapped you away, life is a never-ending roller coaster.  Honey, I have five kids, three dogs and believe you me -- crazy took this mama.  I didn't jump on the crazy train, or go bananas, or drop my basket.  Or [insert your favorite way to say crazy came here].

But crazy isn't bad.  Crazy is fun.  It's laughter, it's tears, it's screaming, it's falling down and choosing to get back up even though you know you're going to fall again.  It's putting one foot in front of the other even though you see the storm ahead. It's a happy day or a quiet night.  Crazy is watching lightening bugs while being bit by mosquitoes because those lightening bugs are so darned beautiful.  Crazy is having 5 kids, and crazy is the love that you didn't know you had for them.  Crazy is being in love for 13 years and looking forward to the next 13 with happy anticipation.

So, this is me.  Because sometimes crazy takes you.  Picks you right up and beckons you to join the chaos that is life.  One day I'll be all finished up and crazy will bring me back.  And I hope that then when people say tell my kids "your mama has gone crazy" they'll laugh and say "No, crazy took mama.  Now it's time she came back".