Jes' to keep thangs copacetic: I did NOT give up bloggin' fer Lent, so I ain't violatin' nuthin' an thereby extendin' mah time in Purgatory.
(A place of purgation--what? Ya never purged? Doan lie.
Ya ate a half a Baskin Robbins Mud Pie an' raced to the loo to get it up an' out, right? The very thought of them cellulite saddlebags brought up all that fat laden carageen, din't even need to poke yore finger down yore gullet--admit it, now.
No? well, mayhap after Skeeter's white lightening' hoe down ya upchucked yore toenails...everybody has had a purge or two intended or unbidden. Well, jes' think of spiritual cellulite hangin' in folds an youse gonna hug purgatory like a college kid hugs the toilet.)
It wuz Granny's woes that done kept me too busy to blog fer the most part, an' it dovetailed wif' Lent, so I'se bloggin' lite fer Lent.
Akshully, I gave up bein' cranky an' sarcastic fer Lent. Lemme tell ya' how much easier it is to give up the way of all flesh. I can make it a day wif'out carousin' or chocolate, but jes' try getting through a day wif' out ONE cranky comment or a cynical curl of the lip.)
When I'se a grade school kiddie we had wunnerful sisters (NOT nuns-- nuns is mostly cloistered, an' it's religious wimmen, Sisters, who's the religious ladies ya see in hospitals an schools an' orphanages) an natcherly they instructed us on the joy an' efficacy of makin' a good Lent.
I took 'em to heart...not that I wuz appreciated within the clan fer my serious demeanor --looky heah at what one of my siblin's thought was mah twin:
Oh yes, Sweet Thangs, this very wind-up, fire -eyed toy was given to yore long sufferin' misunderstood, unappreciated an' much malingned Aunty! Oh the pain of it! ( pain in mah sides from laughin' so hard). An' ya should know, jes' to git the full flavor of mah sufferin's, that it were Pappy Cracker hisself who started it--he done called me "Mother Superior" whenever I dutifully reminded folks that swearin' were a grave insult to heaven's occupants. This is how it went: Uncle Henry would bark, "JEsus Christ"! An' little Aunty Belle in petticoats would shout back "Have Mercy on Us!" to complete the antiphon.
Now, y'all, I does want ya to know that I have made real Lenten efforts. A friend sent me a tip she heard while at a retreat. It's a tip on the how-to of modern mortification.
Old World mortification has been widely explored in cynical renditions of self flagellatin' monks an' such (cf. The Davinci Code) Jes' the same, a certain physical control over yore fleshly temptations ain't out of order: "But I chastise my body and bring it into subjection: lest perhaps, when I have preached to others, I myself should become a castaway." I Corinthians 9:27 ) I reckon athletes git that, I mean, they subject their bodies to all manner of pain to acheive Olympic Gold, an them models on the Vogue covers do the same doan they--fastin' until all flesh falls off so they acheive the glory of fame?
But it seems ter me that modern mortifications is, well, tougher.,
Fer wimmenfolks, try this: leave the house wif'out any make up. Doan put none on yore face, an' leave yore make-up bag outa yore purse. NO make-up. Nada. None. Wanna increase yore Lenten offerin'? Do this no make-up routine on the day the big boss is comin' to town, on the day of yore book-club luncheon, the day yore former boyfriend an' his new bride is bein' introduced at the neighborhood BBQ.
(heah's a version of the power make-up has over a woman:
yup---a li'l powder an' paint goes a loooong way fer some ladies!)
Thas' mortification all right. Mortificāre "to put to death"---to killit daid. Mortify that pesky pride of yores. Heh. Jes' try it. Y'all will be amazed at how hard pride is to kill. Suddenly ya' see why givin' up chocolate is wimpy. Who wants a wimpy Lent? Might as well have a wimpy work out at the gym--whas' the point? If youse gonna sweat some, git rid of some cellulite, right?
I doan pretend to think like a fella...so I'se invitin' all y'all menfolks to lemme know what the male version of goin' out an' about wif'out no make-up would be. Mebbe it is to go out wif'out that creative comb-over job?
Doan worry too much...when I pass ya on the street wif yore raw face hangin' out, or yore bald spot shinnin' in the sun, I'll know y'all's havin' a good strong Lent.