Some things just roll off my tongue

(Setup for non-Methodists: Pastors in the United Methodist Church spend an average of four years at their parishes before being reassigned.)

I only met my Sainted Southern Mother's pastor once, briefly, at the shindig my parents gave Steve and me three years ago. It was in honor of our wedding and my SSM got to get me back for our boozy reception in a dive bar up here in Raleigh. Her reception in Shallotte was alcohol-free and in their yard.

Pastor Rich came and hung out in the waiting room with My Good Ol' Boy Daddy and me at the hospital as my SSM was undergoing her emergency hip-replacement surgery Monday. Trying to make small talk, I asked him to tell me about the building project at the church. He told me about the new wing and I asked about the current sanctuary -- the one I went to many a service in growing up.

"Is the carpet still green?" I asked.

(Have you ever caught yourself in the middle of a sentence realizing you are saying the exact wrong thing, yet you can't stop yourself from finishing the sentence? My mind was saying, "Noooo!!! You're insulting the preacher and admitting you haven't stepped foot in his church decades!!!" But my mouth wouldn't stop short.)

My face turned 18 shades of red.

"You know, I couldn't really tell you what color the carpet is," he replied.

He goes there every day, so I don't feel bad. In fact, I love knowing that a "man of God" is still just a guy. I bet his wife has to point out when she's had her hair done or remind him to take out the trash. Just like I do with my godless scientist.

All men truly are created equal.

Buy him breakfast, at least

While my Sainted Southern Mother is in the hospital recovering from her hip-replacement surgery, Mr. Sweetypants and I have been staying with my Good Ol' Boy Daddy at their house. When we aren't at the hospital, Steve and I send updates to family and friends, man the phone lines and run errands.

Last night, Daddy, Steve and I were sitting outside and making our list of errands for today. The first was to drop my daddy's beloved kitten off at the vet to get his first shots and be neutered.

"No problem," I replied while writing on my sticky note. "What did you decide to name him?"

"Haven't decided, have we, little buddy?" Daddy said, encouraging the kitten on his lap to attack its own tail.

"They're going to ask so they can establish his records," I replied. "And I think the polite thing to do, if you're sending a family member off to lose his private parts, is to refer to him by name."

"That's the least you should do," Steve chimed in.

"I'll think about it," Daddy said, promising to leave me a note in the morning with the vet's name and number to call, since my mama was the one who made the appointment and we didn't know the time.

When I got up at 8 this morning, my Daddy had long since left to be at the hospital for opening visiting hours. I drank a cup of the coffee he'd left warming for me and read the sticky note he'd left me.

(Animal Hospital Name)
(Phone Number)
His name is Little Buddy

And my tired, stony, little heart grew three sizes.

Daddy picked Little Buddy up from his de-balling, as Daddy calls it, this afternoon, getting to be the little fella's hero after my bad guy role traumatizing him this morning.

And that's cool. My daddy has always been my hero, too.