I wasn't sure what to expect when I hopped over to her site, but WOW, did her writing blow me away. I even scrolled through older posts to read more of her work. Mandi is a gifted storyteller---many of her posts read like fiction, even though the tales are based on true life. Some stories tug on my heartstrings, while others have me laughing out loud. She is a versatile writer who shares her life and love experiences not only on her blog but also on Sisterwives, where she is a contributing blogger. Do yourself a favor and check out Mandi's blog. I promise, you'll LOVE it!
Please be sure and welcome this lovely and talented writer to Meno Mama's site today with lots of comment love!
Are You There, God? It’s Me, Mandi
“It’s a beautiful morning. I think I’ll go outside for a while. And smile.” My roommate’s alarm clock sang from her bedroom.
“Ugh.” Every morning, her alarm clock would sing that dreadful song, and every morning I would have to go to her room to turn it off. On this particular morning, I was pretty sure that an elephant had come into my apartment and shat in my mouth while I slumbered.
I raised my head and tried to pry open an eye. Through a blur, I saw a boy sleeping next to me. Saturday night started to come back in flashes. There were shots involved and daiquiris, and beers, lots and lots of beers. My stomach started to turn as the night played in my mind. I worked late at the piano bar. Then I stayed even later, drinking and smoking too many cigarettes with my fellow waitresses and the bartender who I was pretty sure was the boy lying next to me in my bed. I tried to gulp down the cotton in my mouth and rolled over still listening to my roommate’s alarm clock singing away in her room.
I pushed myself off of my bed. I swayed a bit allowing my head to connect back to my body then stumbled to my roommate’s room to yell at her to turn off her alarm. The boy next to me groaned.
My roommate wasn’t home (of course), so I silenced her alarm and noticed the time.
I muttered some explicit language and then went back into my room to wake the boy and make him leave.
I pushed the lump beneath my comforter a few times, poking him in various areas. Finally he rolled over and looked at me. Yep, Bryce, the hottie bartender.
“You have to leave.”
“Why?” He stretched and yawned and tried to pull me to him. “It’s too cold and way too early to get up.” He snuggled into the comforter and pillow making no moves to get out of my bed.
“I have to go to church.”
He laughed, “What?”
“Shut up. I have to go to church, and I’m going to be late.”
“I think God will forgive you one Sunday, Mandi.”
“No, you don’t understand. I have to play the piano for my church. For my dad’s church. And you have to leave….now.”
He pushed the comforter off of him. I stole a glance. Boxer briefs. Thank God he wasn’t naked. I was pretty sure nothing happened but two drunken people passing out in the same bed, but that mystery would have to wait to be solved because I had to wash away last night’s alcohol and head to church STAT!
I managed to shower, dress, and make it to my car in less than fifteen minutes, all the while trying to rouse Bryce to leave my apartment. He walked out with me and tried to kiss me before he left. I just smirked at him and said, “Sorry, God’s waiting.”
Apparently, after Bryce and I had passed out at my apartment, a layer of ice developed over the roads. I drove very defensively, hands carefully resting at ten and two, eyes on the road. My dad’s church was just outside of town, so it required a few country roads to get there. I had recently almost died in a car accident, so to say I was a bit of a nervous driver was a ridiculous under-exaggeration. Driving still petrified me. Driving on ice scared the living daylights out of me, so I was careful. Very careful.
About a mile from the church, I found myself driving on a very slippery two lane country road with deep ditches on either side. Out of nowhere, a Chevy Impala came whizzing by me. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as he veered into my lane only he didn’t wait until he was around me. He ran me off the road into the ditch. I over-corrected and fishtailed but managed to get back on the road. At this point, I was no longer being careful. I was pissed.
I sped up to him waving one particular finger and shaking my fists, yelling every single awful word my mother told me never to use all the while telling him what a whore of a mother he had and where he could put her. At the stop sign, he turned right. I turned right, too. Then at the next stop sign, he turned right, which was exactly where I had to turn right.
Panic started to set in.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. Please, please don’t let him be heading to my church.
I didn’t recognize him, and I knew everyone in the congregation.
I prayed, “God, please don’t let him go to church today. Make him go somewhere else. Please. I promise I will never drink again or have another boy spend the night even though I’m pretty sure we didn’t do anything. Please God. I will even pay attention to the sermon today and read my bible every night if you will just please not let him go my church.”
He signaled that he was turning right again.
Into my church‘s parking lot.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God…I mean, gosh.
I debated driving pass the church, telling my dad that I was sick and unable to play the piano, but I knew my dad would never believe me and would only assume that I drank too much at the bar where I worked the night before, which was true, but still. I took a deep breath as I pulled into the parking lot and parked my car toward the back.
Then at that moment, I learned that Satan himself was playing a joke on me, and I was the punch line.
As the man who ran me off the road got out of his car, I watched my father run down the steps to greet him with outstretched arms, a giant smile spreading across his face. They hugged, both embracing each other like long lost…friends.
Sigh, what the ever loving fu…dge? You have got to be kidding me with this one, God.
I watched them talking and laughing in front of the church. Then my mom came out and hugged the reckless driver.
Who is this guy? I wondered, but I had absolutely no idea who he was. I thought maybe he was a missionary who my parents knew before I was born, or maybe a friend of my dad’s from the Navy. All I knew for certain was that he knew my dad, my preacher father, and apparently knew him very well, and I had just cussed him out and flipped him off at least a hundred times. Surely he saw me in his rearview mirror.
I stepped out of my car and tried to sneak pass them.
“Mandi,” my dad called after me.
I pointed to the door and then to my watch and played the air piano trying to get my dad to realize that I needed to get inside and get started, but he wouldn’t just let me slip by.
“Mandi, get over here and say hello to Sam.”
Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam? I searched my brain for any bit of recollection.
As I approached him, I hung my head hoping that he wouldn’t place me as the road raged lunatic behind the wheel of the car that he just ran off the road.
When I finally saw his face, I knew immediately who he was: One of my dad’s oldest friends. Sam, his friend who was BLIND, who only had one eye and was legally blind in it. Why he was allowed to drive is beyond me, but if ever I was going to swear and throw the bird at my preacher father’s buddy,
I’m glad I chose the blind one.
I shook his hand and headed to the piano. Then I looked up to the sky and mouthed a “thank you” to the big guy upstairs. I owe you one.
If the links don’t work: Twitter: https://twitter.com/MandiCLBT