Ethel and I went out tonight to fetch a pail of Drano. Generic. At 1:30 a.m.

And it was a good Walmart outing. I got some generic Drano. And some ibuprofen.

And on the way home, my puppy sat beside me snuggling my cheek with her wumpy woompiness of a jowly neck.

And I changed the radio station just as The Killers’ All These Things That I Have Done started to play. So I turned up the volume to facilitate even louder off-key singing and maybe also a little yelling. Because really, how can you not do that whenever you hear that song on the radio?

And I think it’s fun.

And then they got to the whole chorusy “not a soldier” part and I was all dancing with my puppy on I-15.

And then the gospel choir-ish backgrounds came in and WOO, BOY HOWDY, do I love me some gospel choir singing or what? And it was fun that time when Meadow and Dawne and I went to the Nordstrom private shopping event and there was a gospel choir singing at the railing of the second floor and it infiltrated my veins with Southern, gospely goodness. And it rocked. Or gospeled.

And then I thought about Dr. Creflo A. Dollar and his television sermons and it made me all Atlanta-nostalgic.

And at that moment I may or may not have indulged in a full-on, Jared Dawson-reminiscent shimmy.

And it was just delicious and delightsome.

And it made me forget for three minutes how sometimes I feel my independence and intelligence mocked for lack of what others deem necessary. Because really, would anyone have said anything at all had I gotten myself a husband? No.

And. Creflo. Man. I think I just found my first son’s middle name.