I do the same thing every Sunday, a ritual I guess. After church, I change out of skirts and curls into my most unflattering comfy clothes. I drive home to my parent's house for a real dinner and free leftovers. I go there to chat on the napping couches with mom and dad about neighbors and tithing and Texas. I go there because my sister sings loudly in the study and my brother is silently funny. We pray on our knees.
I also go there to read the new magazines. I flip past the news in the Sunday paper and pluck out Parade to read about celebrities and polls. I gather my mom’s stack of two or three magazines by the phone, usually Real Simple, House Beautiful, and O--Oprah's magazine. I turn the pages at the counter while my mother stirs the roast gravy and steams the asparagus. I flip them cover to cover.
Oprah writes a regular little bit on her last page called, "What I know for sure." She writes about politics and about her own credos and about a unifying power that some people call God, and sometimes she invites a famous friend to share their own for-sures. She's been writing these bits for 11 years--that's one-hundred-and-thirty-two bits. One-hundred-and-thirty-two bits are lot of bits to know.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say that I don't care much for what Oprah knows. What I'm saying is that I don't think Oprah knows that much because I know for sure that gold rings with jadey beads are the prettiest. I know how to park in tight parking garages. I know that stripes are better than dots, and pink is better than brown. I know that bookshelves are for books and not for obscure trinkets.
I know for sure about Harry Potter. I know that Hermione’s parents are muggles and Dobby is a house elf. I know that butterbeer is not really beer. I know that every boy and girl wants Hogwarts to be real, and I know because my best friend rapped about red Ron in an wishful audition tape for the films. I know for sure that Dumbledore had to die and Harry had to live. I know that J.K. Rowling is more than a millionaire—she is an author.
I know for sure about Café Rio. I know that they have crushy, good ice. I know for sure how to say, black beans, no cheese, and extra cilantro. I know that pork is the best, followed by steak and grilled chicken. I know for sure to avoid it on Friday and Saturday nights, but I know that I love to ignore that rule at least twice a month. I know that the tables are small and the dressing is spicy. I know about Free Meals and flying limes.
I know for sure about basketball because the men in my family are rockstars. I know for sure not to walk down the bleacher stairs when the time starts and I know that sometimes fouls aren't bad. I know that, if asked in the middle of a play, Dad will quickly hand over a couple of bucks for a vending machine drink. I know that 6'11 is probably a good idea.
I know for sure about travel. I know to bring extra cardigans on the plane and I know that I don't need lots of gum to pop my ears on the decent. I know for sure that mini-vans are inferior to SUVs and that tourists should always eat local. I know about Fast Passes and how Disneyland lines are for the weak. I know that Coronado is perfect and Café Constant will always be the benchmark. I know for sure about coming home.
I know for sure about that unifying power Oprah talks about. It's called God. He is God. I know that God is real and that he is everywhere, even in me. I know he rigs contests and makes 69-minute hours. He works with text messages and bright yellow flowers at Costco.
I know for sure that love is pretty much everything.
I know that it's okay to not know what I'm talking about most of the time.
I know for sure that magazines on Sunday is the best kind of ritual.
And napping couches the best kind of home.