My stuff in particular.
It only crosses my mind occasionally, like during the 10-12 hours a day I sit on my bare nekked wood floor with my nose pressed to the front window waiting for a large moving van to round the corner.
What if I never see my stuff again? I hold onto that thought sometimes. But then I put it back on the shelf next to all my other what ifs--what if I get skin cancer? What if my children get skin cancer? What if my hub gets skin cancer?
What if a sunami wipes out Happy Valley before I get to the Macey's case lot sale next week?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of dying, I'm just afraid of being disfigured and hungry (without my stuff).
I have decided to write abook called Martha, and the Magic Pants. It will be loosely based on actual events.
My X-door-neighbor, Martha sent me four pair of magic pants from Kohls.com and they jus' so happened to arrive on the very day that I was being a bawl baby.
Call it coincidence, or call it like it is, on that very same day that I was being a bawl baby, Val of the South gave me a big ole' bag of Lucky Charms.
Does the Universe lub me, or what? (Either that, or Martha and Val lub me).
I think the Universe might be trying to tell me to stop hiding my testimony (of magic) under a bushel (of apples).
As soon as I slipped on my magic pants and ate a bowl of Lucky Charms, my daughter started feeling better. And not just her strep throat either. I think the universe was channeling all those air hugs ya'll sent out. If I didn't have such a stone cold heart I would send some air kisses back-at-cha! (Especially to those who texted her and sent messages to her.)
And if I didn't have such a stone cold heart I would admit that even crash test dummies need air hugs, even though I said they didn't. But that's the beauty of a stone cold heart--you don't need anyone or anything . . . (except your stuff).
I started believing in magic because Olivia Newton John told me too. I was thirteen at the time and I would walk downtown to the movie theater on Center street and watch Xanadu over and over again.
But I don't need to rely on Olivia Newton John's testimony anymore. I've seen enough pixie dust to put on my own roller skates and spread the truth . . .
We haf ta believe we are magic, peeps!
Nuthin can stand in our way!
I can prove it.
The other day I entered an essay contest. I didn't finish my essay until four hours before the deadline and of course some unexpected complications, in the form of technical obstacles, occurred while trying to get my essay from my Mac Text Edit file to my sister's DELL Microsoft Word file. There were internet connection problems, of course. The first time I hit a roadblock, my daughter decided to exercise her faith by playing some Black Eyed Peas for me.
It WORKED! It really WORKED! That skankie Fergie helped me overcome my obstacle!
The second time I hit a roadblock, she started the song over. BINGO! Worked AGAIN!
Then I realized I was 315 words over the word limit so she played the song over and over until I trimmed it down to meet the criteria.
When I hit my third roadblock I told her to play it again.
That's when she hauled off and BBP'd me right in the mouth!
(With great power comes great responsibility and Black Eyed Peas magic should be used sparingly, lest it lead you down the road to violence.)
Another magical thing happened yesterday. My sis-in-law came from Maryland and my IL's took us out to lunch at, that's right, the Golden Corral. But this time I had a plan. I showed up LATE.
And guess what!? I finished at the same time as my MIL.
Woohoo! I don't need to learn any more patience!