If the shoe fits . . .

I hope you don't think I'm blogging right now. I'm actually still on break so I can clean my house before my mom's arrival, but she doesn't come for a week, which means I've mostly been doing sadoku puzzles instead of scrubbing toilets, so I'm dropping by to give you a message from the universe.

Accept the good.

And if the shoe fits, wear it. (Or in my case, if the pot fits, cook in it.)

You'll never believe where I got this message. From Burger King.

Am I the only one who leaves Burger King smiling and asking for a job application? Not to flip burgers, but to write food descriptions on the wrappers.

Today I started giggling at the frypod for calling me Captain Deepthoughts, but before I knew it I was in tears--real salty/sweet tears.

It was because my twelve year old son was asking everyone who they would choose to meet if they were allowed to meet one person in real life. Everyone was naming really important people like Jesus and Gandhi and Michael Jordan.

Then my son said, "I would choose to meet your dad."

Suddenly I felt a tremendous sense of loss.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I spent my Saturday night alone cleaning, grading, doing sadoku and watching The Things They Lost in the Fire. (what can I say, I'm a multi-tasker).

What a beautiful movie, except for the ending, which was really the middle.

Don't you hate it when movies end in media res?

Don't you hate it when anything ends in media res? Especially love.

When I get rich and famous I'm going to buy a chocolate haupio pie for everyone who has lost love in media res.

Surprisingly the movie The Things They Lost in the Fire isn't about a fire. It isn't even about the things they lost in the fire. There was a fire before the movie begins, and they did lose things in that fire, but things are replacable, so they make a list of what they lost and then thank God they didn't lose each other.

But then the movie starts and they lose each other.

The main character is killed while saving a battered woman, leaving his little family broken.

While his family grieves, his best friend, who is a heroin addict struggles to get sober.

It's fantastic and subtle and poignant how they inadvertantly help and support each other through the grieving process. It was so lovely that it made me think about how when we lose one thing we always gain something else (eventually).

My creative writing teacher taught me that if you want to make a point, say it three times. So this is the point I heard 3 times:

Accept the good with the bad. Reality will make you accept the bad, but you have the choice to accept the good.

Last year I lost my crockpot during an Enrichment meeting. I ended up getting half of it back. The crock part, but the pot was never recovered.

Then last week, over a year later, my twins and I went to Savers and right before my very eyes was a ceramic pot that was missing the crock.

What are the chances?

It wasn't MY ceramic pot, but I paid $7 and guess what? It FIT!

What's that saying again? If the shoe fits, wear it!

If you can't use the pot you love, use the pot the universe sends you?

And believe me, the universe will send you a new pot-- pinky promise!


LY everyone!

Why I Might Need Therapy

I might need therapy because I don't love Sundays.

Today especially. I didn't love today.


Church, for instance. Today I was seriously so . . . well, let's just say I almost yawned myself silly. I wanted to wrestle with my boredom demons, but I couldn't wake my brain up.


Then after church, I didn't love the whole close proximity to my entire litter of offspring trying to keep the sabbath day holy thing. It's dangerously oxymoronic. Or at least dangerously oxymormonic.

Keep in mind it'ss been exactly 28 days since my last comma. (wink wink)

Thankfully I was able to punish my offspring in cruel and unusual ways without breaking any commandments. I started by making them sing the scriptures, which quickly escalated into them standing in the corner while singing the scriptures, which quickly escalated into me performing some wax on/wax off moves on them while they sang the scriptures.

Why can't we keep Mondays holy? Mondays would be so much easier to keep holy.

Today my husband and I decided to run away. Or at least briskly walk away (we would never run on the Sabbath.) We briskly walked the path from Sunset beach to Sharks Cove.

We slowed down and then came to a complete stop at Pipeline because my husband needed to make a pit stop so I found myself a nice bench in the shade to sit and wait.

Imagine me, sitting and waiting like a frump on a log, among the gently swaying ti leaves and palm trees, looking pensively into the deep blue eyes of the ocean.

Now imagine the ocean getting all rico suave on me and trying to seduce me by sending it's waves to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

It's a good thing I left my accent and my flawless bronze legs in my pre-mortal life or no doubt I would have succumbed to temptation and had a passionate affair with the Pacific Ocean right then and there.


TIP: If you're planning a trip to Hawaii, don't forget to pack your accent and flawless bronze legs--they will match your thong bikini nicely, trust me, especially if you bring your Brazilian accent.


So the balmy breeze is running it's fingers through my . . . baseball cap, and the exotic accents are wafting in and out of my ears and all the flawless bronze legs are poking me right in the eye and I suddenly feel like the d word.

NO, not dumb! The d word that starts with d and ends with pressed.

Whenever I'm the d word I begin meditating and pondering and reflecting upon my inner wounded child, and also upon my outer flawed, un-bronzed adult.

Is that too much information? Because there's more.

There's my epiphany.

I could tell you about my sudden startling realization as I was sitting frumpity frump style on a stone bench at Pipeline beach.

Do you want to hear it?

I might need therapy because I only fall in love with famous unavailable men named Jack--Jackie Robinson, Jack Black, Jack Johnson, Jack Bauer, Jack Shepherd . . . I'm also in love John Adams and John Mayer, but everyone knows John is a synonym for Jack, which is either a complete coincidence or it's a message from the universe.

Would my husband need therapy if asked him to change his name to Jack?

Or would that be like him asking me to change my accent to Brazilian to better match my thong bikini?