I have no shame

I have a hole in my crotch.

Yes, I know we all do, but I’m talking about my pants.

It started out as a usual running around getting for work Monday—Getting lunches thrown together, eating in the car -- I carpool, so while M drives, I can read, eat, or repeatedly pick up Blue Eyes toys when she cries, “Pooh fell!”

And we stopped at work, M waved goodbye and headed for the bus stop and I dropped Blue Eyes off at her daycare. She glommed onto my leg, hugged me for all she was worth, said, “Bye-bye, Mommy,” and poked her finger through the hole just two inches south of my zipper.

And it was then that I realized, “Ah, yes. The seam ripped on these pants last week.” Then M. washed them. I folded them and put them away… on the top of the stack of pants in my closet. So, what was it that I grabbed for first? Yep. The pants with the window to my soul.

I guess I know now that I am a laid-back person. I have not tried to staple these shut. I haven’t panicked and gone to Target to buy more cheap jeans. I figure, eh, I have a desk job. My crotch will be tucked under Formica all day anyway. I’ll fix ‘em when I get home. Yeah, right. I’ll fix ‘em sometime this month.

And unless some perv is staring at my fly, they probably won’t notice anyway… until they read my blog.

Prayer

I go to church maybe 3 or 4 times a year now. Easter, definitely. Probably on Thanksgiving. And a couple other times when the urge hits me.

I was raised going to church every week, sometimes twice a week. And for a while, I knew God was with me. And then in college, there was no church of my denomination, so I only went when I was at my parents’ home.

Then, when I moved to L.A., I grabbed onto church because it was the one place I knew I would be accepted, where there would be nice people I could talk to. (And at work, needing to be at church on Sunday was a joke.) But once I made friends, using church as a social circle became less necessary, and I started to wonder if I even believed in God. Was it all a hoax? I mean, surely, believing in God makes me feel better. Why wouldn’t an all-knowing parent loving and looking out for me make me feel better? But is he/she real?

There’s a line in a movie -- Bless the Child that goes,
-“I’m not sure if I believe in that kind of thing.”
-“Oh, that don't matter. It's there if you believe or not believe. It don't care.”

So, right now, when that feeling is kicking me in the gut that despite our current situation of M still not working and his feeling that he’s *not* going to get the job we hoped he would, that things will be okay—I think that’s God. When the feeling that’s hitting me over the head again and again. “You have this idea for a book. Why aren’t you writing it?” “Remember you had this idea for a screenplay. Where is it?” Something tells me I need to write. And I think that something may be God. I don’t know if that’s prayer or not, but it’s close.