Lost, the Final Frontier

Ecstatic. A mere understatement. As I reveled in the zest of the proposal, I forgot to mention the actual jaw breaker that perches on my finger. Besides, its blatant twinkles, I’m more frightful of losing it than fracturing a rib. It’s in bad habit that I lose everything in my possession this includes brain cells. Take a few years ago, I lost my wallet three times in two months. For as unethical and unprofessional as it seems, even the Bank of America representative gently, yet abrasively made a remark on the constant reoccurrences. Another time, I thought it would be clever to link my wallet to my house keys. Not so smart. Another instance, placing a significant amount of cash in a safe spot only to be unable to recall that secret location. These are just minor incidents that are hazardous to my common subsistence. I don’t smoke pot, but as I reassess the situation, maybe I should? At least, I would have an excuse for such a dopy existence.

As a child, mom would press me to pray to St. Christopher! His claim to fame was to have assited Christ as a child across a river. If only St. Christopher could telepathically lead me across troubled water to a shore of lost items. A quarter of a century and practically a decade later, I feel that St. Christopher is so flippin’ sick of hearing from my lame butt that he apparently took his phone off the hook.

Yelp. To who or is it whom? Do I turn to? I cannot allow Shane’s careful selection and hard earned investment become victim to my forgotten vortex. Dear Abby it is you that holds the golden answer to my truth.

Gulp.

It finally happened, after decades of speculation from friends, family and --I must admit--myself, a man has finally broken my record of dullard existence. Nod. A brave man.

Details:
Shellie's Mood: Romantic
Shane's Mood: Meticulous
Occasion: 33rd Birthday
House: 1227 Clayton Street
Presents: French Laundry book, Rocco book, dangling earrings, but no ring.

I munched on Pierre Robert, Manchego, St. Andre and crunched on lovely marcona almonds along with a glass of ’96 Leclerc Briant Cuvee. Shane galliantly prepared the Risotto, Swiss chard, and Pork from Rocco’s cookbook with maximum frustration. He wrote me a birthday card with the sweetest of sweet notes that got me all sobbed up. Just as I choked on the smoke of the birthday candles, he popped the question and the ring. Rewind. I made him propose again and this time get on one knee. I, pathetically, wept. He wept a little. I live in swift times where love is a shortcut through a drive thru, yet I am just an old fashioned girl at heart, and I am certainly lucky in love to have taken my time.

Note to self: Do not forget the happy moments that are simply vibrant in details.