The wedges of DOOM.

As a Mormon, I try to hear the Holy Ghost speaking to my soul. To let me know what God's will is for me and to help me make decisions and choose the right. I try to live so that I can feel the impressions of the Holy Ghost touching my heart at all times. But with some things in life, some inconsequential things, I can just rely on my own mind. Like whether to have pizza or pasta for tea. Or whether to wear pumps or boots. These kinds of things don't matter much. 


So as a Mormon, I believe that all things happen for a reason. I'm not sure if I would call this belief fate, or something else. Either way, today, fate (or whatever I decide to call it) stepped in. 


There are some beautiful shoes that I've had my eye on for a while now. Black, suede, wedges, peep toe, bargin. Beautiful. I saw them while I saw shopping last week. They didn't have my size. I tried to squeeze my feet into the next size down, but it looked ridiculous. Seriously. My toes peeped out of the peep toe a little bit too much. They didn't even have my size in the stock room. So I shed a little mental tear and moved on. 


A few days later I was in the shopping centre looking for something with Mr.K, so I went for a quick look to see if they had my size in yet. No luck, no joy, no nothing. 


So imagine my ecstasy when I go into the shop today and they have my size. They have the beautiful shoes in my glorious size. So I whip off my right shoe & sock and very enthusiastically shove my foot in. It fits perfectly and I mentally decide that the shoes are as good as mine. So balancing on one foot I take off my other shoe and start to pull off my other sock. Remember that I'm balancing on one foot. One foot that is inside quite a high wedge. I pull my sock a little more ruthlessly and wobble a little. I try to counterbalance myself and reach out for the shelf of shoes next me. Actually, I reach very dramatically and completely roll over on my ankle. As I fall I little helpless yelp escapes me lips and pull off at least three pairs of shoes from the shelf. I land, whimpering on the floor over my poor, hurting ankle. People rush around me and ask if I'm ok. I say that I'm fine, but I'm not. It hurts and I'm embarrassed. 


After a few friendly offers to help me up, which my bruised pride makes me decline, I haul myself up and onto a chair. I call Mr.K, who's in a different shop to ask him to come and get me. The sound of his caring voice makes me feel even more sorry for myself and brings a few tears to me eyes, so I hunch over my knees and slowly put my socks back on whilst I try to hide and wipe my tears. My ankle really hurts. I've never broken any bones or been in hospital before, so I pray that my bones are still as they should be. I try to hold it together and wait for Mr.K.


He arrives a few minutes later, with his sister Emily and worry in his eyes. As soon as I see him I just start to cry. Like a little girl. But silently. I don't like to publicly show any negative emotion, so this is embarrassing for me. Very embarrassing. I cry silently, but my tears are obvious. I'm aware of other shoppers looking at me and this makes me desperately want to stop crying, but actually it just makes me cry more. 


A few hours and some more tears later and I'm at home, on the sofa with my leg raised, a wheat bag, some chocolate and Emily, who makes me feel better because she makes my laugh. My ankle still hurts. Without sounding like a Drama Queen, it's probably the most physical pain that I've ever felt. But my bruised pride has healed now though.


Incase you were wondering, I didn't buy the shoes. 

List of Happys

When I woke up in the during one of the small hours of the morning and couldn't get back to sleep I compiled a little lists of happys that had happened this week. I might even call them my weeks splendipities. When I couldn't think of what to write today I decided to share them. Maybe it will become a bit of a featureish. 


Here are some highlights. Highlights of the weekly kind, not the hair kind. 


1. Banana pancakes with cinnamon syrup. 
2. Somebody finally asking where my top was from and finally being able to answer "oh, I got in it France." Ooh la la. 
3. Mr.K not being able to hide my secret Easter egg any longer. 
4. Wearing homemade Chinese lanterns on your head. 
5. Having my ipod on shuffle and waking up to the greatest song ever. (Drops of Jupiter by Train.) 
6. Using the words splendipities, even though it probably isn't a real word.
7. A full eight hours of sleep.
8. Being able to wear my sunglasses for reals. 
9. Organising my crepe party. At last.
10. My Mom's voices when I've finally realised my phone is ringing after she's called me about 17 times and she says "Webecca, where have you beeen?"

Have a splendid weekend!

Image from paper tissue.

I need...

....more of these in my life. 

Cookies from Costco. (Precious Costco.) Of the double chocolate chip variety.

I don't have mush room in my life for mushrooms.

Ask anyone and they'll tell you that I don't like mushrooms. Honestly, ask anyone. It's a well known fact. 


When I was younger, I remember crying and crying because my Mom was making me eat all of the mushrooms that I'd left on my plate after dinner. She wasn't a cruel Mother. She'd promised a surprise that I would love more than anything if I ate every single last one. Under much duress and after a lot of crying (crying seems to be a common theme around here these days) I ate them all. And the prize was worth. Tickets to see Steps in concert. And although the prize was sweet, the taste in my mouth however, was not. I hated the taste, smell, look and most of all the texture. Like juicy slugs that your teeth slice right through. 


This little anecdote let's you know that my dislike of mushrooms has been a lifelong passion. That's right. Lifelong and a passion. 


It's hard work to keep up a disliking for something like mushrooms. They can be conspicuous little beasts. If your truly going to be a disliker of mushrooms, you have to be committed. And prepared to thoroughly search through any pizza or pasta dish to find any that you Mom has tried to hide in there. And you have to be willing to make extra washing up for yourself when you have to have a designated mushroom bowl to put the monsters into when you do find one, because true dislikers can't even stand to have them on the same plate.


But over the last few months something strange has been happening. Like a wall in my mind has slowly been taken down, brick by mushroomy brick. It's not that I've been continually eating mushrooms and forcing myself to just get over it and like them, but it's more like I've been warming to the thought of them. I've been telling myself that surely they're not that bad. 


Last week at Pizza Hut I proved myself right. I unknowlingly ate a little mushroom on a pizza and actually thought to myself "hmm, not so bad." I couldn't really comment on the texture because I think the poor mushroom had been cooked to within an inch of it's life. It probably would have turned to dust had it been in the oven for five minutes more. But whatever. Another mushroomy brick from my mental wall came crashing down. In pizza hut of all places.


So this week, I decided to bite the bullet. I bought some chestnut mushrooms and decided to put them in a pasta dish I was planning on making.


It was the pasta's turn today. 


And guess what? (Momma, get ready to be proud of me!) I still hate them. Just kidding. C'est un blague. I willingly ate a whole bowlful of mushrooms. Well, I had to have some pasta, bacon and leek in my mouth at the same time, but I did it. I-Did-It. This is a proud moment of self mastery for me that I honestly felt needed to be documented, shared and even proclaimed. 


If I can eat mushrooms, I can do anything.

Craughing without the laughing

Sometimes I feel sorry for Mr.K, because sometimes, inexplicably, I go crazy. Not crazy in a wreck the house whilst screaming kind of way and not crazy in a sit in the corner rocking kind of way, but crazy in a suddenly hysterical kind of way. 


This morning we were having a cheesy young married couple moment (no funny stuff) and both fell backwards over the sofa laughing. (See the above picture of our legs in the air.) Then still joking around making fun of me, even with one arm in pot, Mr.K managed to push me off of the sofa. I landed in a heap on the floor in a position that frankly any breakdancer would have been proud of. We should have taken a picture of it. It was amazing. Now, you might not think it from the way that I'm writing, but it was at this point I became hysterical. My body was resting on my neck and shoulder and I just started to cry. It didn't even hurt but I cried and cried. I couldn't move because my body was just in such an awkward position and that made me cry even harder. Whilst I'm just laying there crying Mr.K is so very desperately trying to pick me up. With one arm. And I just carried on crying. Well actually, by this point I was sobbing. My body was shaking with each sob and I just laid there clueless as to what the heck was happening to me. 


I eventually moved. And eventually stopped crying. And then felt really stupid. Mr.K is used to me craughing (see number 47 of this post) but that kind of hysteria only normally originates from laughing solidly for around two minutes. This one just came out of nowhere. Unannounced and unexplained. The mind boddles. 


All credit to Mr.K, he handled it very well. Whilst he might have been thinking that I was a nutcase, which would've in this instance been quite a fair assumption, he was very loving and just hugged me. In fact, since he's been at home with his arm in pot he's been the epitome of the perfect husband. He keeps making me drinks, even though he has to open the bottle with his mouth and he swaps over the head on our electric toothbursh so that I don't have to. Is this too cheesy? Am I being too cheesy? One more, he rubbed my knee when it was being naughty the other day even though he's supposed to be the patient. I'll stop now. Just suffice it to say, he's great.