Lost in Translation

Last night I dreamed Luke and I were on a mission to save Alfred Hitchcock. Yes, you heard correctly. Alfred. Hitchcock.

The thing is, Alfred needed rescuing as he was in quite a dilemma. He had a writing cabin on the shore of a very dark lake in the middle of a forest. Each night found Alfred completing a chapter of his self-described masterpiece, his final work, on a black, manual typewriter. He would then stack the pages neatly on his desk before retiring to the comfort of his fireside recliner for the evening.

Sounds idyllic, huh? Well it would be had it not been for the mysterious man in black who snuck into Alfred’s cabin and stole his manuscript. Because of Alfred’s refusal to conform with the times, he had no computer backup of his work. The first time this happened, Alfred was baffled. He thought perhaps he had misplaced the tidy stack and that it would turn up. However, as the same thing began happening night after night he realized someone was determined to keep him from finishing his last screenplay.

That’s where Luke and I come in. We were alerted by messenger that Alfred had requested our help to get him, along with his manuscript, out of his cabin and back home unharmed. Suddenly, our back yard became a grove of trees and we stepped in.

We fought our way through the thick vegetation until we arrived at the mirky lake. I was very much afraid but determined to help this brilliant gentleman who could not help himself. We discovered a row boat on the water’s edge and carefully stepped inside to cross the water. However, I had to step more carefully than Luke seeing as how I was wearing a full length prom gown.

Yes, girls. If I’m going to rescue a famous playwright, I’m doing it in style.

Too bad the rowboat tipped over as we approached the dock and I was forced to walk on the grotesque lake bottom with my darlin’ shoes squishing in the mud while Luke righted the vessel.

After we made our way out of the swamp-like water, we entered the cabin to find Alfred packed and ready to move. Thick file tucked under his arm, we led him back to the dock and the boat. It was then I felt an arrow dash past my ear and realized we were under attack.

And who said the prom gown wouldn’t come in handy? I half-stood on the back of the boat (which had miraculously grown a motor) and shielded Luke and Alfred from the arrows with the thick tulle of my skirt. We dashed across the lake dodging several swimmers, all of whom were my fellow classmates in high school, while I wondered to myself why in the world they chose this place over our neighborhood pool where we’d spent countless summers together.

And that’s where it ended.

I hope we completed the mission and got Alfred back to his home safe and sound. More than anything though, I just have one question:

What in the stinkin’ world was all that supposed to mean?

I’ve had the teeth crumbling and falling out dream. The running from tornadoes dream. The not being able to remember my locker combination dream. All of those are supposedly connected to stress and I can somewhat make sense of that.

But Alfred Hitchcock? In a cabin? On a lake? Me and Luke rescuing him so he can write some weird movie? I totally don’t get it unless ‘ole Alfred is trying to communicate one last idea from the other side.

I would SO love to hear your interpretations of this one….

Aren’t you glad you stopped by today? I always said blogging was another word for ‘free therapy’…..

The Pedicure Finale’ or Finally…

Okay, so this has gone on long enough. Today I give you the end of what must be the most ridiculous thing I have written to date.

I promise you some Jesus in the coming weeks, Girls. But for now, as the dear Paul Harvey would say, here’s the rest of the story.

Now that I have established the necessary backstory about my issues with feet and my reasons for confidence in Asian nail salons, perhaps you will understand a bit better the thought process that led me to finally determine I was going to take the plunge and get a real live, non-cosmetology-school pedicure while on vacation in Florida. Or so I thought.

We went on vacation with our BFF’s Chuck and Deb and their daughter, Tara. Tara is in her early twenties and always up for spending some cash to indulge her sweet self. She is a mall vendor’s best friend – just ask the Israeli Dead Sea Mineral Makeup salesgirl who will now be able to move her entire family to the USA with her Tara Commission. But yet again, that’s a story for another day.

I had determined this would be the year that I would splurge and get my First Real Pedicure. I didn’t want to go alone and because of Tara’s propensity to pamper, I knew she would be up to go with me. We weren’t that particular about what salon we visited. Based on the history I’ve given you, here is a breakdown of my thought process:

1. Surely there would be a nail salon somewhere around the mall.
2. Most likely it would be asian.
3. Meaning we didn’t need an appointment
4. Hopefully a girl would do my feet because, even though Joahd;ajknweor had done a great job on my nails, I wasn’t too keen on a dude massaging my feet and legs.
5. If all went as planned, my tired feet would be replaced with exfoliated freshness topped with cute polish with polka dots or flowers like this.
6. Ahhh….sounded too good to be true.

It was.

On the fateful day, we drove around the mall and found a Salon. Do you believe in signs? I mean literally and figuratively? If so, you’ll understand why I knew this particular place was meant for us. The name?

Lisa’s Nail Salon.

It still slays me.

I knew it was a sign of Divine Favor. God wanted me to have a pedicure – a good pedicure – and so He showed me all burning-neon-bush-like that this was the right place.

Am I into neon signs anymore, you ask? Notsomuch. I’m working more with the Magic 8 Ball now which by the way assures me I am going to have a book in LifeWay one day….Something else to get excited about.

Anyhooo….Tara and I went in to the salon and as it worked out, they had time to do side by side pedicures. I was so excited! It was just so girly, you know. Sitting with my best little girlfriend, chatting it up while we got our feet done. The thing of perfect vacations are made of. And to top it off, the most darlin’ girl came and began to work on my feet who was clearly experienced in what she was doing. I leaned back in my massage chair and prepared for bliss.

And then, just as I settled back in my chair, the Papasan of Pedicures came out and stole my girl. He.stole.my.girl. He sent her to begin working on Tara and out from behind him came my worst nightmare.

His eleven-year-old apprentice.

This man took my girl and replaced him with the Doogie Houser of Cosmetology.

Now I am sure this child was perfectly sweet but something about a kid who is 4 feet tall wearing saddle oxfords and a goofy grin doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. He bowed and grinned. And grinned some more.

I don’t know about you but when I am in church and the kids are bored and acting up, I can normally give them some notebook paper and a pen to keep them happy for a while. Apparently in the world of nail salons, you give the hyper child some cuticle clippers, polish, and some toes.

Did I mention he never stopped grinning?

Doogie-san sat down and began working on my cuticles. Now granted, I had worked on them a bit myself because, based on the fact I had been on the other end of the foot before, I wasn’t about to stick my overgrown cuticles in someone’s face.

Because I’m all thoughtful like that.

But I expected some force, do you know what I mean? I expected the cuticle pusher to hurt just a little. No pain, no gain – right? But all I know to compare the timidity of his cuticle pushing with is that of a limp handshake.

And with that said, it was clear I was the very first pedicure this child have ever done in his entire life.

And I was devastated.

So Tara’s girl is finished with her feet in no time and even shaved off her corns and bunions with a razor. My dude did not venture into Razor Land. I guess for that I should be grateful or I could have ended up a few toes short of a full pedicure like my Fungus Lady. Tara was already getting polished by the time the ever-grinning Doogie proceeded to lotion my calves.

A process I found entirely creepy.

It became obvious pretty early on I was getting no polka dots or flowers in my polish so I picked a reddish color Luke had said he liked. I was hoping Doogie would surprise me and at least be able to color within the lines.

Hope is now a word I use sparingly.

Boy Wonder began his work only to be confirmed as the worst nail painter in cosmetological history. Even worse than my mangled toe flesh paint job of the Fungus Lady. My toes looked like he poured the polish out of the bottle onto my toe and wiped off around it. It would be giving him too much credit to say it looked like my 8 year old son painted them. I was so deep in despondency at this point I was trying to justify my $30 was kind of like giving to foreign missions as I clearly was not getting any valued service. And all the while my compassionate friend Tara was sending me texts:

“I think he likes you.”

That made it all better.

As we sat in the torture devices Shiatsu massage chairs to let our toes dry, the girl who did Tara’s feet apparently could tell I was distressed. Doogie was unconcerned as he had moved on to a 9 year old girl. You know, someone his age. I called Tara’s girl over and showed her my polish and said, “Can you fix please?”

And clearly she was well-trained in the political correctness of not dissing her fellow man’s polish skilz, but the look of horror on her face said it all.

“Oh, so sorry. Soooo sorry.” And to her credit, she had me looking as good as possible without applying skin bleach. My toes were stained red for days I tell you. After she was done, she said something with a lot of syllables to the boy and he looked at me.

And grinned.

And chicken poop never looked so good. Something tells me JOp0934[qn;kdf will need some help on the farm and I totally have his boy.

For clarity: The boy wasn’t really eleven..I was exaggerating – Imagine that! But there’s no way he was older than a teenager. I would never let an eleven-year-old work on my feet.

I positively draw the line at 13……

The PW on Politics

My sister sent me this cool survey today called ‘Select A Candidate‘.. You answer 11 questions and it generates which Presidential Candidate most aligns with your views.

If yours comes back Hillary or Obama – I can still love you through The Cross. :) I hear the Preacher can’t campaign from the pulpit, but that doesn’t extend to his wife’s blog. With that said:


And this concludes today’s Public Service Announcement.

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