After having a rather obtrusive (in contrast with "invasive") medical procedure yesterday afternoon, I decided I needed to indulge myself with a forbidden treat. I ordered Papa Del's as I was driving west on University. (Yes, I am lactose- and gluten-intolerant: Danger! Danger Will Robinson! Stay clear of room 113 today!) The guy taking my order asked for my phone number, fine, then he asked for my name. I said, "Renice – R - E - N - I - C - E." "Is that your last name?" "No, it's my first." "Could you give me your last name?" "Do you know any other Renices?" "Uhhh, no..." "Ok then, I want a small spinach and mushroom stuffed pizza."

When I hung up I thought, "Uh oh, I'm not in New York anymore." (Sorry Iffy, I didn't get your stylish-something request in time.) When going in either direction between cornfields and The City, it usually takes me a while to adjust my sense of space, distance, time, style, and/or humor. Space didn't feel so warped this trip, but I'm going to have to work on my timing.

During the introductory first hour of last weekend's workshop, the instructor told a joke about keys. I can't remember the joke, but the second he said it I remembered that I didn't remember having my keys when I got on the plane. Sure enough, three days later I had to call a locksmith from the airport parking lot back in Indy. Freud said no accident is an accident, and in this case, I think I really didn't want to come back to the cornfields.

Ahhh... just another opportunity to practice a releasing technique.