Oh When the Saints

On the way home from dropping Lennon off at school, I saw a crumpled up napkin on the sidewalk that looked just like St. Francis of Assisi. I'm so serious. Bald head, raised hands, and everything.

I just learned I have Jewish roots, so I didn't feel like this was a personal message for me, but I did catch the irony of litter in the form of the patron saint of the environment. Come on, now, THAT'S funny.

I don't normally believe in signs. Unless I'm super manic. Then I take EVERYTHING as a sign. It's one of those Delusions of Grandeur effects. If NBC starts airing a show about ancestry, right after I sign up for an account with ancestry.com, I take it as a sign that the universe is well pleased. If, on Easter morning, I wake up and crave peeps and nachos, I take it as a sign that I could be pregnant (probably not, BUT, my pants wouldn't button after my mother-in-law's lasagna dinner, so that's kind of something. "Something", as in, I ate four servings of my mother-in-law's lasagna. (No, but seriously? Not to get too informative, but a pregnancy really would have to be Biblically significant, because it's just not possible. I'm saying no more.) If I cut my thumb while slicing tomatoes, I take it as a sign that everyone hates me, and that I should never cut another tomato ever again as long as I live. Logical stuff like that.

I'm not going to look too much into seeing St. Francis this morning. I could conclude that it's a good day to go clean the Francis home, but I won't. I could conclude this totally means I should get a basset hound and name him Frank, but I won't (at least not for a few more months). I could have just picked up the napkin and threw it away in the nearest trash can, but I didn't. I did nothing about it, and I'll do nothing about it. Except blog about it. And not even well.

And that is the story of why I will never see the Virgin Guadalupe in my tortillas.