To the Person Who Stole My Gordita Fund

To the Person Who Stole My Gordita Fund
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The ashtray in my car used to be a plain ol' Spare Change Catch-all. Then, I watched a Tony Robbins PBS special about how you have to call out intentions in your life to make them happen, so I started calling the ashtray my Dreams Start Here Fund. THEN, I got wind of some people who were doing vision boards and such, and I knew that I really had to commit to something, lock it down, and the universe would mysteriously align. That's when I started to get specific about my hopes, dreams, and desires in life.

Hence, the Taco Bell Gordita Fund was born.

I could tell it was the right decision because the very next day, I found a shiny nickel laying on the floor outside of a Forever 21. As I bent down to pick it up and clean it off with my hot breath, I felt like a Greater Force was winking at me from above and whispering, "Here's a little something to get you started." It was clear that the Universe wanted me to experience the warm pillowly flatbread covered in a melted three-cheese blend.

Occasionally, I would slide back the ashtray cover and eyeball the slowly growing fortune at stoplights. I'm not good at eyeballing (or "guesstimating" I think is the official term) because once, I was at my daughter's school fair, and I had to guesstimate the number of gumballs in a really large jar. I guessed 73 but there were actually 991 gumballs in there. A cloud of gloom settled over me after they announced the 9-year-old winner, because I had already thought about all the ways I could enjoy the gum in my day-to-day life.

Sometimes, driving by the Taco Bell near my neighborhood, I wouldn't look at it directly because some emotions would well up that I didn't know how to process. Instead, I would give it a quick sideways glance and say out loud, "I'm coming back for you. Wait for me."

Well, the important thing to know about my Taco Bell Gordita Fund is that someone stole it over the weekend.

That's probably what I should have started with now that I think about it, but obviously, the shock of the situation has done a number on me, and I just needed to ramble for a little bit, let it out, tell you where I was coming from... you know how it goes.

Someone broke into my car over the weekend and stole almost everything of value. I say *almost* because luckily, they left one important thing behind. An item with no real price tag because it's priceless to me:

My autographed Kenny G CD that my best girlfriend had The Master sign after one of his concerts.

Criminy, I am really filled with a lot of hate today as I obsess over the different things the thief is doing with MY stuff. What is he buying with the $173 I had left on my Toys R Us gift card? What kind of coffee is she enjoying with my Starbucks gift card? Will this person be using my iPod to house the entire collection of Demi Lovato's music? Will my Taco Bell Gordita Fund unknowingly pay for bus fare to other neighborhoods so that this asshole's crime spree can continue?

Have I unknowingly supplied a monster with the means to perpetuate a life of evil? Does this make me an accessory to a crime?

In therapy, they tell you that in order to get closure, you need to directly address the person who did you wrong, and if they happen to be dead, then a letter is the next best thing. I talked about my letter idea at the dinner table last night, and my daughter, Cal, was concerned for me because she thought there was a high likelihood that whoever stole my hopes and dreams probably doesn't read my blog. I thanked her for keeping it real and told her that she had a good point. I guess this letter will have to be more about venting and finding some peace rather than a call to action for the perpetrator to paypal me $1.63.




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