Frozen Memory

Sometimes I just gotta wonder. Tonight I'm meeting a guy from Match.com for a beer. And I found myself wondering on the drive home from work, "What's the point?"

I don't seem to have the energy to date. Why? And then I thought, "I've had a take-my-breath-away moment." And I haven't had one since that evening five years ago. I can say that in all seriousness.

Do we only get one of those moments in a lifetime?

Is it that after having one, all our expectations are set at the highest bar?

Do I continue to believe that a moment like that can happen again?

Or do I lower my standards?

Give up?

"Giving up" is a difficult strategy for me to grasp. But times like now? I kinda feel like it.

I wonder about a lot of things. See the trouble it gets me into?

I will not complain about being cold again. Sunshine go away today, I don't feel much like dancin'. Remember that song? Go. Away. Mr. Sunshine. Seriously.

A Bit on Fruit

For the vast majority of my adult life I have contended that I don’t care much for fresh fruit. Come to think of it, even as a child I wasn’t a big fan. And don’t get me started on cooked fruits.

This morning as I wielded my cart through the produce section of my grocery store, I was excited to see cantaloupe on sale for $0.99 each. Wow! A pittance for fruit that yielded succulent, chockful of vitamins, healthy booty! I stood in front of the piled-high display of creamy colored melons; a stream of thoughts flowed through my head with the speed of class 5 river rapids. “Uggghhh…I have to select one." “Didn’t mom always say to choose one with a smooth spot where the stem was?” “It’s the pale yellow ones I’m looking for, right?” “Is that what mom said?” As you can see, doubt settled in regarding my selection ability. The produce man asked me if I needed help. I told him that I was looking for a good cantaloupe hoping that, with his vast amount of produce knowledge, he would choose the juiciest, ripest, most flavorful melon from the pyramid. As my luck would have it, he merely parroted the same sentiments I had heard from my mom. Creamy skin, a heavy melon, its okay if the outside is a bit bumpy. Are you kidding me? Couldn’t he see that I was lost despite his coaching? Crap shite. Fine. I’ll do it myself. Whatever. I dove in, pulled out two, and wheeled away without any confidence in my selection. No confidence whatsoever. Yet still hopeful.

I got home with my groceries and started carving up the melon. Cut it in half, scoop out the seeds, slice into wedges, cut into bite-sized chunks, pop in the fridge for a refreshing cool snack. I realized as I was finishing up with the bite-sized pieces that I hadn’t popped one in my mouth. This stopped me in my tracks. Huh? I didn’t WANT to eat it. Didn’t WANT to taste it. Why? Because I didn’t want to be disappointed.

The sudden realization was freeing. I had finally been able to pinpoint why I don’t like fruit. When I tell people I don’t like fruit, eyes pop open wide and mouths drop. I start to stutter my way through vague explanations and random excuses. Having a solid reason makes me feel better about what others view as an oddity or affliction.

Fruit is unreliable. Fruit is disappointing.

Mealy apples. Beautiful ruby-red strawberries without flavor. Pithy oranges. Nectarines that never ripen. Jade fleshed avocados strafed with brown spots. Pears sans juice.

The notion of a magnificently arranged bowl of fruit sitting on the counter ripe for delicious, healthy snacking eludes me.

No one likes to be disappointed by something so beautiful to behold and suggests so much temptation and hope.

However, I will say, pineapple has never disappointed me and I, therefore, hold it in high regard.

Too Hot? Write. Just Write.

Dog days of summer, me arse. I say, “Phooey” on the dog days of summer. Phooey. Blech. Bah humbug. Sun worshipers, picnickers, nature enthusiasts, campers, runners & bicyclists exerting themselves in 80-90 degree heat who think that the summer months offer up the ideal weather to pursue their activities? Y’all can have it. I’m holing up in my apartment, blinds drawn against the merciless sun, windows closed, sweating and sweltering while I lay on my couch reading. (Please note the em-pha-sis I place on “sweating while I lay.” This is not right…sweating while lying down.)

My time will come. Oh, it definitely will come. Within another week or so, I'll open my door one morning and catch its first hint. That certain snap to the air will begin ever-so-slightly and gain momentum. Nights a bit crisper. Morning dew on the car as I head out on my daily commute. Days drawing shorter. Twilight softer. This is my time to be active. Walking, leaves crunching underfoot. Simmering soups and stews. Oven blazing like a furnace turning out pumpkin bread. The fecund, sweet scent of the earth offering up it’s late last harvest and wrapping in on itself to slumber for a season. Yes. This is my time. Soon.

Just what are the “dog days of summer?” That’s exactly what I was wondering too. Come to find out that the dog days of summer occur July – August and originated from the alpha star, Sirius, in the constellation Canis Major (Big Dog). So I’m told that Sirius is the brightest star next to the sun and in the winter one can see it easily. However in the summer, as it reaches closer proximity to the light of the overpowering sun, it virtually disappears (just like me behind my blinds and closed doors). Now those clever ancient Romans believed that Sirius, this madly bright star, drew closer to the sun in the summer months to add its warmth to its fiercely hot neighbor, the Sun, and thereby producing the hottest months of the year. Sirius means “scorching.” Go figure. Bah humbug.

Crap Shite

I had a very upsetting and difficult day today at work. And I felt very lonely. It was a shitty day.

Vegetable Embryos

You know what creeps me out? When I cut into a pepper, be it green, yellow or red...makes no matter, only to find another little pepper growing inside. It's almost as bad as the slimy little white things that cling to the yolk of an egg that you think is the beginnings of a little embryo. Oh for criminy sake, it's a vegie embryo. Gross.

Why am I even eating peppers when my new ayurvedic naturopath explicitly told me not to? Because I want to! I can't give them up! I won't.

That's right, Mr. Lasagna Noodle, go ahead and keep burning the shit out of my fingers...you and your no-good curls. See if I ever use you again.