Tuesday, August 25, 2009

cucumber hieroglyphics

Just the other day my son pulled this cucumber out of the fridge and said, "Mom, did you see this?"
"Yes," I said, "I picked it. Isn't it cool?"
"And did you take a picture of it?" asked my son, his voice dripping with the kind of condescension only a teenager can muster, "Did you take a picture and put it up on the internet and then BLOG about it?"
"Not yet," I said, "But you know I will!"
That's the thing about families - they have this terrible tendency to actually know you. I am always thrilled by weird etchings on garden vegetables - shapes, too: I had a potato that looked exactly like Richard Nixon once! Granted, that wasn't much of a stretch. Still, I think weird vegetables are examples of Greater Forces at work and they cheer me up. Doesn't this look exactly like the way some ancient, eldritch, interstellar intelligence would write me a letter? Don't you think some small cucumber god is trying to communicate, here? These markings probably show the location of the lost and forgotten Stone Of Cuke and when I find it, I will then immediately be launched on a wild adventure featuring dwarves and a bearded wizard with a pair of pruning shears! Or, um, not.

I feel as if I've been horribly lazy lately but I have actually gotten some shit done. In the silver lining to the Great 2009 Bug Disaster, a ton of my clothes are still in the garage in giant plastic bags, yes, but the ones that have been unpacked are organized. Dude, I mean they are Organized. My closet is so obsessive compulsive it's scary. The tidy, organized and logical side of my brain doesn't get to come out often - I tend towards the Dionysian, not the Apollonian, as you may have gathered - so when it does, it sort of goes into overkill. My closet is so beautiful that I'm kind of reluctant to take the rest of my wardrobe out of the garage: it might kill the symmetry. Sure, I haven't got a damn thing to wear to work but so what? I can sit on my bed and stare at my closet and be quietly, creepily, happy.

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