Tuesday, May 05, 2009
I Married a Carrot Therapist
"We're ready for dessert! We're ready for dessert!"
Big brother is making the rice on his plate sing during dinner. I look over at Milk Man.
"Does this surprise you?" I ask, referring to our children's propensity to personify food.
We both laugh.
Flash back to 1995, I'm a sophomore in college, sitting on my bedroom floor in my parent's house, talking on my pink phone with the knotted cord:
"I have a friend from high school who is getting out of the Navy in time to come to my graduation party. I think you two will get along," says my friend Frank.
It's the first I hear of Milk Man, after relaying a horror story of blind date number four and vowing,"I am NEVER getting set up with someone again, Frank."
Notice the emphasis I place on the word NEVER.
Fast forward a month to Frank's college graduation party:
I'm wearing that black dress that I still can't throw out to this day. Milk Man is there, somewhere. Part of me doesn't want to run into him. That part wants to crawl under a table because of the pressure that comes along with getting "set up" to meet someone.
What makes me wary of being set up at Frank's house is the fact that this boy/man friend of his is a sailor, like Popeye or Black Beard. I am stereotyping, and I can't help it. However, I would not miss Frank's graduation party for anything.
I see Milk Man greeting people in the kitchen. I guess he doesn't know how to approach me. He shakes my hand and introduces himself, formally, which is kind of funny and surprising given the setting. Then he just walks away. I think I might have scared him. He's a little nervous and that makes me feel more comfortable. He's no Captain Hook after all.
A few minutes later, there is a carrot on my shoulder, speaking. It wants to get to know me better, solve all my problems, in fact, because it is employed as a "therapist."
I turn around to find Milk Man holding the carrot. This is so stupid, I think. What a dumb way to talk to a girl. This guy is such a goofball... I hope he calls me.
How could he know that I am "Miss Personification?" While my friends were writing dark despairing poetry in high school about love forlorn, I was penning poems about cat and mouse fights, or talking meatballs.
"He made a carrot talk to me." I tell my parents the day after the party when they ask about the "set up."
They get quiet and look at each other.
"Sounds like he's perfect for you," Dad laughs.
Note: Frank and his wife are baby Bigfoot's godparents. I could not have imagined that in 1995!
Dear Internet Traveler,
Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.