Tuesday, May 05, 2009

I Married a Carrot Therapist

"Take it away, Rice!"

"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!

11 comments:

Kimberly Zook said...

Oh this is too funny and too cute! That is really a unique way to meet someone and what a great idea for you to build on as a writer! I love how you wrote "He made a carrot talk to me." Great post :)

Elizabeth Kathryn Gerold-Miller said...

I love this story!

Loren Christie said...

Hi Elizabeth, Kimberly! Thanks for stopping by.

Loren Christie said...

Milk Man, I'm sorry, I had to delete that comment. If you repost remember no first names on kids.

Milk Man said...

What was I thinking, Big Brother and I both share a distaste for the root that opened the door to our love

Loren Christie said...

The what?

Putz said...

do you know how much you say about yourself in these blogs/?????you are telling on yourself...all your weakness, foibles et etc ...i love it but my wife would be mortified

Putz said...

on a very personal note....i want to be a saint...i know that must seem sELfish or maybe presumptuous to you but i feel so unfufilled as a mr. putz....i want to be great mohatma and i don't know how to do it...watch me one day i am going to get away from my computer and walk into the sunset for human rights, and tell big O WHERE TO GO AND GO UP TO THESE SUICIDE BOMBERS and say don't and they would listen to me...now how can i be married to my church right dow loren????

Elizabeth Kathryn Gerold-Miller said...

Putz, I actually saw this question (which you asked about "How can I be a saint?") addressed on EWTN by a Franciscan Friar the other night. Being a saint simply means that you will be in heaven when you die. So when you say "I want to be a saint", it doesn't mean you have to be perfect, but that you have to give your heart to God and do your best to live by His ways.

Loren Christie said...

Well, I'm not a saint, yet. That's for sure. Mr. Putz, I think it's all about trying day by day to live your faith honestly, and self-reflection. It's about attempting to change yourself for the better spiritually and doing what you can with the gifts God gave you. As far as putting myself out there on this blog. Mr. Putz,I am not afraid to be human in front of others. Although it can be uncomfortable to share personal details, I think there is something in them that others can relate to.

Loren Christie said...

One more thing, Mr. Putz. I don't think you are selfish for wanting to be a saint. I think that's great! In fact, it's the only thing people should aspire to be. Imagine the world if that were true! Who is to say that you are not a saint? It's hard to measure your life while it's still in progress. Don't be so hard on yourself, and keep doing the little Putzy things you do. :)

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.

Fondly,

Loren Christie

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