Monday, June 18, 2012
Trader Joe's Cherries
I was going to post yesterday, but knew I was too much of a drag. I'm better today.
Father's Day gets me down. I lost my dad sixteen years ago, before I understood that I was crazy about him-- it was his disease of drinking I couldn't stand. I lost my Micha on June 1, before I had a chance to save him. I lost my moral compass long ago, my work ethic in 2008 and my joie de vivre last month. My thighs and ass went sometime in the mid-80s. My flat stomach took a hike last August.
Loss paralyzes me. At first, it feels like I'm wading through molasses each day. Then, I feel like Trader Joe cherries, gelled with red wine, pecans and ricotta cheese in my mom's signature jello creation. Then, I progress to a fly trapped in amber.
I'm irked at my Higher Power today; kvetchy cause we are put on this earth, struggle on this earth, are taken from this earth. Why? What's the point. Time on earth is a showcase for disease, dysfunction, dread, discouragement, and the ultimate strong conclusion-- death.
My friend, Patty, told me she looked at the piles lying on every surface of her house the other day and thought, This is what depression looks like. I look at my kitchen countertop. What countertop? I try to find it through the rounded heaps of books, invoices, magazine clippings, lottery tickets, recipes, catalogues, receipts and cut-out coupons which expired three weeks ago. The prehistoric mound peoples of Tennessee have nothing on me.
I resent customer loyalty programs which require me to return what I just bought to CVS, then re-buy it so I can get a $5 discount on a $15 purchase. Thank you, JCP for doing away with your bewildering maze of mailed discount cards, emailed coupons and receipts with discounts running along the bottom of the paper. Why can't more retailers be like JCP? Of course, I hear you can roll a bowling ball down the aisles at JCP and not hit a single customer since "the change".
I have no answers, only self-pity and a desire to eat everything in my kitchen. Sugar, fat and dough will make everything better-- for about 30 minutes. Then the horror will strike. I know just the graphic for my terror. Edvard Munch -- how apt.
Glad I waited till today to post.