Life is not a bowl of cherries.Life is a bowl of ‘cuties’…and the one on the bottom is probably moldy.

moldySo as I sit down to write this, my maiden, virginal post on this blog, I decide I should have a snack. Fruit! I shall have fruit – because healthful eating is my middle name. ( Ok…my middle name is actually Marie, get over it)

I amble over to the fruit bowl (I’m not sure what ‘ambling’ is, but I’ve always wanted to do it.) and see my choices are one of the 2 remaining clementine cuties in the bottom of the bowl. I assure you they were not cute…I’m not even certain they are still clementines in any but the broadest of terms. They look more like kiwis – only I know we don’t have kiwis, so I am left to conclude they are the vestige of some citrus from days of yore. My efforts to obtain a snack are fruitless, in the most literal sense of the word.

As I walk away from the fruit bowl I recognize that I am musing over an ever more common daydream…causing grievous bodily harm to minors in my household. Don’t look at me like that – you know you have done this too (daydreamed about it – not actually done it – sheesh)…particularly if you have ever been in proximity to a teenager for more than 15 consecutive minutes. I don’t even know if it was the teenager who left the foul demon fruit to collect fruit flies and wrath in my kitchen. I will just assume it was. It saves time.

What is it about puberty that makes me want to invest in a ‘Waterboarding 101’ course? Is it the smell (and oh yes, there IS a smell) Is it the clueless indignance? Perhaps its the sudden inability to find their ass with a roadmap, a flashlight and a preprogrammed GPS. Whatever it is, it makes me cranky…and by cranky I mean homicidal and violent.

I realized today that perhaps I was a little frazzled by my consistent, endless, ceaseless, ongoing contact with my delightful 14 year old, homeschooled son Devan. As he prattled on (and on and on) about The video game Dark Souls in the car, his words faded from yammering to incomprehensible verbiage to a sound I can only describe as a disemboweled seagull screaming through a megaphone. I waited for him to pause and take a breath (or pass out from the lack there of) and informed him that I was going to donkey kick him in the kidneys. He stared at me blankly for a few moments before bursting into gales of laughter…largely because he knows I have bad knees and he can outrun me.

I pondered perhaps, that this was really an overreaction to the stimuli involved. Then he began in again, and I realized “Nope! Wholly appropriate!”

And now…the cuties….the shriveled little moldy jewels of putrescence that were just too challenging for someone to throw away. Their very existence mocks me. I will have my vengeance…oh yes – its coming like a train of ‘in your face’ hurling down a twisted track. I have two words for you son – donkey kick.