What’s the best way to say I love you/I’m sorry/I’m too lazy to write you a letter? With a chocolate dipped fruit flower arrangement! Yes I think edible arrangements might be able to stop world wars.
Last night, after the Buddha Bar and after I had been on a 48 hour fruit and vegetable detox, I kind of snapped at Craig and then fell asleep like a log before I could apologize. I hate getting annoyed at people, because 99 percent of the time, it’s really not worth it. But with Craig it’s not worth it 110 percent, so I truly hate snapping at him, even if it’s cathartic at the time.
When I woke up and rolled into work, I was riddled with guilt. But how to say “I’m sorry, I’m a moron” without just mouthing the words like a marionette? I came up with a hundred bad ideas until the brilliance that is Edible Arrangements came to me. Craig is a human garbage disposal. The man loves food. So what better to get him than some manly fruit flowers and a sassy card? I ordered the peanut butter surprise arrangement at once and congratulated myself of working my way out of a fight for under a hundred dollars.
One thing I really love about technology is being able to track something. I can follow my clothing when I shop online, track my friends’ marathon splits when they do races, and I can even track the status of an Edible Arrangement. It only took about four hours from the moment I placed the order to the second Craig received it and became frilly fruit man. But what’s most important is while he was blinded with mellon balls and a natural sugar high, he forgave me and spouted words of love. Feeewf!
Say I'm sorry with magical fruit! Okay, it's not like unicorn magical, but look at it! How could you be mad at someone when they give you a pineapple sunflower?
The one thing I remember about being pregnant the last time, is that by the time my belly was big, I just felt like some gigantic gender neutral being toddling around. Like a huge mass of algae with a gut. Even though everyone said very nice things to me — except a few baggers at the grocery store that told me that looked I was “going to have enormous boy twins” — it still seemed like I was just a big ball of neuter. Yep, a big ball of neuter. That pretty much sums it up.
I know. It’s not rational – I mean, being pregnant is the one instance in life I should feel more feminine than ever before, but for some reason, I don’t. And this time around, though I’m just about three months pregnant, I already see my stomach beginning to resemble a snow globe. I don’t know what it is about my belly, but when it gets big like that, that old feeling comes back and I’m once again a bloated sexless entity. Like Barney.
Now, of course, I don’t really care about this too much, because having gone through pregnancy once before, I must say, the end result is SO worth it. Feeling like a fat sea sponge is a small price to pay for a perfect little baby, so trust me, I’m not that bothered. However, one’s vanity certainly takes a hit during pregnancy and in that respect, the only thing worse than feeling like an chubby eunuch, is feeling like an OLD chubby eunuch.
So when the cute little lady that washes my hair at the salon told me today that I didn’t look old enough to be having my second baby, I immediately loved her. Because when I said, “Oh, I’m 31″ and she snorted in disbelief, I felt like a young and shiny ball of neuter instead of an old crusty one with a forehead wrinkle and slight hints of crow’s feet. Yay.
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