For eating only, NOT a dildo

I like cucumbers, but I NEVER masturbate with them.  

Seriously. Not even in college. I don't think.

But my point is, when I go to the market and pick out a cucumber, I'm planning on making a salad. That's it. So if you see me at the market and I'm picking out cucumbers, just stop looking at me, I know what you're thinking. I wasn't thinking about using them for anything other than salad, that is until you started staring. Now I'm thinking about it but I don't mean to. 

Jesus, can't a girl just make herself a salad? 

I'm blushing now, but only because of what you think I'm thinking about these cucumbers, which I'm not, or wasn't.

Watch. I'll pick out the little sickly one with pimples all over. If I were going to masturbate with a cucumber, would I use this one? No. It's all waxy and bumpy, it's practically diseased. So get off my back.

And look, I'll buy 5 or maybe even 8 sickly cucumbers, because I mean business with my salad. If I were thinking of masturbating with a cucumber, I'd only buy one. Isn't that right? One cucumber is for perverts. 8 is for hard-core health nuts and juicers. See? It's all innocent, nothing more to see here... 

Hold on. 8 cucumbers looks ridiculous. 8 is even more conspicuous than one, especially resting here in my cart next to a bottle of hand lotion. Yikes.  

3 cucumbers is better. 3 sickly cucumbers. I don't even notice how sickly they look, because a cucumber's a cucumber. Unless you're thinking of fucking it. Which I'm clearly not, as you can see by the diseased state of the ones I've chosen. I barely even paid attention when I was picking them out, and it shows. The checker might even ask me if I want healthier ones, and I'll laugh and say Oh I didn't even notice the poor condition of those cucumbers! Silly me! and he'll laugh in a relaxed, nonjudgmental way because of how obvious it is that I'm not buying them for masturbation.

But then when he gets on the microphone and asks the produce guy to bring 3 fresh healthy cucumbers up, the other customers might misunderstand the situation, which is that I breezily picked out these sickly cucumbers because I don't think about things like girth or firmness. They will automatically assume that I'm in need of superior, vagina-quality cukes.

3 middle-of-the-road cucumbers would be best. Plain Jane cucumbers. Forgettable cucumbers. Neither here nor there cucumbers. Totally unsexy, all-work-no-play cucumbers.  

 

Now that I've made it into a big deal, I'm embarrassed. I realize that my defensiveness makes it seem like I am, in fact, buying a cucumber with which to masturbate. I should have just breezed by the cucumber area, lazily grabbed the first 3 I saw, and stuck them in a bag like everyone else does. 

Yeah, a bag would have been good. These 3 cucumbers rolling around in my cart look like giant green dildos. A plastic baggie looks much more civilized, and proves my point that these are for eating only. 

I should have just kept my mouth shut about the cucumbers. 

  

Because I care

You've changed, Nana.

There, I've said it. You have this silent, haughty air about you lately. At first I thought it was a temporary ego thing after Willard Scott announced your 100th birthday on air, but a couple of years have passed and nothing's changed. It's so easy for people to get caught up in your grammy sweaters and your Captain Kangaroo 'do and think aw, she's so cute. But I'm not buying it anymore. Seriously, I'm so done.

I don't care how old you are. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. You're acting like a dick.

Don't give me that confused look. Alright, let me lay it all out on the table:

1) Listen up, you. I'm 34 years old. A five spot in a birthday card isn't gonna cut it anymore. I realize in your day five dollars would have bought you a log cabin, or a parasol, or whatever you people spent your money on before there was good stuff, but welcome to the future, Nana. Shit's expensive. And the way you so carelessly scrawl your name at the bottom of the card, I can't read a word of it. I don't care how bad your hand shakes, you better find a way to pull yourself together and eek out something resembling a legible signature. Put some effort into it. Take a pill, ask your home health care worker to hold your wrist steady, whatever you gotta do, just make it happen.

2) Is there something wrong with our air? It suits me just fine, same with everyone else you know. But apparently our stupid old atmosphere isn't up to your standards. Don't think it's gone unnoticed that you keep your own private stash (the good stuff, no doubt) in a tank nearby so you don't have to breathe the generic brand. We are literally not fit to breathe the same air, are we. This is elitism at its worst. It's AIR, Nana, it's free, and look around...it's freakin everywhere!

3) Sleeping 23 hours a day is for cats and hobos, so wake the hell up. Come on, up and at 'em! Days a wastin'! It's not like the other waking hour of your day is so exhausting. I mean, you have not one, but TWO people holding you by your armpits every time you go anywhere, so how tiring can your life possibly be? I wish I had it that good, I wish people would carry ME around everywhere by my armpits. I work hard, blogging and texting and thinking all the time, but I manage to walk to the bathroom from my seat in front of the tv and back like everyone else. People are starting to talk about how lazy you are, and frankly, I'm tired of defending you.

4) I, too, get tired of chewing sometimes. I know, food can be so damn chunky. But I get through it, and so should you. The fact that you demand that your food be pureed to a pulp is just such diva behavior. Listen Ms. Ross, use the teeth your periodontist gave you, open up, and get to work. Eat your eggplant parmesan whole and unblended like everyone else, because you're really no better than the rest of us.

5) My name is Becky. BECKY. Here, I'll help you out. You know a neat trick to remember it? It's the same as your name. Which is also BECKY. I know, it's tricky. But in any case my name's not "Howdi-li-do!," or "Don't you look festive today!" And winking at me with your twinkly eye and bright grandmotherly smile does not a greeting make.

6) Woman, we get it. You've been around for over a century, and in that time you have acquired an impressive collection of jewelry. But really, there is no need to flaunt it in our faces every day. What statement are you trying to make with this endless parade of bedazzled hummingbird broaches and gold rope chain necklaces adorned with cardinals, honeybees, and sparrows? Are you trying to make everyone jealous? Well, guess what. It worked. Happy?

7) The drama. Oh Lord, the drama you bring with you everywhere you go. These "Petite Mal Seizures" and "Temporary Comatose States" you seem to miraculously fade in and out of, it's barely funny anymore. You realize you almost ruined Thanksgiving when we had to remove you from the table and lay you out on the floor to check your breathing? There never was a bigger attention whore, ever. If I faked a coma or a seizure every time I felt neglected, I'd never get up. Deal with it.

Pull yourself together, Nana. Really. What would Jesus say?