Oh honey, not the bloody watermelon again!!!!

While I cannot recall the date, I can pin down the exact moment the gerbils started spinning their wheels in my over-sexed, forty something, better half’s brain.

It was a morning several weeks back, I had just gotten out of the shower and was sitting at our bistro table in our living room applying the goop to my face that would eventually make me acceptable enough to step out into public.  My better half was sitting, still half asleep, on our love seat dozing while the television blared out the morning traffic news.  I don’t know where you live, but where I live they have this version of the morning news called “Breakfast Television”, just a revved up more interesting version of the regular daily current events with tidbits here and tidbits there, and something for both sexes.  Somewhere in the midst of it all, a quick blurb was made about the powerful aphrodisiac qualities of the bountiful fruit, better known as the bane of my existence, or by it’s proper name, the watermelon.  For men, it was nature’s inexpensive version of viagra.  For women, it was guaranteed to find your middle aged lost mojo.  As for me, I didn’t give it a second thought.

Later that week we went off to do the dirty business of grocery shopping, a chore that I vehemently abhor.  In the middle of the veggie aisle, my better half came walking towards me with the mother of all watermelons.  Shocked, I reminded him that there was just the two of us and that I was concerned that at least half of it would go bad or go to waste before we finished eating it.  He, gently reminded me that it was summer, and watermelon was the “best of summer foods.”  A little bit stupefied, I stood there quizzically staring at him wondering what summer he was talking about, since as of today, I am still wearing a coat to work.  I chalked it up to him looking for the rainbow in the grey sky and off we trotted home with our 20 pound bouncing baby melon.

For the next hellish two weeks of my life, I would wake up every morning to watermelon cut and laid out for me for breakfast, slices cut and snuck into my lunch, and a plate full at night to finish off dinner.  I was getting to the point where I waterlogged, bloated and ridiculously watermeloned out.  In fact, I ate so much watermelon that I spent every night peeing like a race horse, and so exhausted the next morning from having my poor who-ha permanently attached to the toilet, that I was starting to doze off at work.

In between the bladder overload and my exhaustion of sitting on the toilet all night, my better half was becoming ridiculously amorous.  Now listen, I like sex. But I have to admit that I have moments, of course, where the chronic pain is so bad, that I definitely do not want Tab A inserted into Slot B.  In fact, those are the days I would like to shred the human handbook of lovemaking.  But for the most part I am happy to oblige, partake and enjoy.

After two long weeks of eating that bloody pink atrocity and two weeks of peeing most of my body weight out, my better half finally pops up with “damn watermelon’s not working!” With a final dawning of realization of why a melon had been thrust down my throat for the last 2 weeks, I looked up at my better half and said: “Damn stinkin’ breakfast television!”  And then I got up and dumped that blasted pink seeded piece of horniness unceremoniously right into the garbage and walked away.

Oh now, don’t feel too bad for better half because after a good couple nights of sleep and some recuperation time, my better half was duly rewarded. But in the meantime, let's hope that he finally understand the definition of moderation!  And if I see another blasted watermelon, I am tossing it right out of my second floor window!

Until Next Time.

Tracy


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