Have you ever wanted to plan the perfect night for someone you love? You know…you buy some amazing flowers, pick out the perfect wine and make this incredible dinner following some intricate recipe that likely involves lemon grass or saffron or asparagus cut to look like swans on a placid lake. You dig out a real tablecloth from wherever you keep your fancy linens and you buy lots and lots of expensive candles. When your love arrives, you share a fabulous dinner and the conversation is deep but has just the right amount of wit and laughter. You then retire to the bedroom where you’ve loaded the iPod with the tunes most likely to get you some lovin’ and you light more candles and the light from the flickering candles casts the most beautiful glow on your paramour and you embrace and…then? You can’t get it up. Too. Much. Pressure. Actually, I’m sure this has never happened to you. I’m sure you are all great performers. You can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and do lots of other things that involve neither pans nor pork You have now reached the “What The Hell Is She Talking About” portion of today’s installment. Well, in the past couple of months, you have all been telling me how funny and smart I am. What? You didn’t say “smart”? Hmmm…I thought you said that but maybe I was talking to myself. Anyway, I know you’ve told me that I am funny. Funny with a capital “F”. This is the blogging equivalent of seducing me with flowers, liquor and dinner and now…I can’t put out. That’s right…I haven’t been putting out for you lately. Come on…you’ve noticed. I’ve noticed. We’re just not talking about it. Somewhere along the line, I started putting all of this pressure on myself to be funny and nothing kills The Funny like effort. Sure, there are other factors too. I haven’t been feeling very funny lately. I’ve been crabby about the weather and my job and the fact that I can’t eat my weight in Thin Mints every day. Sometimes, I make the proverbial lemonade out of my life lemons and then serve it to you here. Lately, though, I feel like I’ve been given unripe persimmons and those suckers are bitter beyond belief and I don’t think you can make them into a drink…certainly nothing I would feel right about serving to you. It’s also quite possible that the music I’ve been listening to has been making me all broody. I do so love a sad song but maybe I need to be listening to a little less Dido and a little more Ting Tings. Music can set a mood and perhaps my recent life soundtrack has been one of someone who works in a coal mine without a hard hat, surrounded by dead canaries. Actually, maybe I am one of the dead canaries or some sort of Zombie Canary with black smudges on my vibrant yellow feathers but with crazy dead swirly eyes and a compulsion to walk with my wings stretched out before me. Nobody should be subjected to a Zombie Canary peddling Persimmon Martinis.
I feel better now that we have talked about this. You knew and I knew and I knew that you knew but I'm not sure that you knew that I knew that you knew. You haven’t really had your say about this yet but believe me when I say, it’s me, baby...all me. The first step is acknowledging the problem or, in this case, having some insight into why, when I sit down to write a post, I feel like I am mining coal with a toothpick rather than a pickaxe. I know now that I need to lighten up. We will get through this. I promise. The romance isn’t over – we just need fewer candles and maybe a vinyl tablecloth. Don't give me roses...maybe just some daisies from your yard. Also, we could use better music, stronger booze and maybe some rice crackers with goat cheese. Even Zombie Canaries like goat cheese.