Enigma with Flower

Last night, I had an epiphany. It’s an epiphany I have repeatedly, Memento-style. The epiphany is this: I have a terrible memory when it comes to time. Completely horrible. I forget what day of the week it is, even what month it is. Naturally this forgetfulness extends to holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and all other events that somehow correlate to the construct of time. I compensate by making heavy use of the calendar, but since I am forgetful, I sometimes forget to add the dates I’m trying to remember to the calendar.

Last night, while looking at the calendar, I got that gnawing feeling in the back of my brain. Something was missing. Had that forgotten something passed or was there time to salvage it? End of July. Something happens around this time every year.

Shit!

Penelope’s birthday!

What day was it? July 29, I had time. Her birthday is not until July 31. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I have not received one clue. I have not received one wish list, ransom note, or set of demands. I do know she wants to go to the farmer’s market. Honestly, if I was so inclined, I could make it a farmer’s market morning, hand her a bag of Skittles, crack a beer, and call it a day. But, I love Penelope and contrast is king.

I have no idea what I’m going to get her. That part doesn’t really matter as much as the fact that she’ll receive a card and something she can open. I probably don’t have time to find the perfect sexually suggestive card, so I’ll have to find one to which I can add a short note that renders it appropriately naughty.  I’ll get up with the kids in the morning, cook breakfast, get them dressed, and off we’ll go to the farmer’s market. If Penelope wants me to fire up the grill, even though it’s going to be in the high 90′s tomorrow, then I shall fire up the grill. I will actually suggest the grill, though it’s mostly because I love grilled meat and cold cocktails and showers are effective antidotes to high temps. (Remember – selfishness need not be zero sum.)

Several times over the course of the day, I shall work her out proper.

Sunday, I shall sleep in. It will be the quiet, restful sleep of the man who is king of his castle.

Victory. It has come late, I had not learnt
how to arrive, like the lily, at will,
the white figure, that pierces
the motionless eternity of earth,
pushing at clear, faint, form,
till the hour strikes: that clay,
with a white ray, or a spur of milk.
Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil,
on whose cliff the fair flower advances,
till the flag of its whiteness
defeats the contemptible deep of night,
and, from the motion of light,
spills itself in astonished seed.

-Pablo Neruda