Absolut Zukini

I've been commissioned by one of the bakers at JavaCo to paint flowers on the walls of her chicken coop. It's a bigger ordeal than I had originally thought--it took me over six hours to finish one side. In addition to monetary payment, though, she gave me four zucchini, a mess of green beans, and invited me to raid her garden whenever I visited to paint. I had no knowledge of how to prepare zucchini, outside of my usual dip-it-in-honey-mustard-sauce-and-consume-raw routine, but one of the ladies at the pool was kind enough to offer a recipe basic enough to remember offhand and not require any ingredients that I wouldn't be able to use in anything else.

Today, also at said pool, I was talking to the kid who wears Forrest Gump-style braces on his legs. After showing me his "trick" (a tidal wave splash, then going underwater, holding his breath, and wiggling around), he announced, "I have a really, really, really big zucchini."

"That's cool. Did you grow it?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to eat it?"

"No. It's too much for us to eat. We might give it away. Maybe to you." He laughed, then splashed, went underwater, held his breath, and wiggled around.

He was probably joking, but I couldn't help imagine what I would do with this bounty of zucchini that has been bestowed upon me, and why I was chosen to receive its glorious healthful plentitude. I pictured my refrigerator overflowing with vegetation as I'd attempt zucchini cakes, zucchini smoothies, chicken-fried zucchini, zucchini chips, zucchini-stuffed zucchini, zucchini dog food, zucchini vodka. I'd shake my fist at Providence with every well-intentioned gift while simultaneously offering a weary thanks, because at the moment I'm out of honey mustard sauce and I could really use a drink that began with Z.

"This wine will complement all manner of game and other wild beasts, including sloth."

I have just acquired a bottle of wine with a label designed by Ralph Steadman. You have no idea how cool that is.

I have to be at the pool in three hours.

Balancing act

I was awoken by a call from my mother:
"I was calling to see if you were walking at graduation so I would know if I should come up or not."
"No. I didn't want to waste money on a cap and gown for no reason."
"I would have paid for it."
"I just didn't think there was any point."

I have a cap and gown that I borrowed from my then-boyfriend two years ago and I fully intend to walk at graduation. It was the first time I'd talked to her since Easter.

I missed the last karaoke of the school year chasing a pipe dream up and down the streets of Kirksville and to the bottom of a bottle of Bacardi Razz. The memory of it faded as it happened and that was sobering enough, but it was something I had to find out anyway.

But I got hired as a lifeguard at the aquatic center, I was a model for one of the seven deadly sins, and my printmaking professor said that the t-shirt I made for my open project was one of the best he'd ever seen in his time at Truman. So somehow I feel that I've broke even.