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| This woman will one day go fruity. iStockPhoto.com |
I quickly became obsessed.
There are so many things to love about personal watermelons. Maybe it’s because little things are so cute, like little human babies, little animal babies, Mini Coopers, and little feet — like mine before I turned 60.
Personal watermelons are a lot easier to hoist into my shopping cart and inspire me to yell “Whee!” as they roll down the checkout as smoothly as a duckpin ball in a bowling alley.
You don’t have to chill them in a cooler because they easily fit in the fridge next to my husband’s beer — which Bob likes because he prefers beer to fruit.
And, with personal watermelons, there’s no guilt in saying, “Yep, I ate the whole thing.”
I quickly went from buying one melon at a time to two then three then four. One day my obsession took a strange turn. I named them.
Two of them anyway, the twins, Joey and Maggie. I dressed Joey in OshKosh B’gosh overalls and a Reds baseball cap. I dressed Maggie in a ruffled pink and green sundress with a bedazzled unicorn headband. Cuteness overload!
For me anyway — Bob, not so much.
BOB: “Marianne, is there something you wanna tell me?”
ME: “Yes! I named the girl, Maggie, after my mom, and the boy Joey, for Joey Votto.”
BOB: “You named a watermelon after the Reds' first baseman?”
ME: “Why not? He’s hot!”
Bob didn’t seem too worried until I bought a stroller. Every day I’d take Joey and Maggie to the park. I’d wave and smile at the other moms with strollers — most with actual babies in them and a few with tiny well-dressed dogs. The moms would smile and wave back until they saw the twins. Then they’d jog frantically toward their cars.
I didn’t think moms got jealous of other moms.
Back home I told a disinterested Bob about the mean moms and put the twins in the fridge for their nap.
When I got home from some errands Bob shouted to me from the den where he was watching baseball.
BOB: “Sweetie, your boy, Votto, just hit another home run. This guy’s on fire!”
ME: “I told you he was hot.”
BOB: “Hey, would you grab me a beer while you’re in the kitchen?”
As I grabbed his beer I noticed Joey was gone. Hoping he was watching the game with Bob I ran to the den. When I handed Bob his beer, I saw a tiny pair of OshKosh B’gosh overalls and a Reds cap on the coffee table next to a bowl of freshly cut watermelon. Bob stabbed a piece with his fork and gulped it down.
BOB: “Wow. I can see why you like these melons. I’m not a fruit guy but this is delicious!”
ME: “JOEY!!!!!”
I don’t remember fainting.
When I came to, I was on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my throbbing head. Bob told me I hit the coffee table on the way down.
BOB: “How’re you feeling? Want some Tylenol?”
ME: “No. I want Joey. Does Maggie know?”
BOB: “Maggie? Oh, uh, right. I thought it’d be better if you told her. Wait. What am I saying? Marianne, they’re WATERMELONS!! Not children.”
ME: “That. Is. So. Cruel.”
BOB: “Can I please call your therapist?”
ME: “She died six years ago.”
BOB: “Shit. I forgot. Okay, how about your sister’s shrink — although we all know how well that’s been going—”
ME: “Leave my sister out of this. She would have loved Joey.”
BOB: “Okay, I have an idea. Let me get you a fresh bag of peas. You rest, okay?”
I nodded as Bob headed out to find me a shrink, or a shaman, or hopefully, Joey Votto.
Instead, he came back with an older gentleman with years of hard work dug into his soft face.
GUISEPPE: “Ciao, Signora! My name is Giuseppe. It is so nice to meet you.”
ME: “Who are you?”
GUISEPPE: “I manage the produce department at Super King. I see you there buying the baby melons. Your husband asked me to come by.”
ME: “What? Why?”
BOB: “Marianne, I told him about Joey. He thinks he can help.”
I wailed in grief for a moment until I could collect myself.
ME: “Okay, Guiseppe. You’ve got 2 minutes.”
Guiseppe told me how he’s been asked for help by dozens of husbands whose childless wives had been buying up personal watermelons.
GUISEPPE: “They dress them up, read them stories, take them to Mommy & Melons groups, to Tumbling Melons Gym and Build-A-Melon stores. Some even send them off to Farm Camp in the summer. Sadly, many of those melons don’t come home.”
Guiseppe assured me most of these Melon Moms snapped out of it by the end of the melon season and went back to their normal life.
GUISEPPE: “They are happy, Signora! Happy! Felice!”
Bob took Guiseppe back to the grocery store and I went to the fridge to get Maggie. I took off her ruffled sundress and her bedazzled unicorn headband and put them in a pile with Joey’s clothes.
She was no longer Maggie. She was just another personal watermelon and the season was almost over.
I still wasn’t convinced I’d be as happy as Guiseppe promised.
Then I realized pumpkin season was just around the corner.
