That’s not lemonade

I keep a spreadsheet of ideas to write about, and like most of my organizational efforts it alternates between organized within an nth of its life, and completely forgotten about as I wing it.  So when I went to look at the spreadsheet this morning and saw, “That’s Not Lemonade” listed, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know.

Someone suggested that perhaps I was planning to write about the 24-hour urine collection for Preeclampsia. I literally had to store all of my pee in a jug that sat in an ice bath in my hospital room. I thought maybe the ice was because it needed to be cool for the test to be accurate.  Turns out it was just to keep my room from smelling like a urinal.

Funny anecdote, but not really something to write an entire essay about. If that was my plan it was a pretty piss poor plan.

See what I did there?

Everyone knows that when life hands you lemons you are supposed to make lemonade.  Which would be awful if it was just lemons and water.  You need some sugar.  And vodka.  And life has the annoying habit of only giving you the lemons.  You’ve gotta go get the rest all by yourself.  Suddenly it seems way easier to just drink the beer you’ve already got in the fridge and call it a day.

But then what the hell do I do with all of these lemons?

They’re starting to rot, and they smell bad.  Also they are organic so they cost a lot of money.  And I’m too tired to do anything with them.  Story of my life. And if you are confused as to whether or not I have actual lemons — no, I don’t.  If I had actual lemons I would squeeze them into my beer and make a shandy.

I have metaphorical lemons, which are the worst type of lemon.  So fine, I’ll get my ass to the metaphorical grocery store so I can buy the rest of the supplies to make metaphorical lemonade. All that work and I can’t even drink it.

How do I make lemonade out of hospital bills?  Out of RSV, puke plagues, and a dwindling milk supply?  Milk and lemons equal sour milk.  When life hands you lemons, make #breastbuttermilk pancakes.

Screw it.  I’m going to give my lemons to my metaphorical worms (I had real worms, but I forgot to feed them.  True story).  I’m going to sidestep the entire lemon experience, and just go do something fun that is entirely unrelated to citrus.  I’m going to go visit friends, eat chocolate and  drink beer that exists in this plane of reality.  I am going to stay up late and talk and cry and be reminded how great it is to have friends all over the country who will say “Yes!  Come stay with me! I will watch your children!” and “I will make you cookies!”

I am trying to look forward, because the road to hell is paved with lemons.

Or something.

Dude.  That’s not even a lemon.

(PS: For my birthday, someone buy me a book on how metaphors work)

[Edit: As of January 19th, my horoscope via The Onion is, “Taurus | April 20 to May 20
Remember: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Then, when life least expects it, throw the lemonade right in its spiteful face.”  I can only assume The Onion reads my blog.]

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