Prunes and Potato Juice

The monk left yesterday, before I woke up. It was the first time in months he hadn’t been here, with the exception of the time we were on vacation, and it was wonderful. I mean, I basically sat around all day doing nothing. But the fact that I didn’t have to worry about the impending threat of him coming in to ask me to make fifty more CD copies of his talks was very refreshing.

Unfortunately this wasn’t the last of my problems. My mother’s taken to juicing, and now I’m provided a new concoction nearly every night along with my dinner. She juices everything within reach. Pounds of fruit have been plucked up, within days of their expiration, only to be pulped and processed into a frothy, brown substance.

Last night I had what I assume to be a watermelon carrot mix, which may sound good in theory, but doesn’t turn out so well in practice. Turns out this watermelon had a very strong and disagreeable aftertaste. Not to mention the juice kept separating… anyway it was a mess. I never though t I’d say this, but I wish we just had plain water again.

And as if this wasn’t enough, today she brought a bag of prunes to the table and just put them right down, as if I was going to eat them. Prunes. Yet another reason to fear aging. Just the sight of them offends me. Have you ever seen a prune? It looks like a giant, fleshy cockroach. They shouldn’t be allowed on the table.

Now don’t get me wrong, I think it’s important to be healthy. But there’s nothing that says you have to ingest disgusting things in order to do it.

So here I am, getting ready to sit down to a delicious dinner of Carrot-melon juice, prunes, and hummus, when I realize that maybe I haven’t exactly escaped the influence of the monk. The vegetarian diet remains. He might have left our guestroom, but he still lives on in the terrifying specter of prunes and potato juice.

-Viv

Monked

Seeing as there’s nothing really new or interesting going on in my life right now, I’ll take this time to complain about something I’ve probably complained about too much already, the monk.

As some of you already know, a monk is currently living with me and has been for about a month now. Why you ask? Because his family is friends with mine and he’s giving talks here. I don’t really understand either so that’s as good of an explanation as your going to get, deal with it.

Swamiji has actually stayed with us before; he used to stay with us almost once a year for some time, but the last time he visited was probably before fifth grade. The thing I most remember about these visits was that I was forced against my will to eat vegetarian. I’m sure the protein deficiency during these visits stunted my development, and so I’ve held a perfectly justifiable grudge against him ever since.

Here’s just an excerpt of the fun that’s ensued:

Mom: Yes, there are several Africans that work at FAMU, they’re very smart.

Me (OBVIOUSLY sarcastic): What’s a race that you wouldn’t call smart, Mom?

At this point the monk takes the liberty to teach me that everyone is blessed equally by god, and it is their opportunity that determines the amount of development and success. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have used sarcasm, but I wasn’t even addressing him was I? Did I deserve to be lectured on my “racist ways”? No.

Later on in the conversation the monk wonders out loud why so many Americans don’t support providing for the poor and welfare as much as other developed countries. I then say that they might be so afraid of anything that seems socialist because of the Cold War, even if it’s at the cost of the people. I then receive a free history lesson on how the Cold War was not a real war, but entirely in people’s minds. Thank you.

So now I avoid saying mostly anything that is answering a direct question. Not that I hold it against the monk, it’s just easier if I do.

And one of the cutting boards is missing. I’m not pointing any fingers, all I’m saying is that I didn’t move it, and he’s the only other person here.

-Viv