stereotypical single woman

Look! Tomatoes! Lots and lots of tomatoes, and that’s just what I picked yesterday. And guess what - I’m already sick of eating them, my stomach turns at the thought of one more BLT. My parents don’t want anymore. My coworkers aren’t interested in taking any. And giving some to the neighbors would require talking to the freakshow that is my neighborhood. It isn’t so bad every once in a while, but the neighborhood busybody will keep you for at least an hour if you stop by to drop something off and the creepy old guy across the street just stares at my boobs when he talks to me, and I just don’t want to deal with them right now. I’ve decided that I’m going to have to start canning what I’ve picked. It’s really not that big of a deal and I’m sure this winter I will be glad that I did the extra work and will be able to make some kick ass soups and sauces with my homegrown tomatoes. At least that’s the argument I used to convince myself that the extra work had to be done.

So last night I was cleaning the kitchen, with every intention of starting the canning process, when I decided that I should check the garden one last time to see if there were any more tomatoes I could include when I found this:

And I thought “Okay, very funny mother nature, a tomato with a penis.” A fun little oddity of nature. I got a good chuckle from it, decided to post the picture on my blog to share with all of you, and figured that would be the end of it.

But then I found the other ones. Clearly the only explanation for this is that mother nature is taunting me, reminding me of my complete lack of a sex life at the moment (as if I wasn’t already very very aware of the situation.) It’s as if the universe decided that’s since it’s been so long since I’ve seen a penis that didn’t require 4 AA’s it’s decided to grow some in my garden. Because I might have forgotten what they look like. And whatever benign force is controlling all of this is some sort of wiseguy who thought it would be a really funny joke, the bastard. Gardening was a good hobby, and we all know that hobby is the code word for “any activity that takes your mind off the fact that you aren’t getting any.” Now I’m reconsidering my choice. All the the specimens grew on one plant - a Black Russian I found while wandering the garden center at Meijer last spring, and the tag promised “prolific amounts of flavorful dark red 6 - 8 oz fruit. ” Instead the label should have read, “a prolific producer of phallic and ass-shaped fruit that you’ll never taste because you’ll feel like Lorena Bobbit every time you approach it with a knife.”* Granted, I still would have bought the plant if that’s how it was labeled, but something tells me I wouldn’t have been able to find it at Meijer.

Anyway, I was too stunned and obsessed with staring at the fruit to actually can anything last night. Seriously, every time I walked through the kitchen I had to stop and look. I am so sad. Maybe tonight I’ll accomplish something and can them, or maybe I’ll just let them sit on my counter until they start to get soft and rot, and then I’ll throw them away, because a soft wilted tomato penis just isn’t as interesting a firm one.

*That would be a great business idea. I bet there would be a lot more gardeners in the world if you could consistently grow pornographic fruits and vegetables - not to mention the consumption of said fruits and vegetables would skyrocket. The bridal shower/bachelorette party market alone would gurantee a profit, not to the mention appeal the fruit would have to gay men. It’s an avenue the XXX rated industry hasn’t even explored.