Peanuts

I 'm sitting on our bed, eating a small bowl of salted cashew nuts and peanuts. My laptop sits where its name strongly suggests it should be. The flowery bed cover is almost completely covered in stuff. Two finished books lay between Roo's many toys (The Wolf at the table, a memoir by Augusten Burroughs, and the first Dutch novel I read in six months: Rijk (in English: Rich) by Marjan Berk. The last one made the stitches in my tummy hurt because it made me laugh so hard.)

Another Burroughs book (Possible Side Effects) lays open on his tummy, ready to be picked up again.

I don't like reading three books of the same author in a row. It makes me feel like a groupie. But the lack of time I had before going into the hospital combined with the urgent need of a few books with upcoming bed rest, I picked what I knew. Burroughs. And I love him.

Anyway. Peanuts. Since surgery my brain feels like a peanut. Or more like peanut butter. It's a thick greasy mess up there. Today we went shopping at the garden center to buy some plants for our garden. The impressions in the crowded shop were too much to handle my peanut butter brain. I felt overwhelmed, tired, out of place. Before we left the comfort of home, I was looking forward to planting lavender. But in the shop, the presence of many different kinds of the beloved plant spiked no passion. I guess it doesn't take brain surgery to make your brain feels like it's soaked in a marijuana bath for a couple of hours.

Peanuts. I remember going to a New York museum a few years ago. If my mind doesn't fool me, it was the Whitney Museum of Art. There was a painting - a drawing actually - of huge peanuts. It was hanging next to a painting of something I can't remember. The sign next to the peanuts drawing described the painting of "The something I can't remember." And next to "The something I can't remember", the sign said "peanuts".

I stared at it for about a minute. Concluded the signs must have been mixed up, but as a person with only poster sized duplicates, I doubted my eyes. "Honeyyyy", I called my husband (then boyfriend). He too saw the mistake.

What to do?

I decided to tell someone of the museum. But only if that someone happened to be close by and otherwise leave it at that. A museum security officer sleepwalked by just that moment. I explained it to him and he looked at me as if this was some trick of me to steal a nice Hopper as soon as he'd turned his back on us. He should have known customs would never let me through with a real Hopper. We decided on a poster size Lichtenstein later. The man said something like "I doubt it," but in a polite way. Something I find very American.

Americans have the gift to say Fuck off Asshole in a nice way, with friendly words. Without offending anyone, but with a smile sweet like white chocolate daisies on a cute little marzipan stalk. Europeans, and especially Dutch, just say Fuck Off Asshole with a look that makes Grumpy look like Peter Pan on ecstasy. This is why I find conversations in the US pleasant. You always end with a treat.

The security guy got another employee. They saw the mistake. And prepared to fix it. We smiled.

I recognize a peanut when I see one.

The point of my post?

I don't think there was one. But my peanuts are finished. And my book is not. So bye bye.

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