A blog worthy topic is eluding me (once again.) So in an effort for inspiration I threw the first word I could think of at Husband who had to give me his first effortless response.
My word was 'pineapple.'
Husband's was 'pokey.'
To which I replied, "How am I supposed to write a blog post about the word POKEY?!"
But after playing the game, I really feel a duty to post accordingly. Plus, pokey things can be much more interesting than.....oh.......I really don't know.....something more boring? If something more boring actually exists.
So here goes:
POKEY: an essay
Growing up, we were lacking a side yard. We had the land, and I guess what you could technically call a side. But the yard part - not really.
The rest of the yard was fine. And every summer my mom would plant flowers along the front of the house. Most of the time she'd plant marigolds. They grow like crazy, you know.
They also smell horrific.
You may not agree with me - perhaps you are a fan of the marigold. But my bedroom was in the basement, and every time I wanted to open my window all I could smell was STINKING MARIGOLDS. And it turns out I'm allergic to marigolds. So it was either fry from summer heat, or open the window to a brief whiff of overpowering marigolds and then sudden, complete sinus clamping.
But that has nothing to do with anything pokey.
The pokey stuff was in the side yard. Or what is more precisely described as a patch of dirt and weeds. And rocks. Plenty of rocks.
In those days I was a bike rider. I rode my bike everywhere. For awhile I even had a bike with a banana seat and tall handlebars - it was awesome. But I never seemed to learn my lesson to NOT ride in the side yard.
It was just so convenient.
We had a shed in the backyard that housed the bikes. And I was much too impatient to ever walk my bike past the cars and along the driveway to get to and from that shed. It was much quicker to go through the side yard and be off to wherever it was I was going. (Mostly I just rode around the block and tormented the neighborhood boys.)
Except that every time I road through the side yard, puncture weeds would stick in my tires. Because those things are so darn pokey.
I did however remember not to walk through the side yard barefoot. That's a lesson you don't need to repeat.
And now, since none of this has anything to do with the pokey exterior of a pineapple, and hardly anything to do with pokey stuff at all, I shall bid you adieu. But first, I want you all to be grateful that I didn't throw out the word "fish" or I might have had to write an entire post on something slimy (which could have ended up all sorts of ugly.)