I Don’t Even Like Lemonade

“When God hands you lemons, make lemonade,” is the dumbest quote ever created. It hardly takes into account all those allergic to citrus, or with diabetes. Not to mention those physically unable to make a sour puss. So hence (Yeah! Hence!!), the quote is really about how those lucky enough to be handed lemons in the first place need to then make sure they can actually make the lemonade. What if they have no hands God? What about those people??

And who gets handed lemons anyhow? I’ve been given socks as a present before and that’s bad enough. But lemons? That’s like asking for trouble. If you (or God for that matter) ever decided to hand me lemons, I’m going to hand them a helmet, because I’m certainly going to start throwing.

Life is sort of funny some times. And I say “sort of,” because it’s not really. Sure there’s irony. Like stubbing your toe on a jagged rock moments before falling over the side of a quarter-mile high cliff. But that’s just God telling you He thinks it’s funny when he proves that all your feeblest attempts at preparation are moot, and He’s going to prove it to you in an often humorous manner.

But God’s not all brimstone and Hell fire. He fills life with plenty of paper-cuts, bad hair cuts and name-calling. I guess when God, Jesus, Santa, Chuck Norris, St. Michael and that other guy were sitting around in the beginning of time, having a few laughs and tossing a few back, they decided to add pain to the shopping list of emotions. Physical and emotional. Not that one is worse than the other, it’s just that my health insurance doesn’t pay for hurt feelings.

But this posting shouldn’t be all about the negative. Life isn’t always rainy days and Armageddon. I mean, in reality, lemonade tastes pretty good when you add 3 cups of sugar. And even stubbing your toe isn’t so bad, as long as there was already a pesky hang nail that wouldn’t come loose. And even the apocalypse can have its upside, so long as you overcharge your credit card, steal money from some bookies, and spit on your boss the day before.

I don’t want to depress all my readers though (Anyone??). This isn’t being written in the dark as I nurse a bottle of Jack and listen to Taps under my blankie. It’s just being written from inside the confines of my place of employment. Hell hath no fury like a job hated.
And why is it that eight hours feels like a blink of the eye when you’re sleeping? But when you’re stuck within the 4x4 walls of a cubicle that same eight hours takes approximately the next 40 years of your life (or until you die, whichever comes first)?

Anyhow, the moral of the story is play the lotto…..OFTEN!!