Dear Penthouse...

I am a complete idiot. 

That's not just my modesty talking. That's an opinion shared by many readers of this very blog. Even my daughters, my own flesh and blood, think I'm an idiot. Particularly when it comes to my new eating/dieting routine.

"Dad, you can't eat fish every night for dinner."

"With my new Sea to Table delivery service I can enjoy salmon, tuna, shrimp, halibut, even lobster tails."

"You have to eat more, you're getting too thin."

Little life lesson girls, you can't tell a former fat guy he's getting too thin.

But I have digressed. 

The reason I'm an idiot has less to do with what I'm eating and more to do with the antiquated and naive way I interact with the world. And by the way, it takes a brave man to reveal what I am about to reveal -- a brave stupid man.

I was at the local supermarket on Saturday. I like Pavilions. Ralph's is a little downscale for me. Conversely, Whole Foods and Gelsons is a little too fu-fu, pretentious and obscenely LA. I don't need organic toothpaste, I don't care if the Flouride has been artisanaly formulated from only the finest hand-selected molecules.

Anyway, dressed in my new single XL T-shirt, down from double XL, some cargo shorts and beat up Birkenstocks, I made my way around the market, grabbing all the essentials, which I am now discovering covers quite the spectrum. It takes a lot to manage a big 2300 square foot house.

I filled up the whole damn cart and barely had room for the fresh parsely, cilantro and shallots, needed to make my signature Chimichurri sauce. I was about to head to the cashier's when I spotted the Peach Stand.

I love peaches. 

Not the kind Deb used to keep in the house, the fancy white peaches. There's something off-putting about biting into a peach and not getting that classic peach flavor in return. I'm a yellow peach guy. Classic Peach, I call it.  

So I mosey over to the yellow peaches where a blonde woman in her mid 40's is carefully examining the hundreds of fuzzy orbs. Here's where it gets interesting and Bob Guccione-worthy.

Out of the side of my eye I noticed she noticed me. Maybe it was the new form fitting T-shirt. The beat up Birks. Or the unmistakable scent of a man who had no idea what he was doing in a supermarket. 

Completely unprovoked, she turns to me and says (by the way, this is precise verbatim dialogue), 

"They're all so mushy and soft."

"So they're ripe. That's a good thing, isn't it?" I said sheepishly.

"I like them hard."

"Excuse me", I didn't say that but wanted to, I just needed a second to digest her last statement which was followed by.

"I like them rock hard", she said with a smile.

If I'm lying, I'm dying.

"Hummunah, hummunnah, huh", I repeated to myself.

Keep in mind it's been 33 years since I was a single man and the chain that operates those gears in my head  has been rusted over and is barely functional.

"I can eat peaches all day long", I blurted, to fill the uncomfortable silence. 

Pressing even further she said, "Just gotta find me a rock hard one I can bite into."

My idiocy knows no bounds. I think we can all agree on that. I finished collecting my 5 peaches, tied up the bag and was about to roll away, she added this...

"Have a great day."

When I got home I gave myself some serious head palming. Then had a good laugh at myself. And know that if Deb were hearing this, she'd be laughing even harder.

Rich, we're not in Kansas anymore.