In another edition of My Life is Weirder Than Most People’s,
I apparently have a Pomegranate Stalker.
Odd things happen when you’re a blogger.
Things like total strangers recognizing you when you’re out in public (which happens more often than you’d think).
Things like Scary Stalkers – who you end up having to call the police on because they’re very scary. (And you don’t dare blog about Scary Stalkers – because they might thrive on the attention.)
In fact, I could probably (easily) come up with dozens of posts about weird things that have happened to me as a result of having a blog.
Today, I’m just going to tell you my most recent story.
About two weeks ago, I remarked (both on Twitter and Facebook) I seem to have developed an addiction to pomegranates.
When I was growing up, we had a pomegranate tree in our backyard. Pomegranates have been a part of my life – always.
My childhood pomegranate tree existed, of course, long before POM juice became popular and/or nutritionists realized how healthy pomegranates are. Pomegranate martinis, and pomegranate margaritas, had not become fashionable yet.
For some reason, the last few months, I’ve developed an extreme craving for pomegranates. (Maybe I’m lacking potassium/Vitamin C/Vitamin K?)
My pomegranate comment/s on Facebook and Twitter led to a small, inconsequential, online discussion of this unusual fruit.
A few mornings ago, Briefcase left the house early to catch a flight for a business trip.
On his way out, he opened our mailbox with the intention of placing some outbound mail in it.
He found a huge, “beautiful,” pomegranate in our mailbox.
There was no note.
There was nothing, in fact, in our mailbox other than the pomegranate.
He knew, instantly, the pomegranate was an intended gift for me.
Of course, when I heard about the mysterious pomegranate gift,
I promptly asked everyone I know if they had left a pomegranate in my mailbox.
(They probably wondered if I had lost my sanity?)
So far, no one has come forth as being my pomegranate donor.
If it wasn’t left by a friend …
I’m a little creeped out by the idea of An Anonymous Someone tracking down where I live.
If you were going to leave a giant, seeded, juicy, fruit in a mailbox as a gift for someone -
Wouldn’t you, at least, leave a note?
(That last sentence might be one of the strangest I’ve ever written ….)