I live in Maine, land of the lobster I can no longer eat.

 

 

It’s a cruel twist of fate which came about 7 years ago. I’d eaten that glorious, butter dripping crustacean all my life and loved every scrumptious bite…. until my traitorous body woke up one day and said no more.

No more lobster chowder, no more lobster rolls, no more lobster pie…. hell they hadn’t even invented lobster mac and cheese yet so I missed that too, damn it!  (I’ll spare you the details of what happens if I eat it now, just think Linda Blair in the Exorcist and leave it at that.)

It’s not easy being lobster allergic in Maine, the damned things are everywhere.

On our license plates…

 

 

At every biker rally we attend…

 

 

See?

 

 

That’s me… cursing everyone for eating  lobster when I can’t …. not sitting at the table.

Hell, we even have a festival devoted to the creature.

 

 

They crown a queen who leads the parade with King Neptune.

 

 

Everyone eats lobster.

Except me.

 

 

(I can’t attend anymore. The husband says drool isn’t my best feature)

Yes, we take our lobster seriously up here and I’ve  railed against fate, banged my head against the wall, invented new swear words   learned to live without it.

So why?

Why does that damned bottom dwelling bug continue to screw with me?

Yesterday… this showed up in our local grocery stores.

 

 

And if that’s not bad enough…

A friend sent me this card.

 

 

Now that’s just…  wrong.