The Produce Man

So in Germany, the most problematic person that comes to your door is not a Jehovah, though they come occasionally and always unexpected, when my door is open, when I’m in my towel, when I have no fucks to give about pamphlets and how I’m living life in sin.

The worst offender in Germany is the Produce Man from a farm far away.  He pulls up in a truck, has bundles and bundles of things you never wanted in life, brings samples to the door, cuts produce in front of you with a sharp knife I think meant to inspire cooking or threaten, and has the charm of a man selling sand to a camel.  The Produce Man is my worst nightmare.  I can never tell him to go away, and he knows I need less carbs and more protein and vegetables and fruit in my life.  He preys on me.  I’m sure he saw my name in a European fast food registry somewhere and was like, Yep, we found her. Initiate produce attack.  Get her while her bathing suit is tight and her judgement and blood sugar is weak.

In the States, the worst door bell ringing offense was obviously the Jehovah, with the children they bring around, their weirdly seeming progressive paper Bible that is unlike the scary and leather-bound Catholic Bible, their pleasant disposition and their unlimited amount of smiles.  I have never trusted unlimited smiles in the name of anything, most certainly not religion.

I once dated a Jehovah, in sixth grade, and I was as perplexed then as I am now about a religion founded on a lack of gift giving and going door to door for anything more than the selling of candy bars or mascara.  I’m sure they claim to resonate with something greater than the lack of cake giving on birthdays, but to this day, I don’t fucking get it.  Jesus never wanted children to be without cupcakes on their birthdays, never wanted them to sit in halls during other people’s celebrations, I’m positive about that, and so I don’t fucking get the Jehovah’s.

So today.  I’m upstairs trying to shave my vagina and calm my hair for a trip to the spa.  I hear a grown man shouting HALLO into my house space as I’m standing wet and vulnerable, and I’m thinking, stop it Germans, stop the noise and why are you in my house? I’m wet but in a bathing suit coverup and a head towel at the time, the Mr. is at the dump and Sawyer is the only child in the house, but he is intently watching Zou, mimicking Zebra capabilities, and so I have literally no backup in the house.

“Hi!” I exclaimed and assume he’ll leave upon confronting me since i am not wearing normal clothes  or makeup and thus must not appear like a normal parent who buys produce for their child.  I am wrong.  Wrong on all accounts.

We work through the broken English and establish that he is from a far away far, but has a truck nearby, one that wants to sell me produce.  I obviously want to send him away but Sawyer, that small and prevalent dick in my life demands, “APPLE, APPLE, APPLE”. He is literally going to kill me slowly.

So. I say to the Produce Man, I only want your SMALLEST batch of everything.  He showed up offering apples and oranges and potatoes and I fell for the trap of fresh produce and was all, I WILL TAKE ALL OF THE PRODUCE.

Then, after giving me said produce, I got a slap in the face.  Apparently, when you say “small” or “small box” or “trial” in Germany, you are handed a 163 euro tab.  Let’s discuss.  163 euro could buy anyone two nights at the Hilton. A month in U.S. daycare.  4 brunches. 1 fancy tattoo.  4 grocery trips.  2 Argentinian steaks.  10 SIM cards. A flight home.  A boat for 4. A MOTHERFUCKING PILE OF APPLES AND ORANGES.

So I’m a farmer’s market groupie dream.  Join me.

I used to think that as a resident of Germany, as a hater of all children but my own, I’d never give in to this nonsense that is the guilt of The Produce Man.  But, I did, there is no recovery, and I should never be allowed to open my front door again.

“how much did this cost us?” asked the Mr. tonight.

“Almost nothing,” I said proudly, as i tucked the 163 euro tab deep within my bottomless purse.

“Good. I just love produce.” he said.

“Me, too.” And then I slammed back the wine in my glass and knew tomorrow would be a new day, a new fight.

And so now, at the end of the day, I am the proud owner of 40 kilos of apples, 20 kilos of oranges FROM GREECE (because the are different) and 10 kilos of potatoes.  I’m not going to lie.  I have always believed that kilos are a counting reserved for cocaine. So, while I have crates of these products, I literally have no measure for selling that makes sense.

I want $5 a bag of fruit i barely love.  come to my door, ask me to deliver, let’s talk.  I need to fix my stupidity in a bad way. My mental illness is your welcome home gift.

Apples and oranges for everyone. xxx.

The Produce Man’s bitch





When I grow up

Sawyer told me what he wants to be when he grows up this morning, and it’s obvious he will make terrible decisions for himself.  After he told me and we fought about whether or not he can be what he named, I wondered what I wanted to be when I was two and a half.

In fifth grade, I wanted to be President, mostly because I actually ran for class president and won, in a weird twist of events where I feel like I must have strong armed or tricked people into voting for me.  Also, I spent a lot of time that year sitting in a closet writing letters to President Bush to discuss how I thought we could change the world while submitting my yearly donation of $1 to contribute to the reduction of the national debt.

In Junior High, I wanted to be an AIDs activist, and to this day, I’m still not sure what that role plays in society.  I’m hardly capable of relating to or taking care of anyone with AIDs but I blame this on one of my school counselors, bringing in a bunch of hippies working in Portsmouth, do-gooders of the world.  I even recall some sort of visit I made to an outpatient facility which scared the living fuck out of me.  I was going to stick to not making the world a better place.

I also wanted to be a lawyer, after prosecuting the Wizard of Oz case, taking down the witch and winning, because my debating and argumentative skills are unmatched.  I’ve recently picked this hobby of mine back up, offering my legal skills to a friend that got fired without cause and going Erin Brokovich on the system.  I was reminded recently that very little in life energizes me a like a good fight and taking down the man when he fucking deserves it.

In high school I wanted to be a doctor but I don’t actually like blood or the thought of saving people and Grey’s Anatomy didn’t exist yet so I’m not sure where this one came from but it was short lived.  I wanted to be an English teacher, mostly because I was in love with my English teacher, but I heard they make no money and I don’t like mouthy high school students.

In college, my first major was journalism because I wanted to be a sports broadcaster but then I realized I could only talk about football and I had never played and maybe I just wanted to sleep with football players, not talk about them as a profession.  Then I was going to be an Arabic translator, which I’ll have you all know was before anyone was fighting terror so yay for being ahead of the game but boo for never fucking doing anything with it.  Then I was going to work for the State Department, a very vague ambition.  Then I lucked myself into a Senate internship and the rest is history.

Sawyer, though?  He is going to save me a huge amount of money on university.  That kid is adorable, athletic as fuck, funny, charming and 100% blue collar.

There is nothing that motivates that child more in life than a garbage truck, an excavator, a tool box and a vacuum.  A life in sanitation is right up his alley and so I’m hoping my thoughtful Sully will find his way in something more artistic, but I pulled a rock, a cherry pit and a piece of dog food out of his mouth in the same handful the other day and so I’m guessing these kids aren’t going to make me refinance my house down the road for their education.

This morning, though, Sawyer, chatty Kathy himself, was blabbering on and announcing to the air my every move while eating jelly toast topless.

“Wanna watch Handy Manny?” I asked, knowing it would buy me 20 minutes of coffee drinking time.  I couldn’t find that channel, though, but the show with the zoo animals, ZOU, popped up and Sawyer shouted, STOP STOP STOP.  He was clapping like a seal.  I was confused why this zoo show was causing such an excitable response.

He sighed and tilted his head to the side, thinking really hard.

“What’s wrong, Soy?”  He obviously was resting up to announce something really important.

“Mommy?  I want to be a Zebra when I grow up.  A big one.”  Then he slammed his hand on the coffee to show me how serious he was in his career choices.

“You cannot be a Zebra, Sawyer.  You are a person.”


“You need to wear clothes.  You need to sleep in a bed.  Zebras don’t do those things.”

“Zebra.”  He shouted, picked up the rabbit stuffed animal in arm’s reach, tried ripping the head off with his teeth and then threw it on the floor.  He then gave me a very stern look, pointed to the rabbit on the ground and shouted one more time for good measure, fist raise high above his head,


I deserve this.


Sex Ed and other advice for our Youth

This is a very different version of some rant I went on the other night on FB.  I’ve updated it with a few personal stories, as I’ve had time to think of what I would have added after I posted, so here’s some extended advice for anyone between 7-18 years of age who would ever need sex ed advice from a grown ass woman.

First, I wouldn’t say 7 year olds need sex ed advice but then again, I think if there are kids getting knocked up at 12, someone should hit those poorly parented children up early and do the world a favor and either, 1. educate them or 2. bleach their insides so they are incapable of breeding more millennial type non-contributors to society.

Also, what the fuck is happening to the world when 12 year olds don’t have enough shit to do that they’re out and about whoring around with each other?  You want to know what the fuck I was doing when I was twelve?  I was deciding what rainbow colored elastics to decorate my metal braces with.  I was attending sleepovers where I wore metal head gear that wrapped around my fucking head while I slept in a sleeping bag, the highlight of the night was eating chips and ice cream and cookies AND brownies, and drinking mountain dew, and called boys using a see-through phone, yet never talking to boys because the minute one would answer, we’d hang up the phone and scream. I was wearing three pairs of socks scrunched down and carrying around a backpack and writing book reports about Hiroshima and I was convincing my parents to let us get a new cat because the old cat, Sprinkles or Surprise or Bailey was hit by a car again we lived on a road that killed so many damned cats.  Also, a strawberry shortcake pop from the ice cream truck, not sucking dick, was the highlight of my day, so I find today’s kids fucking bizarre.

I was not letting any grimy handed, skuzzed headed, dirty, mouthy, snorting, drooling, non-bathing, eating like a pig, dressing like a moron, 12 year old boy stick anything in me, and certainly not up my vagina, which I thought not only dumped urine straight out it but anything went up it went right to my stomach and then if blasted hard enough, into the empty cavity above my stomach, which somehow contained my heart and lungs.

I have an overwhelming insane comprehension of the human body.

So why are we in the middle of this conversation that seems like me just yelling exactly how my brain thinks? (That is exactly how I write, by the way)

Well, someone asked me how I’d phrase sex ed/womanly advice to their daughter, which is honestly the first mistake.   No one has ever asked me to give their child advice on Shark Week, like I’m some sort of motivational speaker for anyone who bleeds out of their legs once a month. I have no idea why anyone in the world would ever consult me about this, and this is the PERFECT reason why I was not given girls. I am unqualified because I barely girl good enough to keep me alive. But, if I was going to give advice, I got to thinking….

Once upon a time, we were all sitting in a circle in Health Class, and in waltzed an additional teacher with a big box of something, set it on the table and then  separated the boys and the girls.  The boys were taken outside to the football field where they could spend the hour beating the shit out of each other and the girls were presented with this box of gifts—an individual purple pack of fun that included pads and pamphlets on how to deal with your lady bits, some of the language tip toeing around men and women spending time with each other, inserts with terribly drawn diagrams and literally no information of value that was approvable by any authority of health.

Yet this was the school system’s attempt at providing some sort of sex ed, preparing us to start A Lifetime of Bleeding, why this should be considered a gift, a gift of blood shooting from your flower, all commemorated with this tiny bag of heavy, purple covered pads, a bizarre drawing of a girl with no face that modeled a simple diagram of the inside of your body (seriously, I literally could not tell you to this day the insides of my body, and yes, I have two children), but surely no advice on what would happen if you liked some boy enough to get it on with and have The Sex and have The Baby?

That was sex ed.

Lucky for me, my mother had already done a better job at explaining sex to me the day I was ten when she made me come sit in her room, look at a different pamphlet that contained faceless people hugging naked, and told me that, and I quote, “When two people love each other so much and want to show each other with more than hugging, they hug each other on the inside, too.  Do you have any questions?”

No, I did not.  I did not because I had heard her having sex before and it did not sound like two people doing any outside or inside hugging.  It sounded like a moving company trying to move the bed from one room to the next one by jamming the headboard through the wall, the kind of sex where you forget you don’t have kids or fucking volume control and I was not interested in knowing more about that.

I’m not scarred, though.  We had sex once with Sawyer sitting on the couch  in a hotel room and in fairness I had distracted him with TV and a snack but then in a moment of distraction, I missed the fact that he had gotten off the other bed and walked over and there he was, slapping my thigh, asking me what I’m doing, and you can’t just answer that, so I told him to go back to the other side of the room to watch Handy Manny because Mommy was just sitting on Daddy’s lap backwards and would be right over.


If we could just adjust the teaching methods a bit, I’d love for this education to include a really detailed class on tampon use, perhaps a class on the use of vibrators and dildos, so no one has to screw any boys, we can all just screw ourselves until college.

I’m sure we know how to prevent liquid from shooting out of us.  How about we tell young women that one disadvantage of having children if you have unprotected sex is that your vagina no longer works for fun things like sex because it is too busy leaking out a liter of Elmer’s glue each day, causing you to sit on the toilet for a half hour at a time, staring at your oversized and dirty underwear, smelling the crotch part by bringing IT TO YOUR NOSE AND SMELLING INTENTLY, rubbing your finger around in the glue mess because you’re trying to figure out if you have a disease more like the clap and not just side effects of breeding kids.

Or you could do women a solid and bring a whole bunch of realistic dildos in and have them all inspect them, get used to different sizes and textures and colors, yes COLORS BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE BROWN AND PINK PARTS and if you are from White America, brown parts will surprise you because you surely think all penises are pink.  Also, let us put our mouths on them so we know what the fuck we’re working with.  Give some of them hoods, for those women one day that get with guys who have dicks that look like anteaters.  Give some massive bushes so you figure out how to press forward and end up with no pubes in your teeth.

Do us a favor, and teach us the lesson I learned from my best friend, while we sat around eating the salad bar during lunch.  She had gone to the school dance on Friday like the rest of us.  She had also done more than dancing and on Monday sat down at lunch and promptly, and quietly announced to all of us, whisperingly knowingly,

“You guys will NOT believe this. You will not. THE SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.”

And to this day, that is the most important lesson I have ever learned, that when you give a hand job, the SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.  Do you know how many fucking heart attacks we all could have avoided having if only someone told us that BEFORE we touched a penis?

So yeah, if you’re going to ask me for advice for your child, this is going to be the conversation, with the highlight, THE SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.

**School nurses feel free to email me and provide me an update.