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