Thursday, August 25, 2005

Apple of My Eye

“I brought you a bag of apples from the farm market where I live Deb.”
“Really? Thanks! I’ll eat one tomorrow morning.”
I said, sitting on my bedroom floor, blowing heavenly scented smoke from my lips.
“Well, okay. They’re in my car. I’ll come back tomorrow morning and bring them back.” Madelene says, as her eyes are getting red and glassy.
“Just leave them here tonight, so I can have the apples tomorrow. You don’t have to drive over an hour away, just to bring them back.” I suggested, coughing over the good pot my friend had given me. At the age of twenty, I thought my days of pot were over. This was the first time since I was sixteen that I tried it again.
“No, I’ll come back tomorrow to drop them off.”
“Madelene! They’re in your car, right? We can just get them out tonight. Leave them here, instead of you coming back in the morning to drop them off. It’s senseless.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Madelene replies.
“You’re a fool.” I said, as I started laughing so hard, I couldn’t breathe.

Madelene and I were hysterical for about a good hour from that conversation alone. It didn’t make sense though. If she has the apples in her car, outside my house, why would she want to drive over an hour away just to bring them back? I really thought she was going insane. I couldn’t make sense of this.

Years later, Madelene admits to the truth of that crazy evening. We were only dating for about two months. I loved my space back then, and only saw her on the weekends—but just for one evening. Sometimes I’d go for two weeks. Madelene explained to me years later after we started living together that the reason she wanted to bring the apples back over the next morning, was to see me again. Why couldn’t she have just said, “Deb, can I see you tomorrow?” I guess she would have known the answer to that. I personally thought it was cute.

Fast forward nine years, my friend Lisa and I were sitting on the couch on a Sunday morning drinking coffee. At that time, Madelene and I were separated for a little bit. Lisa was a really good friend to me back then (still is) and helped me through a lot. We were discussing ~womanly~ things. Both Lisa and I were in the dating pool, and were discussing how unclean some women can be. Yes. I’m talking about ‘that’. Hygiene clean--and what not. I had explained to Lisa that a girl I was seeing had a problem. Lisa was perplexed by this, and didn’t know what I was referring to.

Here’s how I explained it:

Everyday when you walk into your favorite room, it smells like apples. Fresh, clean, and eatable. You’ve become accustom to this fresh scent, and it’s pleasing to you. You look forward to coming back into your favorite room, smelling like fresh apples. It’s ripe, delicious and just magnificent. One day, you come back to your favorite room, and the whole entire place reeks of bad bananas.
“This is not the smell I am used to! It’s way too pungent and strong. What happened to my fresh apples?”
The badly bruised banana scent wafts through the room, up into your nose, making you almost want to gag and throw those puppies out. Who left those rotten bananas out for so long? Where did the fresh apples go?

Get it?

No???

Ask someone to explain it. This blog is rated PG-13.

Lisa got it, started laughing and then asked me if this was true.
“Lisa, I don’t know, but it’s like fruit de jour down there, and it’s becoming alarming. I can’t just ask her what’s up with her fruit basket, it may be a medical problem or something.”
I left Lisa in a state of shock. She has never experienced such a traumatic encounter as I have. The question remains, do you walk back into that room of pungent, bad banana aromas—or do you run away, hoping for the apples to return? Do you ask the room why the fruits have taken a turn for the worse? Or do you simply just let it go, and make the best of what you have? From that day on, Lisa and I refer to 'feminine hygiene', as ‘good apples, and bad apples’. If the woman was older, we would call her a Granny Smith. If she was a hot young thing, we’d say she’d probably have a nice Macintosh.

Sick. I know. It’s all about the apples here.

Picture it. Provincetown, MA. 2003. I’m walking over to Lisa’s suite to see if she was finished getting ready, so we can all go out to dinner. She called from the window and said she would be down in a few minutes. I waited for her outside, near a patio table. Low and behold, there is a huge Granny Smith apple sitting on the table, alone, and looking ripe as ever. I personally thought that Lisa was playing a trick on me, to get me to laugh. This apple looked so amazingly fresh and delicious, I wanted to just pick it up and take a huge bite out of it. It almost appeared as though it was one of those props, like fake fruit that people keep on their dining room table just for show.

Lisa opens the door to walk outside. She is all ready to go out and failed to realize what was sitting on the table. I couldn’t believe she didn’t notice this! Was she blind?
“Lisa. Look!”
“Ha-ha-ha!!! I wanted to see if you would notice it! I was hysterically laughing when I walked back to my room, and purposely left it there, hoping no one would take it!” She said.

Apples are tempting. Some apples are good, and some apples are bad…just ask Eve.