PUCKER UP, BUTTERCUP


I have a new relationship with lemons. They are not just a sour yellow citrus fruit. They hold magic powers. Our society has grossly underestimated these natural fruits, these hard-skinned mini-footballs. When I say the word “lemon”, you probably think of meringue pies, little twists in espresso or martinis, and glugging lemonade on a hot day. But read on. Cause you’ve got another thing coming.



I must divert for just a moment, though. Here’s a shout out to all my readers in Australia, whom I’ve noticed have been logging on with great gusto this past month. Rock on, Aussies. I’ve never been down under, but I hope one day I can experience what it’s like to look into a flushing toilet and see the swirl move counter-clockwise. It’s a hemispheric thing, I’m told. What do I know? I’m just a brown-haired bimbo.



Okay, back to the lemons. I had a rough couple of weeks, and so I decided to go to the one place that I can completely let down and relax. Ben’s Aunt Jerusha’s house. Ben, for those of you who don’t know, is my handyman and former flame. He’s a small town boy, a roughie, a brute. Think Vince Vaughn with ten times as much fur. He’s the kind of guy who could survive in the wilderness with nothing but a plastic comb and a roll of dental tape.



His Aunt Jerusha lives in a very old farmhouse that has been in Ben’s family for centuries, literally. I think it was built in the mid 1700s. She lives there with another relative of his that I’m still not sure the name of. She never speaks and just sits in a corner propped up with a tall glass of cold mead in her clutch. But Jerusha is a talkative critter. She’s proportioned like a grandfather clock, and speaks in very efficient language, and is one of the smartest cookies I’ve ever met.



So I plopped my weary body down on her sofa across the room from the nameless mead-guzzling relative and relaxed for the first time in weeks. Jerusha brought me huge molasses cookies to nibble on, New Yorkers from the 1980s she had picked up second-hand at the dump, and a basket of lemons.



I thanked her. But had no idea what to make of the lemons.



“Thanks, Jerusha. These look lovely. Am I to make some lemonade with them?”



She leaned her head back, and bellowed out a deep belly laugh.



“Those kids of yours are wearin’ you out, Jacuzzi. You’re exhausted! Look at you. Bags under your eyes, stringy hair, furry underarms – Jeez, it looks as though you haven’t showered in ten days. Smells like it, too.”



“And your point is, Jerusha?”



“Use the lemons, Jacuzzi. Before you have another baby that might just push you right over the edge, darling.”



I looked at the basket of lemons. I looked at her. I furled my brow. I had no friggin’ idea what she was talking about.



“Use the lemons?” I asked.



She just threw up her hands, huffed, muttered something about kids nowadays not knowing a damn thing, and walked out of the room. She returned with a sharp kitchen knife and a lemon squeezer. She cut one of the lemons in half. She hollowed it out a bit with the lemon squeezer. She plunked it down on the table next to me.



Next time you want to get naughty with your mister, you put your lemon in ahead of time. You’ll be safe. Gol darn it, don’t they teach kids anything these days?



I had never heard of such a thing. Shoving a lemon up . . . there?!? But Jerusha continued to enlighten me. Diaghrams, it seems, were modeled after halved lemons. According to Jerusha, lemons were used in Ancient Rome, Ancient Egypt, and probably since the beginning of time.



“What do you think people did before all these modern contraptions were invented? Just cross their legs and hope for the best?” she said.



The lemon juice, she told me, is a natural spermicide. She even said she read somewhere in a publication she found at the dump that an Australian scientist has research that proves plain old lemon juice kills the HIV virus in a preventative way, if lemon is in the vagina during intercourse. I was stunned.



Think of the new identity lemons could have in our society. Would women start to feel self-conscious about buying them at the gourmet market? Perhaps there would be a display of lemons in the “women’s sanitary” aisle? Some women might pay double for organic lemons, so as not to shove any nasty pesticides where the sun don’t shine. Other women, when picked up in a bar, might steal a lemon off the bartender whilst exiting with a questionable fellow.



I have my little basket of lemons by the bedside. I aim to try using one of them. I haven’t mustered up the courage yet. But this could certainly be the start of something quite sour.


Write me and tell me about YOUR encounters with lemons. jacooz@bimboplitics.com