I steal stuff.
And by stuff I mean a lemon.
I’m so close to getting a vintage roadster as my get-a-way car, and a Nixon mask to hide my identity.
Stealing lemons is serious business.
They’re like 68 cents at the grocery store.
I’m super jumpy because of my new found thievery. I saw a cop driving down my street and I dove into a hedge of rosemary.
I’m allergic to rosemary.
Like I said, serious business.
That’s how I roll.
But honestly, here’s how it went down:
I live in a magical land where there are groves of fruit trees.
On jogs *snort* I mean, walks, I’ll stop and grab a ripe lemon or orange.
This is totally acceptable.
Or it damn well should be, I pay 200 bucks in association costs. I’ll take whatever I want!
I’ll chop the whole tree down and drag it home if the mood strikes. And you better get outta my way.
This is not stealing.
But lately I’ve been using a lot of lemons in my cooking, and I’ll just send Pat out (because he’s super tall and grabby) and have him fetch me a ripe lemon or two for my salmon, or pink lemonade cocktail, or to throw at mountain lions, whateves.
So here’s the grey area:
There hasn’t been any ripe fruit on the trees, so I pointed out an adorable little tree in front of someone’s house.
We walked past the house and I was all, “Look, it’s outside of thier fence. Totally fair game. Take the fruit!! TAKE IT!! I’ll stand watch.”
So we took a beautifully ripe, and succulent lemon.
A few days later, I noticed the owner of the house was fertilizing the plants and the lemon tree outside of her house.
I struck up a little convo about the weather.
I segwaued into salmon.
Then causally mentioned lemons…
Beautifully succulent lemons, hanging from her tree.
Turns out, they’re her lemons.
Turns out she doesn’t appreciate people stealing them.
Turns out I owe her 68 cents.
But I’m an outlaw now.
I scoff in the face of 68 cents.
I might steal your shit next.