Forbidden Fruit

I took a nice drive with my Guy today. Guy is the name I've given to my brand new used GPS. I chose his name for this stunningly creative reason: he's the guy who keeps me from getting lost--the manly name due to his manly voice, of course. Somebody told me the other day that his GPS speaks to him in the voice of Bart Simpson. Funny, I'm sure, but I like my Guy just fine. Sometimes he pronounces words in a halting way, stressing the wrong syllable, so I've taken to pronouncing Guy with my best French accent, making his name rhyme with the word "see," with a hard G. Of course, this always makes me launch into the one bit of back and forth dialogue that remains in my head from High school French. It begins with "Bonjour, Guy!". He doesn't keep up his end of the dialogue, but that's okay.

So off we went, Guy and I, off to the country to an orchard to buy apples. I was busy running errands all day long, and I was getting a little cranky that my day off was turning into a giant to-do list. Someplace in Northern Kentucky, I hauled Guy out of the trunk, plugged him in, entered the address, and set off in search of fruit and a pleasant little drive. What a gorgeous drive it was: sunshine, blue skies, trees in every shade of gold and green and orange and red. Spectacular. I drove past some kind of pumpkin festival, but I resisted. I was looking for homegrown apples. Eventually, Guy got me safely to my destination, Rouster's Apple House, where I was greeted by this sad sign: We're Semi-Retired. Thanks for Your Patronage. They were closed forever. Alas, Guy can get me where I want to go without getting lost, but he can't remind me to check to see if the final destination is open before leaving home.

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