Shipping Charges Have Become Outrageous

I took some old school bloggy buddies off my blogroll thingie and it made me sad. Sad that they'd stopped blogging and sad that I hadn't. When I started the blog...well let's just say, we had a different Secretary of State. And there's been two since. Only one of the three had hair worthy of naming a blog after.

But this post isn't meant to be a jaunt down memory lane, oh no. It's meant to be about PICKLES.

A couple of months ago, I threw out a devil-may-care challenge concerning a limerick and some pickles and here it is...so much time later...only one person took me up on it. Stinkypaw wrote me a pickle limerick...and so today I sent her a jar of the good shit in return for this poetic gem:

To write a limerick I thought would be easy,
But now I see it's not that peasey
The things I'll do to taste your pickles
I'll ask, I'll beg but won't suffer thru tickles
Because I woudn't want to be queasy.

By the way, did you know you have to fill out a customs form for CANADA? Ridiculous.


When the postal employee asked if the package contained anything breakable, liquid or perishable...I throughoughly enjoyed saying yes to all three. So Stinkpaw...a glass jar of pickled cucs bobbing along in brine is on its way to you. They stamped 'FRAGILE" on it, so I know that means it won't break.

Viva la awesome blog buddies.

It's A Big Day

For several reasons. But I've forgotten them.

Except for this one.

And it's fuckin' huge.

I cleaned out this:

To make room for 16 of these...

After an hour, a glass of wine and the entirety of Nirvana's Nevermind, I succeeded in reducing the contents of my fridge to this:

That was after tossing out almost everything inside - including two jars of lemon curd. What the fuck am I doing with lemon curd? I'm not British, nor do I prefer any manner of curd other than the cheese variety.

Anyway........I did it.

Impressive, isn't it. Wars have started over these glorious homemade pickles. Peace treaties have been negotiated. Children have been sold. Lambies have been martyred. Civilizations have been conquered. Goods and services have been bartered. Homesteads have been pillaged. Stamp collections forsaken. Leather jackets sold to Buffalo Exchange. All for these pickles.

Normally the pickle-making party is the event of the season. This year it was just WORK. The demand has gotten so high (see paragraph above) that there is no joy in the stuffing of the jars...only determination to get as many cucs in as possible. Ok, there was some joy, but it was working joy. Is that a thing? Seriously though, I broke a sweat.

Next year I'm bringing up the option of outsourcing. I know lots of children without jobs.

Anyway, if in two months, when they mature, anyone remembers that it's time for the pickles to be mature and writes me a gloriously pickle-related limerick...I'll send them a jar.

See, I'm safe because no one will do that.

You Better Watch Out

Taken out of context, that line is fucked up.

I sort of remember when I stopped believing in Santa. I was older than I probably should've been (hey, some of us LIKE believing in things) but still in early grade school. It was 4:00 AM, Christmas morning and I heard a noise in the living room. I opened my door as slowly and quietly as I could and peeked down the hallway. The Christmas tree was lit with bubble lights (because we were awesome) and I could just make out my mother putting bits o' wonderful in our stockings.

Deflated. So it's true. Well, I suppose it makes sense. "From Santa" always looked like Mom's handwriting.

Re-inflated. But I still get presents!

And went back to bed until probably around 6:00 AM. I'm sorry, parents.

the Waif and I were horrible snoopers too. Around the first week of December, we'd start to hit all the places we could conceive of hidden gifts. Once they were wrapped and placed under the tree...we lifted, molested, shook and held to the light any and everything with our names on it. What brats.

One year, I got this giant plastic piggy bank in the shape of a Coca-Cola bottle (it's like she knew it was going to run my life one day) that was about as tall as my hip. When wrapped, it proved to be my greatest guessing challenge. I did everything but unwrap it. I think I even put a few fingers in the paper opening to see what I could feel. Didn't do any good, I couldn't figure the fucking thing out. Though I doubt she'd admit it, I still feel today (not too long after that piggy bank has had to be officially retired...which is ok because it had a shitty interest rate) that she got me that bank to punish me for present snooping. Game well played, madam. Well played, indeed.

The lesson here, children, is that your snooping abilities are only as good as the parents you're up against. And she could've taught classes.

Now go find the pickle.