|Sometimes a pickle is just a pickle.|
A friend of mine just told me she was desperate for a Cherry Coke, and had to rummage through her purse and find change to buy one. She felt kind of sheepish doing this.
I told her that sometimes, sacrifices must be made.
Not once, but several times in junior high, I found myself desperate for a dill pickle (the kind that float in a jar of brine on the countertops of fine dining establishments everywhere). During these times of desperate craving, I would walk around the gravel parking lots near the pickle emporium*, searching for change on the ground. I had to come up with $0.50, because one large pickle was (including tax) $0.48. I wanted to be prepared if they happened to raise the price by two cents.
There were days where I bought a pickle, and there were days where I had to continue walking home defeated and pickle-less.
[*the pickle emporium was Cal's Roast Beef, if you are wondering]
So, Steve may ponder Molly-ness. I ponder pickles.
[Steven here: Good grief, pickles. You were thinking of pickles when your friend needed money for Cherry Coke. Well, I try never to think of pickles at all, so I guess that kind of evens things out.]
[Oh, and the Freudian quote above is my addition to your bloggy goodness. It's kind of freaky, having my sister share her inner pickle manias where I am supposed to respond to them. Gives me the shivers.]
[And Good Grief! "I'll raise you a pickle?!" You need more therapy.]
[Kate here: Shut up.]