Anyone that knows me well enough to have had a meal with me knows that one of my most hated food products is the dreaded pickle. Well, it's not just pickles, it's the pickling process. The vinegar I suppose (which is ironic because I like Italian dressing), is a key component. The bottom line is that pretty much anything pickled turns my nose up in disgust. Pickles themselves, perhaps because of their name, but I'm sure mostly because of their smell, just happen to be the stereotypical, representative token poster-product for my anti-pickling near-phobic mania. And in case you hadn't picked up on it by now, I can outright do without pickles in my life. I'm a proponent for a pickle-free society. Death to pickles. Nevermind the fact that both of my kids LOVE pickles.
So this morning, at my dad's house, when my step-mother asked me to open a jar for her, and it turned out to be a jar of pickles, well, I wasn't too keen on it. However, how can I really say no in that situation without being ass-like, so I opened it. Which turned out to be a mistake. Apparently the jar was brimming with pickle juice just waiting to leap out at me. The pickle juice got all over the front of my jacket and on my jeans. But not just anywhere on my jeans, on the front pockets, and in a way that everything IN my pockets now smells like pickles. My keys, my flash drive, my hanky. Pickle-taminated. So I'm walking around smelling quite profusely of one of the most rank smells on earth. I feel like Superman burdened with his necklace of Kryptonite.
The wonderful irony in all this? My dad owns one of those $20 jar-openers that my step-mother has just never figured out how to operate. Further irony is that the only person in my dad's house that has ever needed assistance opening a jar is my step-mother. So on top of having to tolerate this putrid smell, I've gotten to participate in the waste of $20. Perhaps more if considering the time I'll need to pour into de-smellifying my jacket, pants, and pocket-contents.
What a great start for a weekend.
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