Pickles

Upon the window sill of our most visible front window sits a jar of pickles. Complacent as it may be, in the subtlest of forms it waves to all who pass our dwelling as a proud flag of estrogen shouting to the world, "Here resides women of the most feminine sort, quaking with the fear of an empty, unadorned window sill." Needless to say, this pickle jar of renown has a reputation which precedes it. People walk into our kitchen with painful disgust dripping from their countenances. Gazing at the main attraction, they ask, "WHAT is that?!" Often I feel inclined to tell them, "It is an unborn calf. I collect them and put them on display for psychological reaction." Being the polite person that I am, I bypass the opportunity and tell them the pitiful truth: the pickle jar is eye candy. It coincides with our decorative scorpion shot glass. Nothing like a pickle jar to ignite passion, stimulate happiness, and drain us of stress related ulcers. There is a certain humor surrounding the ugliest of objects.