the judge in my divorce matter said yesterday that my husband has left me in a "pickle." ya think?
a pickle is a cucumber, brined. i would give anything to be brined. right now, brined sounds like a caribbean cruise, all expenses paid.
without going into all of the details, none of which are sordid and all of which are bi.zarre., i am going through hell. if, in the process of brining cucumbers, one needs to send the cucumbers to hell, then yes, i am in a pickle. otherwise, faggedaboudit.
yesterday, after i returned from court, i posted on facebook what the judge said about me and my husband and the pickle. and, as they always do, my friends came through for me - with wonderful, creative, and best of all, vindictive suggestions:
one friend aptly pointed out that since my husband is swedish, the judge should have said pickled herring, not just plain pickle. lol! and true.
another, knowing about my personal challenge to grill something everyday from memorial day through labor day, suggested that i, well, grill the pickle. or, better yet, the pickle maker. lol! and true.
a dear friend from childhood made reference to the color of pickles and the color of money. and how the judge should give me a lot of the latter and to hell with the former. lol! and true.
still another friend remarked that if a supreme court judge can talk about broccoli, a domestic court judge oughta be able to talk about pickles. lol! and true.
everyone was supportive. some with funny suggestions about what to do with my pickle and some with hugs and sympathy.
in the pickle jar of life, friends are the chubby, slender, nail-polished, dirt-stained, faithful fingers that pull you out.
lol!
and true.
