So I’m digging in my refridgerator, looking for a low- or no-fat snack. I’ve cleaned it out a few times, but there was one bottle that kept getting shoved aside, forgotten. I would take it out so I could wipe down all the shelves, then replace it without a second thought. Today, finally, it caught my attention. I reached way in, grabbed it, and looked at the anceint label. Dill pickles!
“Oh, boy!” I say aloud. I then realise that I am saying “oh, boy” over a jar of dill pickles and start thinking of ways to get a life.
I open the jar easily enough, which means it has been opened at least once before. But when? I decide to smell it. Ew. It does not smell like dilly goodness. I tentatively take one out, and nibble the end. Ptui! BLECH! These things are no good at all!
I glance around the kitchen, wanting to get rid of the wretched things. I don’t want to dump this heavy jar into the garbage. I don’t want it to break and get glass and liquid through the bag, obviously. I dump the brine into the sink. Still, I don’t want to throw all these nasty wet pickles into the bag - it’s a brand new garbage bag, I just changed it. What a waste of a good garbage bag. It’s bad enough these once delicious pickles are wasted. Ah, the garbage disposal!
The garbage disposal has been acting kind of weird lately. But that just makes things more fun. I call the garbage disposal a “pig”. Back when I was in high school, my best friend’s mother used to call the disposal a pig. I never found out why. She would say, “I’m going to put this in the pig!” She’d drop an item in, turn on the “pig”, and giggle. I loved her to pieces. She always had fun. Even with garbage disposals.
So, here I am today, standing with a brineless jar of wet pickles, eyeing the malfunctioning pig. I pull a pickle from the jar, aim, and fire it into the hole! I turn on the water, then flick the switch. Whee! There goes the pickle! I keep the water and the disposal running, and throw another one in. Whee! There goes another one. The water is beginning to build up. It doesn’t seem to be draining. Ah well. Whee! Another! And another! Eventually, I’m out of pickles. The water level has risen. I leave the disposal going and throw out the empty jar. I lean over the sink, listening to the disposal grunting.
“Come on, pig!” I say.
The keys rattle in the door, but I don’t notice. I’m leaning over the sink, watching the drain. The water level begins to decrease. “Come on, pig!” I cheer on.
Finally, I watch gleefully as the water is spun down the drain. I throw my arms up in the air and shout: “THE PIG WINS!”
I reach over and flick the switch to off. I hear someone clearing their throat. I turn and look and see my husband standing in the kitchen entryway, looking bewildered.
“I *don’t * want to know,” he says, and walks away.
~sigh. No one has as much fun with the pig as I do. My best friend’s mom would have appreciated it.
I know, I know, I need to get out more. And stop talking to the appliances. I figure I’m doing all right, as long as they don’t talk back to me.
