Babies and pickles. no, it's not a weird craving.

I'd like to start off today on a serious note. I recently read something very interesting in "The Week" magazine. (And I have no idea if magazines are supposed to be in quotes or not. I can't keep all those rules straight. So sue me.) It reads: "Throughout the world, 164 out of 168 nations surveyed guarantee paid maternity leave to working mothers. The four who do not are Papua New Guinea, Swaziland, Lesotho, and the United States." I'm sorry, but WHAT THE FUCK? What the HELL is wrong with this country? If you won't or can't get a job, you can sit on welfare and food stamps as long as you keep cranking out babies, but be gainfully employed and a contributor to society, and well, better not breed cause if you do, too bad for you! Between that and the fact that it costs your left nut to get healthcare in this country, it has me wondering exactly what kind of land of opportunity we're running here. Makes a person want to move to Canada. Too bad I can't stand the cold.

Now for the lighter side of me, I have a funny story to relate. Yesterday, my Lawrence and I went to Scarborough Faire, ya know, like ya do, and towards the end of the day we decided to buy some jerky. I was also wanting a pickle, but I hadn't mentioned it to Lawrence, because he'd already bought me so many foods that day, I didn't want to seem like a blood sucking mooch. We got to the jerky stand, and I saw that they ALSO sold pickles! Serendipity baby! The guy manning the stand went to the pickles, tongs in hand, ready for the word. Lawrence said, "We'd like some jerky, please." A look of confusion flitted across the jerky monger's face, but he set the tongs down and came over to dole out the jerky. He was just about to tell the cost when I couldn't take it anymore. "I'd like a pickle also," I said. "I KNEW IT!!" he exclaimed, "I had you pegged the moment I saw you! I knew you were a pickle princess!" He cackled gleefully to himself as he retrieved a pickle from the barrel, wrapped it in paper, and handed it to me. "Pickle princess!" I laughed. I wondered exactly how he could tell that I harbored an unsettling love for pickles. Does he realize that I always ask for extra pickles on my burgers? Is it a certain kind of person who loves pickles? Could you do a personality test around pickles? Maybe he just saw me eyeballing the pickles and read me accordingly. Maybe it's something more. Who knows? All I know is that I thank God everyday for the brave miners who risk their lives day in and day out to bring pickles from the dark, dank, and dangerous pickle mines far beneath the earth. Hours are spent delicately prying each individual pickle from it's spot nestled between other less precious rocks and gems. They are the most valuable and precious substance on Earth, and this is why burger places only give a scant two slices per burger. Even at that, those two slices are where most of the cost for the burger comes from. So next time you callously toss aside those priceless green jewel slices, close your eyes and think of the brave brave pickle miners, and me, the Pickle Princess.