Sweet Pickle

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I’m not a fan of pickles. Some people are, but not me. Pickles seem to be very provocative fruits. Or are they vegetables? What the hell is a pickle, anyway? Whatever classification it falls under, the pickle is not something one can be apathetic about. You either love it or hate it. There is no Switzerland of pickles.

I remember a book company (?) (I’m not sure what kind of company it was actually)

SIDE NOTE: Look at all of these things I could Google but choose not to!

I remember a company I was somehow exposed to as a child that called itself Sweet Pickles. I can even remember their jingle, and the fact that whatever product they sold (books? Magazines?) came with a scratch-n-sniff sticker that smelled like a pickle.

Um, gross.

I can still smell that sticker smell. After all these years it is still as unappealing as ever.

Oh Jesus. I Googled it. This came up:



Along with this commercial came a rush of childhood feels. I am amazed, for example, that even now, at the age of 36, I still irrationally hate the face of the girl in pigtails in this commercial. I had no memory of this girl until watching this old commercial, but now I *do* remember her, and my completely unprovoked dislike of her and her stupid face. I still do that. I still have gut reactions to perfect strangers based on their faces. I don’t like Jamie Bell’s face. I’m sure he’s a lovely person, and I don’t mean he isn’t handsome, I just don’t like his face. (Sorry Jamie Bell – I love you in Turn!)

My god, what a bizarre turn this blog post has taken. (And isn’t it bizarre how “bizarre” is spelled? I would think it should be spelled b-i-z-z-a-r-e. *shrug*)

All of this rambling is a result of my wanting to share with you my latest crochet baby gift. It needs back-story explanations lest you think me in need of counseling. (In an ironic twist, my pre-back-story rambling has illuminated just how much counseling I do need.) You see, my latest crochet gift is a baby rattle that is a pickle, but unfortunately also looks like a diseased phallus.

In answer to your next obvious question of why the hell would I make a baby a pickle rattle for any reason, but especially considering my dislike of all things pickled, I will say this: This baby’s dad makes his own pickles. I’m told they’re good, but I refuse to actually eat any of them because, well, see above. I think he’s starting his own pickle company and it has a very clever name that goes well with his last name. Anyway, I thought it would be cute for his new baby to have a pickle rattle.


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Seriously though, you guys, pickled things are gross. Eggs, cabbage, cucumbers, severed toes… I refuse to eat any of these things.

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