So I limited myself to two strawberry daiquiri's last night at my birthday dinner because I'm not a woman who holds her likker well and I find those fruity drinks slide down way, way too easily, eh.

    That self-restraint meant I didn't roam around the charming Vermont restaurant by the lake offering to do table dances or flexing my bicep and asking strangers to feel my muscle.

    I think we can all agree this falls under the general heading of A Good Thing. Now that I am now officially older than dirt I feel a certain gravitas is necessary in social situations.

    Can I just say here that I was absolutely goofy with happiness yesterday and that this has spilled over into today?

    Thanks to the efforts of the irrepressible Queerscribe (the only man I've ever known who's offered me the use of his personal dildo--and really, how many men do YOU know who are so sharing, eh?) I got the most incredible birthday gift.

    Just when I thought my cup was overflowething with happiness, that things simply couldn't get any better, when I went to pick up an e-birthday card I also found out that it's National Pickle Week!

    I know you won't believe it, because I barely can, but my tiny community is not planning a pickle related parade to mark the festivities.

    I know you sophisticated urban dwellers probably have pickle related festivities coming out of your wazoos and I *would* appreciate it if you now rub it in, 'kay?

    Now I realize that there are some poor, delusional, woebegone souls who will disagree with me, but I feel that when you're talking your pickles and you want to talk about the apogee of pickle goodness, then you are discussing your dill pickle.

    I myself much prefer your garlic dill pickle, but am broad minded enough to include your plain jane dill pickle under the umbrella of Most Wonderful Pickle in the World.

    I cannot imagine eating a hamburger or a hot dog not graced with slices of dill pickle goodness. Egg salad sandwiches go from being good to ambrosial with the addition of the warty wonder of *insert drum roll here* dill pickle slices.

    No.

    Really.

    It's true.

    Stop making that retching noise. Stop it right now.

    There's one pickle which is the spawn of Satan and of which we must never speak again, and that would be the beet pickle. There are no words for how much I hate this pickle.

    So of course, it (along with a bread and butter pickle of diabetic coma inducing sweetness) were the only two pickles to grace our family table when I was growing up. Yet despite this sort of childhood abuse, I eventually grew up to be the person you see before you.

    Someone who, after three daiquiris, would probably ask strangers to feel her muscle.

    I blame it all on a childhood filled with beet pickles.