Obsessive Dill Pickle Over-Consumption

I have a flat-out, weird, unhealthy relationship with dill pickles. And back off your dirty minds: I eat them, not use them for illicit activities. I crave them beyond a description of words. To say that pregnant women crave dill pickles is nothing compared to how I feel about dill pickles. There's been a few occasions when I've run out of dill pickles, and I've honestly considered drinking the pickle juice straight from the jar.

Yesterday, I was innocently reading my Sunday paper when the craving for a dill pickle struck. I was so consumed with the dill pickles that I had to put my paper down so I could go to the kitchen to get a couple, at 10:00 in the morning. That is just wrong.

I am also very particular about my dill pickles. I will not accept anything less than Gedney Kosher Dills. Gedney. It's the Minnesota Pickle. When I was married, I went through a phase where I liked to slice my pickles in half, and spread cream cheese in the center, and sandwich it together. My ex-husband thought this was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen. Another case for divorce: he didn't recognize good eats when he saw them.

Over the course of about four weeks in the fall, my daughter did a unit on colors at her school. It was complicated, because she had to wear the color of the day. So I'd have to deal with finding a green shirt one day, an orange shirt the next. On green day, she came home carrying a picture...of a bright green glittery dill pickle. I still have it on the refrigerator, because I don't know what's funnier: that I pay this school to have them help my daughter color enormous green phallic symbols, or that she chose to make a picture of her mother's favorite food.

Right now, I am having an intense craving for dill pickles, and there is nothing I can do about it, unless I want to interrupt my day for a trip to the grocery store. This is the worst day ever.