When I was around 7ish, my twin cousins, Floris and Doris (yes, that's their real names) used to bribe me to spend the night with them almost every Friday night. They did so with pickles. Big, juicy dill or sour pickles that their father brought home from the pickle factory where he worked. It worked every time. I loved the things. We used to bite off the top, the pointiest part and stick a peppermint stick down it and suck up the sweet-tangy juice. It may sound gross now, but that was tummy-licious snacking then. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. I think I tired of having the twins fight over whose bunk I'd share. After all, they only lived downstairs from me and I much preferred my own bed. I had my fill of pickles by the time I was 9. Today, I detest the things. I've eaten enough to last beyond a life time.
A couple of days ago I had one of those insane days at work and I needed comfort food for lunch. Miller's Pub in Chicago makes pretty dang good grill cheese sandwiches but I always have to remind them that I want it with cheddar cheese, not American cheese. I patiently tell them how much American cheese makes me sick, sick enough to upchuck. They get it wrong more often that I care to reveal. I almost always forget to tell them to leave off the pickle--'cause I don't want a pickle. I don't even want it near my sandwich. The word we used as children for really gross food was "vomit-ticious"--and pickles to me definitely are.
Today at work I felt on the precipice of a mammoth meltdown. Murderous thoughts crossed my mind a couple of times. Whenever I feel like this, a motorcycle ride is the panacea. When I get on my bike, I am all business. I am focused. I am centered. To ride safe, nothing can distract me. Whatever is ailing me, must be shelved. Having to focus my energies and attention on the task at hand, amazingly calms the nerves, regulates the breathing, and relaxes the mind. After finding that zone, that place when everything is clipping away at a good pace, the fun begins. Mentally, I am always in a better place at the end of a good ride.
I needed to ride today. In the worst way. Although a bit chilly, I would have endured the temps. Even the angry, robust winds wouldn't have discouraged me. After all, this is the Windy City. I have braved winds that made the bike seem to ride at a 45 degree angle. But Queenie isn't home from winter camp yet. So, I came home and did some motorcycle 'net searching--a poor substitute for a ride, but it's all I had. It did help quell some thoughts of work place homicide.
In my web searching, I found something that captures my sentiments EXACTLY. Arlo Guthrie and the Motorcycle Song.
"I don't want a pickle, I just want to ride my motor-sickle"
Listen and watch Arlo!