The Major Problem-o with Mr. X’s Pickles

What’s on my mind? When Mr. and Mrs. X came to dinner in December, Mr. X handed me a jar of pickles as he sailed through the door.

“Made ’em, m’self,” he said.

With the appropriate thank you, I tucked them into the fridge.

We love pickles, but - with two jars already open - we soon forgot about Mr. X’s. Seemingly unaided, his jar of pickles migrated toward the back of the fridge. Once in awhile, I’d spot them, thinking: “Must use those pickles!” 

And then I’d quietly close the fridge door and forget about them again. Until yesterday, when … 

“Hi, hi, hi! Imagine running into yo-u-u-u!” It was Mr. and Mrs. X, their car next to ours at Home Depot. Himself had already dashed off to get whatever Guy Thing it was he needed.

Stuck for words at the best of times, I now stared into Mr. and Mrs. X’s happy faces, clueless about kicking off a meaningful conversation. 

Feeling downcast, my eyes went in the same direction, which meant I was staring at Mr. X’s crotch. And then it came to me! Words to say. Not Mr. X’s crotch.

Smiling broadly, I raised my eyes and said: “I lo-o-o-ve your pickles!” No need to say we’d never opened the jar. 

Mr. X looked mortified. Mrs. X looked shocked. 

(What did I say? What did I say? I must have put my foot in it! Oh, gawd … They probably thought I meant …)

“I didn’t mean that in a sexual way!” Now Mr. and Mrs. X both looked shocked. 

“You didn’t mind the slime?” asked Mr. X. 

(Oh, gawd … oh, gawd! What can I say? What can I say? That I LOVED the slime? That I didn’t NOTICE the slime? Either way, I’m in too deep - or Mr. X wants to be … And WTF - WHAT slime?)

So, wanting nothing more than for Himself to arrive in the parking lot with his Guy Thing, I innocently asked: “Slime?” 

“Slime,” nodded Mr. and Mrs X, grim-faced.

“The cukes were slimy when I bought them,”confessed Mr. X. 

Bravely holding up my end of the conversation, I asked: “Huh?” And then: “Huh?” 

“I rinsed them,” he continued, “but couldn’t get it all off. They just kept getting slimier in the jar.” 

“Slimier in the jar,” repeated Mrs. X, shaking her head in sympathy.

(BLOODY HELL! She’s sympathizing with the DOUGH HEAD who bought slimy cucumbers to make slimy pickles??? Why the EFF would he give them to us as a PRESENT???)

That’s what I thought. What I said, was: “Oh, dear.” 

The Xs were pleased - but uncertain - I was telling the truth when I said loved Mr. X’s non-sexual pickles. If at first you don’t succeed, lie, lie, again. Before we parted ways, I reassured them Mr. X’s pickles were perfect, even if my words (BLOODY HELL!) produced a marital rift between them.

When Himself returned to the car, Guy Thing in … um … hand, I told him about the pickles, neatly dodging the sex stuff.

Indeed, when we peeked in the fridge, Mr. X’s pickles were entombed in grey slime. “Ew-w-w-w!” I said, with my usual eloquence. 

Himself makes pickles, too. He knew Mr. X’s were a Major Problemo.

“You can’t lie!” he said. “I’ll send the Xs an email to clear things up.” Which he did.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. X!” he wrote. “It seems Nicole was mistakenly praising Mr. X’s pickles, the other day. What she really intended was to praise my pickles.” 

I bit my lip when I read that. Didn’t say a word. I’m a happily married woman. It would be mighty fine to keep it that way. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2020