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One ringy dingy….. two ringy dingy!

Damn, I am so excited. Dead Dog Dorris is making me this bitchin’ diary layout. It’s so damned cool. I can’t wait to unveil it.

Yep. That’s right. It’s so damned cool, I could only resurrect an 80’s word like “bitchin” to do it justice.

Never fear, however: Chubby Tink will be gracing the new layout. I know many of you would miss her. I know I would. And all the secrets she holds, too.


Tonight, I stopped at the grocery store before going home, under the guise of picking up some hamburger buns and Pringles Right Crisps (which I find less scary than Wow chips, with their strange chemical that makes your poop all runny and aliens crawl out of your butt and stuff like that). $78.92 later (and that was WITH the bureaucratic Big Brother-esque “Frequent Shopper” card thing) I emerged with three bags of groceries. Healthiest thing: red grapes. Least healthy thing: toss up between Stouffer’s French Bread Cheese Pizza and Tombstone Thin Crust Pepperoni Pizza (which were 3 for $9.99… a bargain for us pizza snobs). Going out on a limb purchase: frozen baked beans. I don’t recall the brand. They were $1.99, so I figured, what the hell. Live a little.

Number of Hamburger buns purchased: Zero.

Packages of cookies: Two.

As I was loading up the little cashier’s conveyor belt, I was in front of a very cute obvious bachelor. In his cart: orange juice, Wheaties, wheat bread, grapes (hey, we had something in common!), and many many scary fiberous vegetables.

In my cart, enough sodium and fat to take down the offensive line of the Philedelphia Eagles.

I really shouldn’t go shopping when I’m hungry. It’s not a good thing. I had this strange compulsion to say “These are for my children” or “Boy, I’m having a strange wild party full of picky eaters.” I was so worried that he’d look at my conveyor belt of processed junk and think “God, no wonder….” when he looked at me. Instead, I kept waving around my bag of grapes, as if to say “Oh my, these are MY grapes… the rest of this food is for someone else, but I will live for two weeks on this pound of grapes, mercy yes!”

sigh

Those Pepperidge Farm Mint Brussels cookies didn’t even taste that good.

The only worse time to go grocery shopping is when I am sick. Then I end up with White Castle cheeseburgers, Marshmallow fluffs, Campbell’s jars of soup, and gallons of premade orange juice.

Trust me. Any other grocery excursion will find Boca Burgers and whole grain breads in my shopping cart. Honest.

Never mind. It’s the preservatives talking. Just a little case of Shopping Cart guilt. Carry on.


I just got a phone call from a telemarketer wanting me to make a donation. First of all, she sounded exactly like Lily Tomlin’s Phone Operator character, and secondly, she called us at six minutes to 9:00 p.m.

That pisses me off. I mean, I realize that I’m a big sleepy head and everything, but hey, some people work early in the morning. Some people like to be in bed by 8:30. Some people have kids. Don’t be calling soliciting past 8:00 pm at night. That’s not righteous, folks.

She started to make her little speech, and I said “No, I’m sorry, could you take us off your list. This is a little late to be calling asking for donations.” I said this completely politely and slowly, to show that I wasn’t upset, just concerned.

“Well,” she snipped. “These are solicitor’s hours, but fine, we’ll take you off our list.” And then she hung up.

I have half a mind to call up their headquarters and ream them out. And the worst thing is that I have actually MADE donations to them!

Maybe I should donate a half-eaten bag of Pepperidge Farm Mint Brussels cookies.

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