Blood Gone Dry

This isn't the first time I've blogged about pickles.  This isn't the first time I've left the gym with a craving for dill pickles that would not be ignored.  So, with pickles being diet Friendly, I justified the trip to the grocery store (or "market", as LWin says), and headed right to the condiments row.  

I arrived in that beautiful zone of green jars and was presented with a conundrum:  1 quart for $2.49, or 1 GALLON of pickles for $4.39.  The thought of "wow, its kind of embarrassing to buy a gallon of pickles when you're still sweaty and in spandex, all by yourself..." went through my head.  As did "shit, I didn't get a basket and I still need tea and bags o'salad...".

So what do I do?  Decide that a gallon beats a quart, and so does the price, and go to the front of the store and snatch the first basket I peep out (the hand-carry kind, big mistake when we're talking a gallon of pickles.) and race back to claim my prize.  

I struggled with my sore post-workout-muscles to lug my new baby

 around the rest of the store, but did so and felt triumphant.  Until I got to the register. 

Don't get me wrong, Linda is probably the nicest late-night checker I've ever met.  She left the massive jar as the last thing to be scanned, and while I tried to ignore the act, Linda paused with it in her hands, lifted it to her face-level, and asked "Now what *I* wanna know is whos blood's goin' dry!?"  Now, I didn't know that when you crave pickles, it means your blood needs wettening, but I quickly smiled and replied "Me!  They're all mine!", and proceeded to say "...the worst part is, I live alone."  Linda suffered a coronary from laughter, and went on to criticize my bagging technique.  She argued that if I put everything in one paper bag, it'd all fall out the bottom and lose my pickles.  I begged her to trust me, and promised I'd hold it like a baby, and promised to let her approve my carrying style before i left her line.  

She did, I did, and she did. 

 

And I ate two pickles as soon as I got home.  Win. 

Catholic Guilt

What on earth did I ever do to make Facebook think that I am Mel Gibson??

In my line of work, you learn that the things you do on the internet directly relate to the ads you see, so this bothers me more than you know: 

Now I'm going to have to convert just so I feel better :( 

WarFace: Game On

Two of my dear friends, BoneJunior and Kate, have gotten themselves into some sort of long-distance sparring over MagnumPI and his vacation.  The saga continues as Magnum PII has reveled himself in the confines of our office in Kennett Square, seemingly protesting the vacation that MagnumPI is taking with BoneJunior in Utah. 

BoneJunior, it seems that MagnumPii has struck back.  Again. 

After a snow day yesterday, where only one person made it to the office (Kate) because she's a re-re, I found a peppering of photos from her in my email, of MagnumPii with friends.  Friends he met on my desk.  This evil doppelganger of the original Magnum continues to terrorize the PA sector with his foul stench and crafty permanent-skid-marks on curious & stealthily placed post-it notes. 

The feeling I received while viewing the photos was one that I would liken to ...being away on vacation, and watching national news footage of your home burning to the ground: Violation, desperation, and general helplessness. 

Anyway, here's the visual, for your enjoyment:

Snowbot did a fantastic job of guarding against the defiling our faces. 

Dangerously close to skidmarking on the mini-stand-up Elvis. 

Ironically, the above mini-replica of Rob (as Bigfoot) was a birthday gift from BoneJunior.  He knows it, too, see how he asserts domination.

Perhaps today will bring another chapter in the developments of Magnum and his evil twin.  Perhaps not.  I post here as evidence to you that I have no life and continue to live vicariously through Inanimate objects:  A marker, and his twin, and the travels and epic drama that ensue once my friends become involved.

Stay tuned...