First of all, grocery store workers putting raw chicken in the same bag as my produce is just wrong. I am always especially grateful to the clerk at my Kroger who puts the chicken in a bag all by itself. You, ma’am, could bag groceries for Monk, and that’s saying quite a lot.

Also, you may want to skip this paragraph if you’re a male. Yeah, men, don’t read the rest of this paragraph. I don’t care about panty lines. I don’t care what the magazines say. I don’t want hemroids or a bladder infection from fecal matter being transfered on a thong. Yeah, that really does happen to some women. Just don’t look at my derriere and there won’t be an issue.

Also, it drives me crazy in movies when some guy buys a girl a dress and thinks she can put it on and go to a party or a ball or whatever. First, she’d need to shave her legs. Then, if she’s going to wear open toed shoes, she’ll have to paint her toenails. The girl would also need to pluck her eyebrows and probably put on clear deoderant instead of the powder kind she’s wearing. Not to mention she’ll have to do something with her hair. And what about her accessories? Does she have a purse and earrings that go with the dress? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe most women can just slip on a dress and head out the door.

I’m really annoyed with myself, too. David talked me into Digorno pizza twice this week. And I’ve gotten off of my workout routine. The past month I’ve only worked out once a week. This week I didn’t work out at all. Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day.

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