Thinking: a most dangerous undertaking

Things pingin' around all that spare room in my skull today:

• Chocolate. Aside from Jess' melt-in-your-mouth brownies and the soufflé at Roy's in Baltimore, I don't dig chocolate. Sure, that's not a very girlie thing to admit, but it's the ugly truth. It always annoys me when I see some kind of ice cream I think would be really good, then upon closer inspection I see that the manufacturer has taken a really great flavor and sullied it with enough chocolate to kill all the dogs in town. Ben and Jerry's, I'm lookin' at you: why the fuck did you have to ruin Chunky Monkey with the four pounds of chocolate pieces you put in the pint containers? Why wasn't banana ice cream with walnuts good enough? Makes me think there's a severe lack of imagination when it comes to planning this shit. Read my vanilla fucking lips: not every woman is jonesing for chocolate. Knock it off, you cocksuckers! Make me some banana and peanut butter ice cream, and all will be forgiven.
  This message brought to you by Katy's PMS.
  
  
• My days are passing wickedly fast here. I can't believe I've been here over a month now. The cats continue to extend their many greetings from the Welcome Wagon. Even the shyest cats in the house have buddied up to me, including old Eeyore, a cat I saw only on rare occasions when I would come here to visit. Eeyore is probably about 17 years old and doesn't have much tolerance for all the ruckus the other animals - especially the dogs - cause around the house, so he's usually hiding. Lately, he's taken a liking to yowling outside my bedroom door until I get out of bed and let him in, and then nesting in my hair. But he doesn't nestle quietly; he purrs like a little outboard motor, continually butts his head against my face, and stomps all over my hair. It's really quite sweet, but if this keeps up, I will be wearing a wig before the year is out.
  
  



• If the dogs here were pasta, they would be Tardellini.
  
  
  
  
• I am perhaps the luckiest bitch in the whole wide world. That's true for a number of reasons, but there's one in particular that is making me especially thankful today: I went to the ATM and withdrew some cash today, not a tiny amount, and then went on my merry way to Target. I shopped in a leisurely fashion, as I really have no discernible schedule these days, and there is no reason I can't linger in the shampoo aisle for fifteen minutes if I get the urge. Upon being told the total cost of my purchases, I realized that my trusty girl wallet was not in my girl purse. The cashier offered to suspend the transaction while I went out to the car to fetch my cash; I reasoned that I must've left my wallet on the seat of the car. However, when I reached my Cruiser and looked in the window, my heart sank when my wallet was nowhere to be seen. I opened the driver's door to have a better look, and my heart reversed its sinking motion and shot right up into my throat when I saw my wallet on the ground, outside my car. ON THE GROUND. My throat-bound heart was channeling Gene Krupa as I unzipped the wallet with fingers as shaky as an epileptic at a strobe light convention. Against all logic and my sickened expectations, my cash was all there, my cards were all there - no one had seen it. So if you work at Target, I'll be the weird fucker in shades doin' the happy dance in the parking lot when they show you the best of their security tapes at the Christmas party.