Every day is like Sunday

Well, at least according to the New York Times. For some reason, my Sunday paper does not arrive on Sundays. Instead it arrives on Monday, and then another copy will show on Tuesday. I have called several times, and the helpful customer service representative said “I will put a note on your account that it is important that you receive the Sunday paper on Sunday.” At this rate, I will be able to wallpaper the rumpus room with newspaper that I still haven’t had time to read. As a child I was fascinated with the olde tyme newspaper printed on the tables at Wendy’s, so I imagine this would hold similar appeal.

Now we have a glut: entirely too many anecdotes and not enough time to natter about everything. There’s the hair raising tale of our weekend in Maine, Mr. H’s trip to “Bangladore,” getting Hepatitis A, that fucking chipmunk who keeps eating my plants, including the cilantro that totally did it with the dill (Dilettantro), and minor league baseball from last week. Did you know the mascot for the Lowell Spinners is the Canaligator? Even Kitty Winn has a backlog, and these problems are real humdingers. I just can’t focus. I’m going a million miles a second here.

Also, why not contribute to John Kerry today? Midnight tonight is the deadline for the last FEC filing before the convention. I shoveled some more into the pile, but I confess I used my credit card because we are still poor. And that reminds me of another story about what happens to poor chicks, but Mr. H made me promise that he could guest blog that one. Soon, pretties.


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