Oooh, baby. I struck gold at Hannaford the other night by shopping near closing time on a Sunday night. There were taco shells and even a few bottles of sauce. There were saltine crackers hiding on an end cap. There were packets of wet cat food and a fair supply of the dry. It was such a score, I had to hire security to walk me to my car.

Bowled over
Welp, some lucky soul bought that Lisbon bowling alley right out from under me. I regret to inform you that this probably means there will be no Shoes Only Bowling Nite on Fridays, no Overhand Bowling on Saturdays and no Human Pins Survival Bowl on Mondays. I tells you, I had big plans for that place.

Slip slide and a whoa!
I wonder if there’s a medical term for the sensation you get when you’re creeping on foot down your icy driveway when you almost, but not quite, slip and go down. It seems to be equal parts terror, humiliation, relief and rage, with an accompanying urge to scream at your own feet. Other symptoms include spinning your head around on your neck to see if anybody witnessed your lack of grace. I’ve come up with a term for the medical journals, but it’s more profanity than Latin so I’ll keep it to myself.

Ticka ticka tick
And what about that gut drop you feel when you go to start your truck on a bitter cold afternoon and it first groans with promise but then just starts clicking at you to announce it’s unwilling to help out. I don’t know what you’d call that feeling but the proper response is to pound the steering wheel and call it all sorts of names. It’s funny, really. The steering wheel almost never fails you, but it’s the very first part of a car to feel your wrath.

It’s all downhill from here
Sun Journal photographer Andree Kehn had a nice photo earlier in the week of a bunch of kids sliding down a hill in Pownal. There was so little snow, you could actually see roots sticking up, just waiting to hammer a kid’s tailbone on the way down. I remember hills like that from my own childhood. The sliding was great. The walks home were agony.

Count me in, ma’am
I’m getting a lot of spam lately that begins with “Hello, dear.” It’s just some junk about upgrading my car warranty, but with that kind of greeting, I picture some nice old lady trying to earn a few bucks in her spare time, so I feel guilty deleting it. I mean, would it kill me to just give the poor woman my credit card information?

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