The Flappening
I regret to inform you that sometime during the morning hours Monday, May 22, some savage beast attacked the Phoebe nest above my door, knocked the whole thing down and broke two eggs in the process. I’m particularly distraught over this since I grew fond of the Phoebes when they came last year. Now I’m investigating the murder of the next generation and I have my best bird minds on the case. No, really, I have bird investigators in my contacts list. Current suspects include cowbirds, blue jays and sparrows, although mice and squirrels are also considered animals of interest. If you have any information leading to the prosecution of . . . But I think I’ve taken this one as far as it will go.

Hannaford glue
Hey, waddaya know? Last week I complained about the mega-strength glue Hannaford was using on their peanut jars; this week the covers twist right off without the need of power tools. I get results, bruh. Kind of makes me wonder what else I should complain about. The bag nags at the self-checkout are next on my list because they always seem to imply that I’m lying. “How many bags did you use?” the machine will ask. Zero, I will report. “Oh, really? You’re not going to use a single bag? Are you sure?” comes the next message. I click OK and that’s that, but you can just TELL that the gizmo thinks I’m lying about it.

The fear is real
As I write, I’m sitting here glooming over the fact that I have to cover a town meeting tonight. I’m also trying to come up with any arguments at all that might get me out of the dread assignment. These arguments include: 8th amendment issues; too depressed after loss of Phoebes; conflict of interest (because I may be in love with a town selectperson — any selectperson will do — doesn’t matter which one because if it gets me out of this thing, by God I will fall in love); potential allergic reaction to bright orange paint sticks; claustrophobia; agoraphobia; and, most importantly, thaasophobia — that’s a real phobia. Look it up. If I can get some quack to diagnose me, by gum, I think I’ve found my way out of this thing.

When you’re here, you’re family
They say when Olive Garden opened for a test run last week, the line of customers stretched all the way out to the street. Man, those people really wanted some bread sticks. I might have joined them, too, if not for my long battle with stasiphobia (which is also real. Look it up!).