Tag Archives: Shopping

I hate grocery shopping, so of course I have to do it two days in a row

A few years back my wife started recording our weekly grocery bill. I don’t know why. We’re not living check to check, so that’s not it. We absolutely never eat out, so it’s not a comparison sort of thing. Eating out is something we only do once or twice a year, so that’s not it. She was just curious, and before long I was following along as well, watching the bill’s weekly highs and lows and comparing them to the previous months and now previous years.

It’s the kind of pointless, low-cost entertainment one turns too when they don’t have children or a reliable way to watch Netflix, I guess.

As you might know, I normally get tricked, cajoled or forced at gun point to come along on these weekend shopping trips, but what you don’t know is that I will volunteer to do absolutely anything while she stalks the produce aisle in search of the perfect leek or eggplant.

This here is a perfect leek. If we bought this leek, we'd never have to buy a leek again. I may just steal the leek from this guy. I think I can take him.

This here is a perfect leek. If we bought this leek, we’d never have to buy a leek again. I may just steal the leek from this guy. I think I can take him.

Need the recycling turned in? I’m your man if it gets me out of grocery shopping. Need to return an purchased a year ago and never opened even though you’ve long ago lost the receipt? Sounds like more fun than debating the pros and cons of various vegetable stock. Hell, if you need a ring tossed into the fires of Mount Doom I’d rather do that than smell and decide on which new bathroom hand soap is the best.

Frodo, saddle up, but first tell Gollum I’m badly hungover and he needs to shut the fuck up already. Hey, stop bitching, at least we’re not at the grocery store.

That said, I normally arrive back at the grocery store shortly before check out. I can tell from things in the cart approximately what the damage is going to be. Was it a heavy meat week? Well that’s going to cost us. If however we’re eating lentil soup (gross by the way) for lunch this week the bill will be lighter.

Basically, I’m a primary factor in how much the bills is going to be. If left unchallenged my diet would consist of Frosted Flakes, steak, potatoes and a crap ton of bacon. My wife on the other hand has threatened/enthusiastically volunteered to subsist on nothing but rice and beans for a month. I say threatened because this is her go-to statement when I spend too much money on beer, strippers or remote controlled quad choppers drunkenly purchased during late night Amazon binges. I say enthusiastically volunteered because I think she secretly hopes I’ll agree with this idea. Only the threat of my flatulence after three weeks of a rice and bean subsistence keeps her from actually following through with this plan.

I’ve also come to understand that when I’m gone for a few weeks on business the bill is dramatically less. So much so that she’s been known to skip the grocery shopping altogether. I suspect that shocking amounts of rice and beans are consumed during these periods, but cannot confirm such.

Having just returned from three weeks away, my wife and I went to the grocery store Saturday morning. I, as usual, ran some recycling to the recycling center and returned a cat toy that wasn’t particularly expensive or, I guess, interesting to the ca. I returned to the grocery store just in time to find my wife about to hit the checkout lane.

It was a banner trip to be sure. Our bill not only broke all previous grocery shopping trip records, it destroyed all previous records. It was approximately 80 percent higher than the previous record. I say approximately because — math. I have no idea how much, percentage-wise, higher it was, but it was a lot higher. The previous record was $140 and this Saturday’s purchase came in at $230. Basically, it blew the old record out of the water and onto land making it the king of the grocery-cost-list ocean by a long shot. (It is a 64.28571428571429 percent  increase, according to this handy calculator because Google ~Fran)

As I said, I’d been gone for three weeks and she really hadn’t been shopping while I was out. There was also a lot of meat, cleaning supplies and candy that we both plan on torturing our coworkers with so yeah, the bill was going to be high. And, like I said earlier, we’re keeping the record of our weekly bill because a real hobby would require effort and energy.

This is a Shakespearean-trained actress reenacting Dagmar's amusement at the high grocery bill.

This is a Shakespearean-trained actress reenacting Dagmar’s amusement at the high grocery bill.

We both laughed about it, discussed why it was so high and had forgotten about it by the time the groceries were loaded into the car.

I do recall that it took slightly longer than normal to unload the groceries though. It was a lot of stuff to be honest.

Cut to the next morning: I tend to wake up before my wife does when we are both allowed to sleep as late as we want. I get up, make the coffee, scratch where it itches and contemplate what it was I posted on Facebook after 15 beers the night before that has everyone so mad. You know, quality alone time.

Dagmar was up an hour or so later. I offered her a cup of coffee and we started to discuss the day’s events. Though I was never informed previously it turned out that I was going to spend my Sunday cleaning out the garage. Not a horrible fate, I like it in there. That’s where my beer fridge is after all.

Then she dropped the bombshell. She wanted to know if I could run to the grocery store again, to pick up some chicken. I agreed and trudged into the shower. I contemplated how, after running up a gargantuan (by our standards) $230 grocery bill for two people, how I could possibly have to go back there for more stuff the very next day? How is that possible? It seemed impossible, but here I was putting on pants and looking for my wallet.

When I went back downstairs the simple one-item shopping list had grown to seven items.

Incredible. Just incredible. I’ll be in the garage contemplating just how much I don’t know about running a household.

How not to buy your wife chocolate

I hope this comes across in the self-help spirit I intend. I’m hoping some level-two husband, you know the kind diligently watching Oprah reruns with his wife in hope of someday achieving level 5 so he gets the “night out with the boys” pass and eventually the level 25 “yeah it’s just us going to Vegas honey — no chicks,” uber-achievement special ability.

Or am I mixing up video games and real life again? Let that be a warning to all you young husbands out there, eventually the reward becomes you’ll agree to paint the fucking kitchen plaid if she’ll just shut up and leave you alone for 5 minutes.

Next time, I cut you.

Her: Honey I think we should paint your man-cave pink and decorate it with kitten photos …

You: Do you mean right now?

Her: No, no. Next week.

You: Fine as long as it’s not right now.

You get the drift.

The lesson, if she assumes it’s for her, it’s for her. I care not if you have to re-climb Mount Everest to get another item, the item you have that she thinks is for her, Is For Her.

You can stop reading right now, right here. That’s it in a nutshell. It’s a shitty intor to this update but it’s the gist of it.

There’s of course a reason I bring this up and that was the worst way to intro this story in the history of any damned story ever but here we are.

There’s a small convenience store not too far from my office. Close yet far enough away to warrant a general office-wide shout, “I’m going to the shoppette, does anyone need anything.” We all do this, sometimes people do want something, and sometimes they don’t.

Today the boss’s sweet tooth got the better of him and he wanted a bar of German chocolate. I was going to the store because I wanted a cup of coffee and the wife indicated she’d like a cup too she works, almost literally, next door to the store.

Yeah, yeah Dick Fucking Tracey you figured out where I’m going with this. Give yourself a ‘had a few beers special-little detective badge’ and keep reading.

So going to the store, two coffees and one chocolate (no I don’t need a bag but thank you mister check out dude with the weird pentagram necklace) later I find the Frau.

Who snatches up the chocolate like it’s her birth rite and I should be honored that I brought it to her.

Queen Lord Emperor of Oliverdom: “I see you brought me chocolate worthless peon! I will forgive you this time, that it does not contain nuts or fruits or other wholesome goodness as you have also brought the juice of the coffee

This chocolate does not contain nutty goodness … take it away!

plant, hot as I prefer it, but do not make this mistake again or you will feel my wrath though hundreds of trips to Ikea. Now be gone!”

Okay it wasn’t that bad but I was like, ‘fuck, now I have to go back to the store.”

The boss pointed out, when I told him he owed me double the cost of the chocolate that next time he’d send me for flowers.

He’s a laugh a fucking minute I tell you …

I also noticed that when she came home, the chocolate was in her bag, unopened.

Finally yes, she insists I ‘bold’ the words ‘Queen Lord Emperor of Oliverdom’.

Cause if I don’t … Ikea.

Baggers, not a race of little people living in the potato aisle … sadly

It's really hard to find a free for use image that features boobs and beer in reference to shopping ... YOU try it.

It’s really hard to find a free for use image that features boobs and beer in reference to shopping … YOU try it.

A commissary, for those that are unfamiliar, is a grocery store that serves U.S. Military, family members, retirees and, when overseas, Department of Defense employees. It sells food and goods at a bit above cost in order to pay its employees, fund new commissaries and for general operating costs. Sometimes the item in question is cheaper at the commissary (no tax) than it is on the economy sometimes it’s not.

Generally all commissaries have one thing in common, they’re convenient as they’re close to where we work.

They’re just like your local supermarket though. They’re designed in such a way as to make you walk past all the ‘snack stuff’ to get to the healthy stuff, they play crappy music from the ‘90s and they have annoying announcements, “mayonnaise spill on aisle five, at least I HOPE that’s mayonnaise.” You also lose your cell phone signal in the back of the store which is a good thing for all my facebook friends. Otherwise, about once a week, I’d have an update from the ‘personal hygiene aisle’ with a photo of a pack of magnums and a ‘heheheh condoms’ as the comment.

As many of you are married you know that grocery shopping can occur in three different ways. From best to worst they are: She goes alone, I go alone, we both go and I end up losing my mind ½ an hour into it.

You see when she announces she’s going grocery shopping I do a little dance. I DO, cause I’m about to get an hour or two of free time to look at porn work on this blog and then, as if a friggin wizard just used magic, a crap ton of cool stuff will show up at the house magically later in the day. I didn’t KNOW I wanted chocolate covered fruit loops but damn these do look good! Wow a new shower squeegee, awesome! Yes more charcoal is always welcome, thank you kind wizard, thank you!

She can leave the house with ONE item on the list and return home magically with a car that’s FULL of stuff.

Taking a photo is better than having to return anything ....

Taking a photo is better than having to return anything ….

The second way, in which I do the shopping, is kind of fun (for VERY small quantities of fun). I sort of enjoy looking at the list and thinking what’s the fastest way to get all of these items into the basket so I can hurry up and get back to beer? If it’s a strange item hell I take a photo of it at home before I depart. The mysteries of the ‘woman’s burden’ remain a mystery (thank god) but I know exactly what aisle said woman’s hygiene product is located.

It’s about speed, it’s about getting into the store and getting out, “no time to talk casual coworker I must secure a package of ‘organic crap muffins’ and escape this evil lair before the good beer queen forsakes me!”

No one’s going to get drunk and post grammatically incorrect and largely inappropriate rants on my facebook feed for me you know!

Pro tip for husbands that cannot locate that special package of Guatemalan cheese flavored hair balls the wife wants for her salad, ask ANY woman in the store.   All women, above the age of 18, have committed to memory the location of every item in every grocery store ever.   Weird but true.  “You need what young man?  Cherry flavored puss cream, oh that’s on aisle seven, towards the end, bottom shelf.”

The commissary and any grocery store could do a lot to make the third option better (namely, instituting a no men allowed policy but baring that at least they could serve beer) but as you already know the worst option is when we both go grocery shopping.  See, as it turns out, there is no wizard that magically fills the wife’s car with goodies, she does it herself. She does it not by making her run through the commissary a timed olympic style event where seconds count but by, and get this, going down every aisle. Yeah everyone, even that aisle filled with yucky crap, she totally goes down it.

Somehow, and maybe magic is involved after all, by staring at a bottle of creamed yams baby food she remembers that we’re out of ice cream … the mysteries of the female mind aye?

It’s during these trips that I become the cheap labor. I push the cart of course, load the heavy crap into the cart and become the runner.

Her: Honey, we’re about to reach the last aisle I know but I forgot something near the entrance, can you run back and get it?

Me: Umm sure, what is it?

Her: 5 cases of bottled water, the big bottles, not the little ones.

Me: Crap, umm yeah I can do that, can I use the cart?

Her: No, sorry I need it to hold the shopping list. Also can you take this 5 gallon can of cat litter with you while you get the water?

Me: Why can’t it just stay in the cart? That thing’s super heavy.

Her: You really don’t understand shopping at all do you?

So yeah I’m convinced grocery stores need a bar. Maybe they could offer a service like they do on the golf course where some cute girl drives up in a beer-cart and sells you and your buddies a cold one. That would really hit the spot as we round the dog food aisle and contemplate which brand of paper towels we need.

“Yes, yes ma’am! Here please, two coronas! You’re out of lime? That’s okay I picked them up back in the produce section … five for a dollar you know! Honey (as we clink our beers near the bacon selection) I love grocery shopping god damn it! This is awesome, we need to do this shit more often!”

Another, key difference between grocery stores and commissaries are the baggers. Baggers, which oddly aren’t a family of hobbits living somewhere near the potatos, are a collection of people that bag groceries at the commissary and then carry your purchases out to the car for you, all for a tip. No wages involved, strictly tips only. It say’s so right at the end of the cashier’s conveyor belt. There’s a sign there that reads, typically in big bold, underlined, authoritative Times New Roman, size 33, font, BAGGERS WORK FOR TIPS ONLY!

Which I’m pretty sure is code for you, ‘listen you cheap fuck, I’m schlepping your ho-hos and twinkies to your car so your fat ass doesn’t have to, I’d appreciate a few bucks’. I’m sure most people do tip, I do.

Tough, tattooed 19 year old with dreadlocks and a Frisbee through his ear lobe, tip two bucks.

Middle-aged slightly downtrodden looking woman in sensible shoes? Tip three bucks.

Obvious military retired person just doing it for the work?  Tip four bucks.

But everyone once in a while there’s that 20 year old home from college and … HOLY CRAP THAT CHICK IS HOT bagger. The one where if the wife and I are together I make her deal with the tip, cause I guarantee you I’m getting in trouble if I do.

But god help me if I’m alone.

best part of this is I was in and out of the store in like 6 minutes! Sadly we now have to take out a new loan cause the bagger was kinda hot.

Best part of this is I was in and out of the store in like 6 minutes! Sadly we now have to take out a new loan cause the bagger was kinda hot.

Her: Okay sir, and where are you parked?

Me: Girl pretty, make pretty talk with pretty. I like pretty. Boobies!

Her: Umm thanks? Where’s your car?

Me: Car make pretty go home groceries home pretty boobs … wow I kinda lost my shit there didn’t I.

Her: Yeah happens all the time, this your car?

Me: Yeah it is, look here’s seven bucks, let’s never speak of this again.

Her: You bought like four things!

Me: Fine here’s ten bucks.

I hate shopping.

Things you don’t know about the military until after you leave the military

It doesn’t matter if you’ve been in the military for four or 34 years, you’re going to get out. As a veteran of 20 years and five days, here are a few things I’ve noticed.

1. Uniform vs. Civilian Clothes

Your ACU, battle dress or the thing you wear that looks pretty with earrings (yes, I’m looking at you Air Force) has a lot of things going for it. Chief among those is that wearing a uniform adds a level of predictability and ease to your life. If a piece wears out, you go to the military clothing store and buy a new one. Camouflage patterns hide dirt and stains. I drove a 1995 Jeep Wrangler for 15 years. The Jeep, which my good friend and co-worker Erika Fields once referred to as “that thing you drive,” is not known as a smooth ride and coffee was spilled every morning.

Camouflage uniforms don’t care, they make coffee stains their bitch.

In the civilian world though…

Spilling coffee on yourself is a turn around and go home, full-blown emergency!

Actually, this guy has choices because I think he designs his own uniforms! What the fuck is going on here?

A uniform, no matter if it’s camouflage-based; a cable-guy uniform, or the one this dude has to wear … is still a uniform. There isn’t a choice. When you get dressed you know exactly what you have to put on.

In the civilian world though…

HOLY FUCK, welcome to infinite choices. Maggie Menzies warned me about this when I was getting ready to retire and for the first six months after I retired I thought she was a dirty, filthy liar, but then one morning in the shower it happened.

“Jesus! What the FUCK am I going to wear?”

“Who am I dealing with today,” is a question that factors in to what you’re going to wear. As does, “What am I doing today, where am I doing it and will they make fun of this pink shirt at work?” (Hint: They will.) It becomes this retardedly complicated question that once answered can be rendered moot by one bump in the road that causes a bit of spilled coffee.

A Major once told me a story about testing out a new night-vision mount on a helmet. One his rangers intentionally banged the mount against the wall and when the company representative complained, the major said, “Hey, this shit happens.” Point being, the stuff the military buys is generally well made.

Civilian clothes on the other hand are garbage. Everything tears, snags and pulls apart. Early in my retirement I found a great pair of Steve Madden shoes that I LOVED. I LOVED those shoes, I kissed them at night. Everyone complimented me on them. Trouble was, they wore out in like a day.

I’m hiding … so I can destroy your clothes

I literally bought 10 pairs of before I admitted defeat and realized I was not going to win. Wearing a different pair of the SAME TYPE OF SHOE every other day just prolonged the death. They may have looked good, but they were made by meth-addicted Chinese sweatshop 8 year olds anxious to get back to their World of Warcraft gold-mining jobs.

Those shoes sucked, but I loved them.

Don’t get me started on slacks.

2. Rank … it lets you know so goddamn much

I don’t care if you were a private or a colonel, when you walk into a room you know you’re place. It’s just that easy.

Seriously, toss 50 military people into a room and within .0003 seconds they know who is in charge. Hell, you know who’s second in charge, who the senior enlisted guy is and who will head up the moral and welfare part of the group. It’s just that simple.

In the civilian world it becomes decision by committee. Everyone’s opinion matters. I think I’ve seen the cleaning lady get asked about her thoughts on the invasion of Iran. Everyone has a voice and it sucks. I’m pretty sure I could tell my boss tomorrow that I think we should consider the feelings of puppies when we go forward with the plan and he’d have to pause to think about it. In the Army you’d be stuck doing pushups, which are GOOD FOR YOU.

3. You’re generally taken care of in the military

You are. You’re taken care of. Fuck you, you are. Everyone has a story about how the military fucked them. Here’s a stop on the clue train for you, you weren’t fucked, you just ignored some key bits of information that left you feeling fucking while the U.S. Military put on kid gloves and tried to make it as easy as possible for you.

And you fucked it up after all that effort.

I have dug down into more people’s lives, asking where that last dollar went, when I was in the military than I care to think about.

“Why are you buying the good cheese when you can get a generic cheese? I’m asking because you’re in debt and I want to know. Fuck you, answer me.”

That’s a legitimate question in the Army if you’re having financial trouble. Your leaders can step in and tell you you’re making dumb decisions with your money. They can and literally do make you write out your budget.

mmmmm ... cheese

Sure it looks good, but are you mortgaging your house?

They can’t make you buy generic cheese, but they can call you an idiot for not doing so. This is just one example of hundreds, if not thousands, of things the military does in an effort to take care of their service members.

In the civilian world NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. They say they do. Hell, they might even try to make a half-hearted effort toward helping you, but at the end of the day, come 5 p.m., it’s your problem.

Living in a cardboard box? Fuck you, be in on time.

Daughter dying from cancer? So sorry, but while you’re at her bedside don’t run out of time off.

I exaggerate, but the military puts so much effort into seeing you succeed that you never realize it and when you do realize it. It’s too late.

4. Organizational predictability

The average person in the military and their family KNOWS full well when they are leaving for deployment or changing duty stations. The military takes great pains to let you know so the process is less painful for you, your family and your organization. Any movement from one station to another, or from one job to another, is predictable to a large degree. Knowing that your personnel action specialist is leaving in six months makes replacing that person that much easier.

But in the civilian world, it’s mostly like a bomb is dropped. Civilians can, and do, out of nowhere come up to their bosses and say, “Hey, I love it here, but I’ve got a job on the other side of the world and they want me there tomorrow so we need to have the going away lunch now.”

Meaning the organization now has to function one person down and, perhaps, has to operate without a key set of skills.

There are exceptions to any rule, so if you want to think you’re a special little butterfly and one of these didn’t apply to you fine. Generally though, it’s spot on.

Now, there are myriad ways life outside the military is better/easier/whatever, but that’s another update.

Beer on an empty stomach with Maggie and Alex

Spent three days with Maggie and Alex. Maggie and Alex came to visit, obviously. Drunken shenanigans followed.

I picked Maggie up from the airport at 10:40 a.m. Thursday. We arrived at our house at almost 10:30 p.m.

No caption other than, hot works here. Thus, just hot. Until …

2240 9 Feb 2012 until 1330 10 Feb 2012 Maggie and I: discuss fashion, giggle a lot, talk about work, cry and discuss fashion. Maggie makes me gay.*

(Maggie’s description of what happened after she took her boots off at our house.)

Maggie: Do you mind if I take my boots off?

Todd: No problem, go ahead. Hey, did I say I really like those boots?

Maggie: Yeah, they’re cool but after having them on all day and all night through the airport. My feet hurt. (Boots come off)

Todd: Hey, what the hell is on your feet?

Maggie: Socks.

She is the reason we should be able to keep our shoes on at the airport.

Women. Look at the before photo. That’s a very cute, sexy look. Nice looking boots, hot skirt, black tights. You’d think that once the boots came off you’ve find seductive looking foot with red (or whatever) toenails … no, this is the abortion she has on under those boots.

Friday

Three hundred dollars of sure to be AWESOME!!!

1331: Alex show’s up. I rediscover I’m a man when he shows me the coolest remote controlled helicopter ever, it only cost $300. I order it because I’ve had five beers on an empty stomach and I really like helicopters. I hesitate about getting a robot room sweeper … why I don’t know.

As people like Maggie, Alex, that woman who lives in this house with me and Gina know, when I’m sober I’m highly gullible to suggestions that if I do/get/buy something I’ll be cool. Gina once in Iraq convinced me to buy a CD from a band that I had never heard of because she said it was cool. I’m an idiot, I bought it. This is sober. Drunk, any hint at all is enough to send me over the edge. None of that matters though because now, sober I fully realize this thing will rock (video link).

Alex: There is an iPad app that will let you record the video that the helicopter takes…. Might come in handy….Just saying…

1335: I’m convinced, after the 10th beer on an empty stomach, that I should call my office and propose my idea for a toy helicopter American Forces Network commercial shoot that involves our office staff meeting. Maggie talks me down from this, but encourages the purchase of five toy remote control helicopters for later use. Thankfully I’ve forgotten my Amazon password (the one that I had used 15 minutes ago) and/or lose interest quickly

1445: Alex uses the term “mangina,” which makes me laugh…

Alex (reading the above): I also use the term, “Man-Dang-Go” which I feel is funnier. Also, I like to say, “Laba-Daba-Doo” a lot when referring to female genitalia….

We go buy food. We wanted to get Donar Kebabs, but the local restaurant is out of business, so we go to a grocery story. We buy a crap ton of food (wine) and return home.

Food is eaten. It’s suggested I put on season one of Chappel show. Maggie falls asleep and Alex and I laugh about the reparations skit because the phrase “tri-state area” when used in reference to a man’s ass, is funny.

Dagmar calls that she’s working late and get home until after 1900. I wonder what she’ll walk in on (me wearing the Simpsonsunderwear she bought me and nothing else,  if there is a god).
No man can fart more than Alex. Dagmar is no man though … she might be a contender. Seriously though, the amount of gas that man produced was at first humorous and then quickly became something I felt the scientific community should study. I’m convinced he could have powered a small city, if only science could harness his gas.

Alex:  Dude… The gas can be traced back to having about 12 dunkleweisens over the past two days… And I think eating stir-fry cabbage at the DFC yesterday….

1815: Everyone, including me, is into their own IGNOREEVERYTHINGELSE device.

Alex: Todd begins speaking “Toddlese…” We are all perplexed as he’s only had two beers, (that we can verify)…

1955: With no context whatsoever Alex yells out “Poontang safari gone wrong.” (Edit my memory, because of the 143 beers I drank to this point is a bit off, Alex yells this after leaving a Thai restaurant mentioned later in this blog, because the owner is German and married a Thai lady … his version is MUCH, MUCH funnier.)

2005:  Dagmar arrives home. I am fully dressed and my Simpsons boxers are upstairs in the closet still. There obviously is no god or he/she/it doesn’t find Simpsons boxers as funny as I do. Dagmar begins berating me, loudly in front of my friends, for choosing crappy beer, not good dark stuff like her and Alex like.   Then they proceed to kill (over the weekend I mean) the case of crappy beer I bought.

Alex: “Poop Talk with Dagmar” commences…

For reasons that baffle both Maggie and I, when Dagmar and Alex are “reunited” they immediately start to discuss umm, well — pooping.  I’m afraid to explore their desire to discuss this topic … “afraid for my eternal soul” afraid. He also asks Dagmar to “pump his legs” which somehow encourages more gas. Open flames are banned from the living room for 24 hours.

Alex: Due to gasousness… I wear paper underwear… One-time use only….

2030: We are informed by Maggie that we are going to get Thai food. I’m not hungry, but realize I can drink beer there so why not.

2130: Maggie has finally herded us into the car, but not before I hand Alex a handful of plastic army men and dinosaurs with the instructions to “put these in your pocket” … he doesn’t argue or even ask why. He knows that I am an idiot. Beer has made me invincible to logic or maturity.

Drunk, I am immune to grown up logic

2140: I pull out my army guys and dinosaurs; no one is impressed but me. I stage fake army guy vs. dinosaur battles while quizzing people who don’t care if I should, blog it?

Dagmar foolishly thinks plastic army men are toys. They DO have feelings Dagmar. They’re clearly fleeing in reaction to your mean gesture.

2145: Dagmar correctly refers to me as an idiot. I eat some chicken fried rice and drink beers.

2155: I go outside to have a cigarette and decide I’m going to steal one of the wooden, 3-fo0t tall oriental man statutes that decorate the windows of the restaurant. I’m literally laughing out loud to myself in the frozen tundra that is Germany at how funny it will be when I get it home. I think I have “blogish” plans for it. I can’t wait to tell Maggie.

2136: I tell Maggie about my plan.

2150: Maggie stops telling me I’m an idiot and that I am certainly NOT stealing a 3-foot tall oriental statute, even though I thought for sure I was going to.

2151: We leave.  I don’t have a 3-foot tall oriental statute.

Saturday morning I’m forced, with an epic hangover mind you, to venture out into the very cold outside for a death march through the vineyards. When I’m elected king of everything any walking outside that doesn’t involve beer in 70 degree or higher temperatures will be banned.

* Truth of the matter is Maggie and Alex have been friends of ours since 2002, she and I just stayed up, catching up.