I know many of you consider me to be the hyper-critical type, always censuring others as if I were somehow faultless. But I have to confess that I’m a long way from perfection, and nothing illustrates my deficiencies more clearly than my appearance. To put it as politely as possible:

I’m a disgusting slob.

I’m feeling a little out of sorts this morning. Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking: tropical storm Ida, right? Like I haven’t heard jokes like that all week. You just wait until you have a hurricane named after you.

I’m getting to my blog later than usual, because after my alarm went off, I closed my eyes for what I thought was only ten minutes. Oops!

The Saco Drive-In on Route 1 opened for business in 1938. That was shortly after the invention of making out. Probably not a coincidence. Ever since then, the Saco has provided generations of Mainers with a safe and inexpensive place to grope each other in the dark.

So get this: I’m standing at my register at the A&P last Friday afternoon, staring into space, when a nice-looking fella from away comes up and asks me where the canned beans are.

“Aisle 3,” I tell him. “Right-hand side, quarter of the way down.”

“Thank you, Miss,” he says, smiling. Then, I swear, he winks at me. Winks! It took me by surprise, so I giggled. Couldn’t believe it! It just came out.

I was just catching my breath when the front door opened. It was my boss, pushing grocery carts.

I’ve never been much of a gambler, not because I have moral objections to the practice, but because it seems like a lot of work. You have to cut the deck. You have to toss the dice. You have to place your chips on the numbers.

If I wanted to do chores, I could stay home and clean the house.

The other day, I saw Charlie at the mirror in the bathroom, checking out the hair in his ears and nose. “Time to get out the router rooter, dear,” I says.

“Very funny!” he replies. Then I hear him mutter under his breath, “If I could only get it to grow like this on my head.”

Isn’t aging wonderful?

As everyone knows, the town of York is in York County. The town of Cumberland is in Cumberland County. The town of Oxford is in Oxford County. And I’m sure the town of Sagadahoc would be in Sagadahoc County if such a town existed.

A few years back I got a call from the Maine Department of the Interior. They were planning an international symposium in Portland, a prestigious scientific forum where experts could compare notes and ponder the future of wetlands, tidal estuaries, salt mashes, and things of that nature. I was advised that a very elite international group of scientists would be coming to Maine for the event. As often is the case, I was being asked to either kick off or finish up the conference on a lighter note. Hey, I figure my job’s as green as they come.

Last weekend, I’m poking around the Catholic Thrift Shop in the basement of Saint Hyacinth’s, looking for some old board games for a craft project we’re working on. The “we” in this case are me and my friends Celeste, Rita, Betty, Dot, and Shirley, a.k.a. the Women Who Run With the Moose. The craft project? Sorry, I’m sworn to secrecy! Be on the lookout for it at the next Holiday Bazaar.

If I seem a little woozy this week — OK, a little more woozy than usual — it’s not my faushlt … er, fault. Y’see, I may have inadvertently ingested alcohol lurking in seemingly healthful and harmless products, such as orange juice. Or bread. Or the air.

Fortunately, state officials are on the case and will soon be arresting anyone who attempts to sell any of these intoxicating items to minors. As for me (hic), I’m kinda enjoying myself.