Tuesday was non-stop, and I like it like that. Having a day filled with appointment and a long list of To Do’s makes me a very happy girl. However, my happiness was brought to a screeching halt when I raced into the grocery store to pick up some much needed milk, mint chocolate chip ice cream and toilet paper, grabbed onto the handle bar of my mini shopping cart, started walking toward the dairy section and realized my hands were wrapped around something greasy and wrong. And then I had to do it. I had to sniff my hands to find out what this greasy wrongness was. It was chocolate — chocolate smeared by either A) a pudgy-handed toddler whose mother was attempting to keep him happy and entertained on her brief shopping excursion, or B) chocolate smeared by some rude, pudgy-handed adult who was so consumed by a love of chocolate that he — or she — simply couldn’t wait to get that chocolate home where he — or she — could smear it all over themselves in gluttonous, yet private, delight.

No, he — or she — was so rabid in his — or her — consumption that he — or she — didn’t realize — or dare I say, didn’t CARE — that he — or she — left a sticky mess smeared all over the handle bar of my mini shopping cart. And did he — or she — realize that this could have potentially sent me reeling backwards toward my days of obsessive compulsive disorder behavior? I doubt it. But I thank God and the person who re-stocked the shopping cart disinfecting wipes at Tom Thumb for helping me get through that horrific chocolate nightmare. I shall never shop without disinfecting wipes again.