Saturday, I’m on my way home from my weekly appointment with Patsy down to Hair Affair when, on a whim, I turn into the Agway parking lot. Don’t know why, ‘cause I’d planned on going straight home to clean the house. It just kind of happened. Generally, Charlie’s the one who shops at the Agway. Me, not so much. But there I was. So, I go inside thinking, ‘Maybe I can find another hanging plant for the deck.’

In Maine, no municipality is more associated with horror-writer Stephen King than Bridgton.

Well, except for Durham (the likely basis for fictional Castle Rock), Bangor (where King currently lives part-time and which serves as the inspiration for the nonexistent Derry), and every suburb north of Portland (all of which claim to be the real location of Jerusalem’s Lot).

Well, spring has finally sprung here in Mahoosuc Mills. The tulips and daffodils are up, the forsythia’s in bloom. Women are spring cleaning, planting their annuals. The menfolk are revving up their lawn mowers. And the black flies are here in spades. I don’t let our little dog Scamp out at sunset ‘cause I’m afraid those flies’ll carry him away. I kid you not!

I don’t want to unnecessarily upset anyone, but get out! Get out, now! Run for your lives! Don’t look back and don’t ask any stupid questions, such as “Why”! If you don’t follow these instructions exactly, you’re going to die!

Come to think of it, even if you do follow them, you’re probably going to die, eventually. That fact makes the situation appear sort of hopeless, and I wouldn’t even bother finishing this posting, except I need the money for gas to escape impending doom.

A few weeks ago, my Dad calls me up for a little advice.

“Ida,” he says, “a friend of mine wants to sell his condo, and he’s on the third floor. Where does he bury St. Joseph?”

“Huh! Beats me. Let me do a little research, Dad, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, honey.”

Happy Cinco de Mayo, a Mexican holiday celebrating the invention of mayonnaise.

For the fifth time.

It appears that the scientists in charge of four earlier mayo experiments didn’t bother refrigerating the end product, resulting in fatal salmonella outbreaks each time they celebrated their creation by making egg salad sandwiches for the entire staff.

If you had to choose, what would be your theme song? Not the one that describes you, per se, but the one you want to sing along with when you’re ready to let loose. In my opinion, when it comes to having fun, it helps to have a theme song, you know, to get you in the proper state of mind. Heck, sitcoms have ‘em. Why not you?

The Women Who Run With the Moose have had the same theme song for ages. But that all changed a few months ago, when Celeste, Rita, Betty Dot, Shirley, and me were down to the Juggernaut Lounge at the Holiday Inn for a girls night out.

According to a respected group of cartographers (those are people who graph carts or, possibly, cartos, whatever they might be), if Maine were a country, it would be Morocco.

Actually, the cartographers said Maine would be “Moroco,” which seems to indicate that many people who graph carts for a living aren’t proficient in spellology, which is the study of what letters go in particular words, a practice that’s greatly enhanced by hitting the spell-check function on your computer once in a while.

So Saturday, I spent a little over $80 on lipstick. Really! And I’m over the moon happy about it, too!

See, I’ve been wearing the same shade of lipstick for years: “Berry Nice.” (Who comes up with these names, anyways?) It’s the perfect shade of lipstick for me: not too red, not too orange, not too pink. It’s just, well, Berry Nice!

Dave and Lacey Castro of Alfred are not related to Raul and Fidel Castro of Cuba. The Maine Castros have no record of engaging in tyranny, exporting terrorism to Latin American nations, or dressing for formal occasions in battle fatigues.

On the other hand, Raul and Fidel have never been linked, even by implication, to international wife-carrying competitions.

So, it’s about even.

Wife carrying is a major sport in some countries, such as Finland, where life is almost unspeakably dull. And Estonia, which may not be a country at all, but a stomach ailment.