Jumping off my high horse

I am lying in bed with Lucy, listening to an insipid pop station and waiting for her to pass out so I can turn on NPR and chill the fuck out. We had a long day, I am in a terrible mood, and I am ready to crash and burn. In the meantime, I gotta digest. Today I experienced the Holy Trinity of Rhode Island junk food (at least, in my opinion):
Fried Dough
Homemade Peach Ice Cream
Dunkin Donuts
As you can see, it's been a real red letter day in terms of my food consumption, and between the junk food I was snacking on peppers stuffed with prociutto and mozzarella, inhaling chopped pasta salad and slices of pizza, and throwing in a few slices of soupy here and there. After all, I am in the motherland. As much as Rhode Island embraces, nay rejoices in it's Italian heritage, I spend my time here in a haze of "....When in Rome...." situations - especially where food and beverage is concerned. And I'm not holding back, let me tell ya.

My stepdad returned from a golfing trip today and was disappointed to hear that I went to the local dive bar without him. He's pretty sure he knew the guy that had such an aversion to onion rings, and now dad wants to go back with me so I can point him out. I'm not sure if I want to take the father-daughter bonding thing quite that far. If I wasn't getting funny looks the first time, I'm pretty sure returning to the scene with my dad would seal the deal. He said that our local bar crawl itinerary had a glaring omission, and suggested another dive we could go check out. Since the man doesn't drink anything stronger then Diet Coke, I know that - at the very least - I would have a designated driver. Don't think I'm not considering it. I would totally pick up his tab.