Recently, I chose Target as my shopping destination. It was a rush job, driven by a dire need. For each of the previous 12 days I’d promised to take one for the team and stock up on cat litter. That particular morning Buddhapuss threatened to leave me a present.

Not since the age of 7 had I braved Target during the middle of the day. Back then, when not clinging to my mother’s arm, I’d hide inside an empty stall in the women’s dressing room. Just for the record, I did vacate the stall when paged over the public address system.

Anyway, that habit was left behind at age 7. I changed, but Target has not; the place is still loaded with moms. Only now the moms are different because well…because they’re attractive.

Apparently it’s a requirement for moms shopping at Target to do Pilates, Tai Bo and elliptical.

Next time we need cat litter, I’ll be at Target at opening time. After all, when Buddhapuss has to go, the cat means business. It is for him that I suffer.

The Ruby Tuesday’s near our house has been a quiet forgotten corner in the franchise, but all that changed recently when they went low carb. Before the switch, this was the sort of place one could walk into on a Saturday night at 7pm and get a table with a no minute wait.

Now the same place packs them in and the secret is the new menu and fare. Not only do they offer low carb choices, but the menu discloses the caloric breakdown of every item for sale, including booze and desserts. These days the only easy night to snag a table is Monday.

In an effort to better serve samhilliard.com readers, I’m proud to announce our new low carb venture. Effective now, these blogs are 100 percent carb free! No carbs ever! And there’s no fat, no excess fiber, no MSG and we never fry in partially hydrogenated oil. Sodium? Never touch the stuff.

You see you just gotta read this blog, because it’s good for the body. That’s right samhilliard.com a 100 percent pure blog. And now with no carbs!

My parent’s hounds are on steroids, Dianobol, Decanol, some kind of bol for sure. If they aren’t ingesting some kind of doggy growth hormone then they’ve been spending far too much time hitting the weights because last night we witnessed super dog strength.

Picture this, a hot muggy night; the Wife is dressed in heels and evening attire piloting 170 combined pounds of dog. I’m riding shotgun armed with a plastic bag full of nasty stuff. We round the corner, casa de Parents easily within our grasp. We could smell how close the house is, if not for the plastic bag. After a brutal half mile struggle the only thing on my mind is ditching the bag and collapsing in bed.

Now the real wrinkle; there’s a dog right in front of my parents house, chilling with its owners. Curious, the hounds of hell dash across the road, hauling the Wife in her traction free high heels behind them. The third dog freezes, paralyzed at the sight of the flying beasts.

Just as the hounds reach terminal velocity and leap from the street up onto the curb, the choke chain that connects the two dogs on a single leash catches on a metal Stop sign post, halting the dogs mid stride. This solves the immediate problem of the hounds eating the third dog, only now we have 170 pounds of dog wrapped around a Stop sign. Eventually we untangle them and everyone goes home unhurt.

But tragically, there was one assault victim last night, for the sign post is now the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

A relative celebrated her birthday in the city ( the city being NYC ) last night and the entire affair was one long Twilight Zone moment. Things happen in the city that just don’t anywhere else.

The story begins at the Sweet and Vicious bar, which is, well I don’t really know where it is. Somewhere near Spring Street. Don’t quote me on that. It had a small outdoor lounge with benches and a trace of greenery and they allowed smoking until 11 pm and the waitress kept bringing Corona long necks with lime wedges. I’m pretty sure I paid for them. In the corner of the outdoor lounge there was a painter’s ladder that led to nowhere.

Next thing I know it’s 2am we’re eating brick oven pizza and listening to a man roughly 109 years old playing a glass top piano. As he pumped the ivory keys, a black cat rolled around on top grooving to Frank Sinatra and an upright bass. There was a line of about 9 girls waiting to pat the all black kitty with yellow eyes. 9 girls and me.

Flash ahead to 3:30 AM. For some reason I’m arguing with someone about the value of public education on the PATH train.

Now it’s 6PM the next day, and my head just stopped feeling like a crushed pineapple smoothie.

I should’ve stopped at the 3rd Corona.