early senility

So, it's already come to this: taping notes to appliances to remind myself to try not to burn the house down. I mean, it's a nice house, and, gosh, Eli would sure miss all of his very cool toys. And here I go again, joking about non-laughing matters. But, god, if you can't joke about such things, what do you joke about? Well, I suppose you could talk about how big your ass has gotten as a result of all the Easter chocolate you've mindlessly consumed while thumbing through countless mags, looking at swimsuits and thinking, "Gosh, I've really got to start my summer slim-down plan or else consider robbing a 7-Eleven to pay for liposuction."

We're down to the reject candy now. You know, the hollow rabbits with the pink-sugared buttons on their bare chocolate bellies. The no-name-brand miniature chocolate eggs that hearken back to a time when your mom said the Captain Crunch was too expensive, so you had to get the generic corn puffs instead (this is SD's contribution, by the way). And, of course, who could be more rejected at Easter than the peeps. Poor, pathetic, squishy, hyperglycemic blobs. They just never make the cut, do they?

Happy Saturday night. Hope you're laid out on the couch like I am, having a toddy, watching SNL and being fed pistachios by my husband. God, I love the weekends.