If there's carrot cake and stroganoff in hell, it can't be all bad, I guess.

Well, crap. Is it Sunday night already? How on earth did that happen? I think we're all in agreement that time speeds up as we get older, so I suppose the weekends flying by in a blip should be no great surprise, but it annoys me anyway. I dream of a world with inverse weekends--two days of work followed by five days to spend as I see fit. Unfortunately, I have a friend who's living that dream right now, and it seems monetarily that plan is lacking just a bit. So it's off to work again tomorrow for me. Those of you with a four-day weekend due to that whole Easter thing? You can kindly bite me, OK? Thank you.

That said, I do have only a three-day work week in front of me, and for that, I rejoice with glee. Yes, Internets, I haven't yet shared this publicly, but I'm heading out of town again this weekend, bound for the east coast this time. I'm taking care of #4 on my list of New Year's resolutions and finally meeting my Internet BFF, Lara, in real life. And I'm managing a few other blogger meet-ups in the process. Full details later (with pictures, I'm sure). And it's good that that resolution is finally panning out, because the rest of them? Not so much, it seems. I'm actually doing pretty well on the vitamin one (and the calcium supplement, too). It seems marking myself accountable on my kitchen calendar was the key I needed to make that one stick. And the "get fucking organized" goal? I'm working on it. One problem area's been taken care of, and a remedy for the mess in the basement is in progress. Really. Unfortunately, the closest I've come to fixing the budget crisis was finally paying off my credit card with a disappointingly large portion of my tax refund today, and as for the getting to bed at a reasonable hour on week nights one? Well, it's currently 11:25 on a Sunday night and I'm still on my computer, so I guess you be the judge of my success on that one.

All of that said, I hope everyone had a lovely Easter, if you celebrate it, and a fine, old-timey, no-stores-open-today Sunday if you don't. My friends and I had a tasty brunch this morning at a restaurant we really should visit more often, if for no other reason than the free brunch on a return visit that we earned by our purchase today and for their eight-glasses-for-$25 wine club, which is a club I really ought to join, I think (despite my fear-of-commitment aversion to organized memberships of any sort). Next time, however, we need to shoot for later in the day. I bragged that skipping church makes for an easier reservation, but the diners who arrived after church got the better brunch, I fear. As we divvied up our bill, we glanced at the dessert table and saw a cheesecake being brought out that wasn't there before. I mean, sure, my peanut butter bar, mini cream puff, and carrot cake were tasty, but cheesecake? The ultimate in desserts? I feel cheated. We saw that, and I said, "I bet if we wait long enough, they'll bring mashed potatoes out, too." And for some reason, just before we paid, I said it again, such is my love of mashed potatoes (even in a big silver bin on a buffet). And wouldn't you know it? With our coats on, heading out the door, a man in a white apron brushed right passed us, giant tray of mashed potatoes in his sweaty little hands. Seriously: the Christians got a better brunch for their $12. Our risen savior rewards his followers with cheesecake and mashed potatoes. The lazy heathens get carrot cake and stroganoff (which, granted, was still not a bad deal, mind you, but obviously my love of mashed potatoes is strong).

All right. I thought I had more inconsequential nonsense to ramble on about, but this late Sunday night is quickly growing even later, and dead tired on a Monday is my least favorite (even if seemingly unavoidable) way to start the week. So perhaps later I will bore you with my questions about just why the slow and disturbing No Country for Old Men was such a shoe-in
for Best Damn Picture of the Whole Damn Year, or why mixing up a glass or two of Instant Ghetto Sangria is both a good and a terrible idea on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, how was your weekend? Good? Good. Do tell.