Mr. Smithers, I don't understand 2,700 of my new duties

I’m sitting here while machines do my work for me. The dishwasher is washing dishes and the washing machine is doing its thing. (I'd like to say dinner is simmering on the stove, but it's not.) All this, and I’d still like a Smithers. As N. and I were willing ourselves out of bed at 12:30 yesterday (more about that in a sec), I was wishing for a Smithers to come and get us up, dress us, and feed us. Hmmm, written out like that, it sounds a little like being in a nursing home. And speaking of that, for the record, if I’m ever in a vegetative state that requires feeding tubes and such to keep me alive, and if I cannot communicate with you in any way, I’m probably not happy. Go ahead and pull any and all plugs. I’ve now made my wishes known. Thanks for listening.

On another note, I love a challenge! (Actually, I hate a challenge. And confrontations, fights, effort, and learning, too.) So when N. didn’t believe I’d actually come up with a restaurant to go to on Friday, I took it upon myself to prove him wrong. (Do all couples have as much trouble as we do just figuring out what to do with ourselves? It’s hard work!) We went here, which was great, but I drank entirely too much sake (oh yeah, and had some beers when we got home). Thus the passing out on the couch during whatever the hell we were watching, sleeping extra late Saturday, feeling crappy all day, and napping a mere four hours after we got out of bed. Sheesh. I just can’t party like I used to!

Best thing on TV this weekend: Watching The Incredibles plus its extras on DVD. Ooh, and we watched quite a bit of exciting basketball. Go Bulls!

Worst thing on TV this weekend: Too many depressing debates over right-to-die issues.