Hello, lover!

Two nice-looking gentlemen of Latino descent--one of whom was named Angel and certainly looked more than a little like one (I find Latino gentlemen particularly easy on the eyes, always have; I'm married, not dead)--delivered our shiny new fridge this morning. It's so pretty and clean, I almost don't want to put the magnets back on it. Almost. (I'm a fridge-magnet addict. They fit everyone, you know.)

I've never had a new fridge before. I used to order them in lots of 15 for the job I had in subsidized housing, and I'll be damned if this wasn't the same fridge I used to order! Good old no-frills Hotpoint workhorses. They have cool doors designed to hold gallon containers and Costco-size jars of mayonnaise, and the crisper drawers have handy little vegetable symbols on one side and fruit symbols on the other.

After I got all the food back in it and surveyed this wondrous new appliance, I thought about "Sex and the City", when Carrie would see new Manolo Blahniks in the shoe-store window and say, "Hello, lover!" It isn't so much the stuff in the fridge that plagues me, however; it's the damn candy aisle. My addiction du jour: Doves Promises, the milk chocolate, Bananas Foster flavor. Drool.