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I got a text message from the husband earlier. He is at home, systematically dismantling the house to get ready for hardwood floors to be installed the week of Thanksgiving. (And then, finally, all this after-flood repair will be OVER. Hallelujah!)

The text said:

Look, you have a problem. And I will help you, but the first step is admitting you have a problem.

I was rather baffled, as I have no secret gambling or drug habits. And I didn’t think my infantile delight in The Vampire Diaries warranted such a serious text.

Then I got this picture from him:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apparently, I have a baking problem. Or at least a baking accoutrement problem.

I guess there are worse things.

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