While we were at the fabric store this weekend, Eli discovered a pack of Pixie Stix on display.

(Ok, really. This is a fabric store whose most frequent customer demographic is women with small children. What f*ing braniac puts Pixie Stix at 6 year old eye level near the cash register?!)

I would say I would never shop there again but it's the only game in town for thread ergo I. Am. A. Hostage.

So a kilo of Pixie Sugar came home with us and all weekend long I have been doling it out to the sugar addicts like methadone.

It was so bad that I left the sitter with instructions that (even if they set the house afire) they were only allowed one Pixie Stick a piece during the afternoon. If they wanted more sugar, they had to obtain it naturally: cherries, grapes and mangoes.

Oh. I am ONE. MEAN. MUTHA.

I do understand the addiction. I so hearted the pure sugar high of the Pixie Stix when I was a child (and they were a lot longer then…but maybe it's just age and perspective).

[As I write this, Ani has spilled a bit of Pixie Stix sugar on the table and Eli is closing off her left nostril and snorting the spillage off the table top. While Ani is licking her finger, wiping it along the tabletop and sucking every grain of sugar off].

It's going to be a hard fall from this high...