They call me Senorita Grandma Pants.

I spent the weekend sleeping off a Homecoming-sized hangover, where no alcohol was involved, and I was only vaguely aware of the weekend which didn’t give me many stories to tell this week.

Or did it?

I did find that when you reach a level so low on the sloth scale that you injure yourself taking a nap, you begin to reassess your life.

Or at least, you should.

You ask yourself questions like, “So it’s come to this, Senorita Grandma Pants?”

Then you ask your husband to press Icy Hot into the curve of your shoulder blade with enough force to compress a lump of coal into a diamond before laying on a heating pad for two days.

All this because of a Saturday nap that wasn’t even that great a nap anyway.

The entire weekend, everytime my husband asked me something, he said I cocked my head like a confused dog.

Speaking of which, my dog Erma is at it again, and I became conscious enough to report the err of her ways.

My dog, who usually is reported to eat such normal everyday utilitarian items as paper towels, pens, pot holders and beach towels has officially upped her game.

If she lives through this one, I will be calling her Senorita Potato Head.

My husband and I already play the game, What unusual item will she eat off of a table today?

She ate our cable bill last week, which was new for her. We still had to pay it, I found out after calling Spectrum to tell them the dog had eaten their homework.

But we have never had to hide a raw potato, because frankly, it’s a raw potato.

We do now.

My husband had washed a couple potatoes to prepare them for baking Tuesday afternoon. He put them on a pad on the countertop to dry before he wrapped them in foil.

Then he made the deadly mistake of walking away with confidence of a man without a special dog.

When he returned to the scene of the crime, the potatoes were gone from the kitchen and Erma was under the coffee table halfway through devouring her second raw potato.

In her defense, she is on daily steroids which is in her mind a race to see what can kill her first.

We researched the Google box to find out if this particular substance would kill her, and for the 80th time this year, it has the potential.

As of presstime, Erma is still standing and I’m still looking at her with a cocked head, partly because I am confused and partly because I can still smell Icy Hot.