I just burned 5 gluten free pancakes. This was after i dripped Pheobarbital in the batter. Yes people, accidentally.
When I put some egg in The Baby's bowl that contained pancakes she threw it on the floor. I'm not sure how the placing of an egg next to a pancake irritated her but it did. As a matter of fact she has been irritable all morning. I knew I would be punished eventually because of the bus incident.
Vanna White came to my assistance and cleaned the floor. Dogs are useful like this. She has almost redeemed herself after peeing on two beds and one sofa because I took in Little Dog.
Shockingly, Roller pooped on the The Teenager's floor. I'll blame that one on Little Dog as well. I simply have no other explanation.
The Teenager asks at the breakfast table, "Does this outfit make me look fat?" I am always amazed with what this developmentally delayed girl comes up with. I tell her she looks fine.
"I am kind of cute aren't I?" Perhaps I've gone overboard in the quest to build self-esteem in my children.
She continues to enthrall me over Phenobarb Pancakes with stories of her beach outing with Lindy who is "you know, the one who has the tattoos that don't wash off?"
The boy informs me he wants to be Jack Bauer for Halloween.
I don't watch tv as we don't have a tv but recently during moments like this when I need some zone out therapy I discovered Season One of 24 on Netflix. They like to torture people on this show. They administer drugs. They employ psychological torment. They badger incessantly. They use loud noise bedevilment. And my personal favorite: shooting bad guys in the thigh while avoiding main arteries.
It occurs to me that one Saturday morning over pancakes with my family would be much more effective torture. Sans the shooting of thighs. Of course.
Is it Sunday yet?