This morning I told myself, no more granola. I’ve wreaked too much havoc on my digestive system. Too many oats have ravaged my innards. No more! At least for today.
So what shall it be? Shall I choose from our multitude of healthy, albeit bland breakfast choices? Or shall I go for something involving impressive levels of fat and sugar?
I don’t know what came over me this morning. Wait, yes I do. Scott stayed home today for a doctor’s appointment, so he drove Henry to school. It was 9 a.m., Henry was gone, and I was still in my pajamas. This confluence of events sent me straight into vacation mode.
Besides, yesterday was the most depressing day of the year. Despite that fact, I was feeling rather chipper. So I figured today I should celebrate, because it only gets better from here, and if it gets better than "rather chipper," I'm in for a good year.
Here’s one of the things I love most about our house: it’s sunny. Our apartment was so dark, we had to turn all the lights on each morning. And french toast tastes better in a sunny dining room. That’s another thing: a dining room! I have a dining room!
I was so excited about the french toast that I forgot to fully cook it. Mmm, sopping brioche. (That’s right, brioche. I could have used the hearty multigrain bread. But hearty multigrain bread is for chumps.)
I’m not giving up on you yet, french toast.
See? You turned out delicious! And then I ate you.
Charlie got to lick the plate. That’s like Christmas times ten for him.
After breakfast, I waddled up to my office. Otherwise known as a sunroom. I have given up the quad workout of the slanty room. Now whenever I’m working, I get a tan. And when I look up, I see these:
My sister-in-law made these for me. I saw her crane mobile, and asked where she bought it. She laughed at me. I made one or two of them, under her tutelage. They’re the misshapen cousins of the others. Poor, twisted little freak cranes.
Every day, I look up at the cranes and pretend to work. It’s completely quiet, except for the occasional bird twitter or the driving-school cars who circle our neighborhood, always driving more slowly than I thought possible for cars to drive. Charlie basks in the sun next to me. Later we’ll go for a long walk; Charlie will lurch ahead, failing to murder a single squirrel, while I listen to The Sound of Young America podcast and try not to laugh out loud. Inevitably one of our newfound friends will drive by and stop his or her car (okay, minivan) to ask why I’m laughing out loud.
Why did I have a problem with this place, again? I can't quite recall. Maybe it's from that stroke I had, shortly after breakfast.