So, definitely back then I did important things like learn how to drive a car, and memorize the entire periodic table of elements, and discover that not all boys made out with their entire faces, some actually didn't leave a string of saliva between us like some weird sort of I'm-dating-you-umbilical-cord-of-gross. From there I somehow made it to college and graduated (twice)(how?)(I mean, I pretty much drank my weight in whiskey, which leads me to believe I am simply much smarter when drunk)(maybe alcoholics aren't alcoholics, they're really just cancer-solving, world-hunger-ending, space-robot-physicists trapped in a sober body?)(Please do not spread this around as fact though, as is just a theory. And probably a really bad one. Maybe. I can't tell, I'm sober.)
But then everything after that is sort of a reverse blur where I end up back in my pjs, watching waaaaay too many episodes of Two and a Half Men (awful), and making pancakes for my cat.
Oh yeah. That's right. I woke up the other day and made. pancakes. for. my. cat.
Ok, but here's the thing . . .
I've never made pancakes before. Like not even from a Bisquik mix. I don't even ever order pancakes. Once, Gige's husband and I were really hungover and we all went out to breakfast and he and I noticed the couple sitting next to us left almost an entire stack of uneaten pancakes. And by 'almost' I mean ok, fine, they had eaten a quarter of them, but the other quarter was untouched and golden and I think even glowing a little with sunshine sparkles, and we looked at each other, shrugged, and much to Gige's absolute horror, dug in and ate those suckers. But even then I didn't order them, I just ate them off of some strangers plate.
Anyway, so I don't normally have anything to do with pancakes. But I woke up and was like, "I think I want pancakes today. On a Wednesday. Even though it's 10am and I should be working." And just at that exact moment James jumped onto my chest, squished my boob as hard as he possibly could, and said, "Fuck yeah let's have pancakes."
So that's what we did.
Since I don't actually know if he used the F-word or not, I had to go by his actions, and the little sucker got up and followed me to the kitchen and watched every single thing I did to make the batter, like a crazy little Gordon Ramsey. But one that can fit in the mixing bowl. Which was where he sat after I'd made all the pancakes. Because he liked the feel of the leftover batter on his paws? I'm not sure. That little guy is weird with his textures. But he sat in that bowl as if I was supposed to rub the excess all over him like a whole body facial, or some sort of disguise he could use around the neighborhood to fool all the unsuspecting birds into coming to him.
Unfortunately I didn't act fast enough to get a picture of it, because I was too busy falling in love with him all over again for being RIDICULOUS, but I did manage to get a picture of our pancakes.
I ate like seven, and he only sort of licked this one, but it was totally worth it. Next week I might try waffles, that way maybe I can pour little tiny square pools of milk in them and make a fun little checker board of drink for him to relish! He's so lucky!
And yes, I'm going to shower and leave the house now. I do hear myself.
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