Sunday

Allegedly a day of rest, at least for those who have no children.
Actually, it isn't too bad most Sunday mornings, as there's nothing that really interests the children on TV. They tend to stay in bed, or to congregate upstairs and engage in weird little fights conducted entirely in whispers.
Last night, though, the little guy was sick, so my wife and I were up a lot. He's got a bad cough, but no fever or sore throat; I think he's working his way up to full-fledged asthma or something. My oldest brother had it, but he outgrew it. Or, if you prefer my mother's version, she bought him a chihuahua and "that dog just sucked the asthma out of him." She absolutely swore by this theory, because she'd read it in Dear Abby. I have already assured my wife, dear readers, that we WILL NOT be getting a chihauhua, or however the hell you spell it. We have one furry eating machine already, and I absolutely loathe the way those overbred little yap-yap dogs tremble constantly. It's like living with a meth-addicted soprano midget who occasionally pees on the carpet, just for comic relief.
Anyway, we were up a lot, so this morning started very early. Pancakes and fried eggs on todays menu, with lots of syrup and butter. I figure at the rate we hand out carbs, red meat and cholesterol, they should all be super-vegans by the age of twenty one out of sheer rebelliousness. I have to work a little today, but only a little; if the weather holds up, look for pictures. The kids have a full agenda planned: tormenting us, fighting with each other, and the ongoing demolition of our home.
I just saw the dog trot by with a fried egg in her mouth. Gotta go.