Friday was fun. I’m being sarcastic. Friday was not fun. Not in the very least.
First, I started to make a pancake. I had walked on the treadmill and felt I deserved a nice big pancake for breakfast. I poured the batter into the pan and waited. Then my dog wanted to go outside to potty. Well, we have to bring him outside with the leash through the front because he can’t do the steps anymore out back (and Heaven forbid he use the RAMP). So, out we went.
Did I mention I had pancake batter in the pan? On the stove? With the burner on?
Anyhoo, he did his business and we came back inside. Of course, I knew the pancake would be starting to burn. Oh…but it was more than that! It was completely burned to the bottom of the pan and starting to on top. I stuck the spatula in the pan to get the pancake off (no need to ruin another pan!) and a FLAME shot out!
How rude.
Of course the alarm is going off and I’m upset because I JUST WANTED A DARN PANCAKE!!
I ended up making another pancake (not burned but not too tasty either), and by this time it was probably a little after eleven in the morning. Since I had calling hours to attend to later that afternoon, I didn’t want to shower yet, which meant staying in my pajamas til then. (I work from home. I can do that.)
My dog had to potty again. Outside, we go! It had snowed, and I hadn’t shoveled the steps (or anything) because it was going to get warm and sunny which would melt the snow. Cole did his thing, and we started up the two steps on the front porch. Cole got up fine. Me? I slipped in the packed-down snow and ended up on my arse. In my pajama pants. Good times.
Stand up, brush myself off, and head up the steps. Turn the door handle.
Ahhh, but it won’t turn. Why? Because it’s LOCKED.
Ooops…I did it again.
Fun fact: Sometimes when I go outside (whether front or back door), my fingers automatically turn the lock. Don’t know why. Habit?
Knowing the back door to the back porch was open to air out the kitchen from the, um… pancake incident, I walked down the driveway to go through the back gate. Locked. Of course. Ahh, but the garbage was picked up that morning, so the two larger plastic bins were next to the fence where my husband put them before work. Perfect! I climbed onto one of those, clumsily climbed over the fence, thankfully landed on my feet, and let myself in the back door. I let Cole in once I got inside (he had been waiting on the porch; he’s old and doesn’t go anywhere fast, so I knew he’d be fine).
No other mishaps til calling hours but of course those are no fun. When I got home at 6:30 pm, I had a generous glass of wine, thank-you-very-much.
All's well that ends well.
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