Cinnamon rolls are baking casting an aroma throughout the kitchen.
It mixes with the smell of brewing coffee.
Staring out the sliding glass doors I see that the wind has not let up as it blows through Fran's thousand shades of green. The grass skirt on the Palm Tree with the oyster face and coconut bra blows giving the appearance that she's dancing as the sun rises.
Girls are asleep everywhere. Two beds and two couches are currently occupied. Goddess is confused as she meanders from room to room attempting to keep watch over everyone at once.
I'm wondering when was the last time that I cooked Cinnamon rolls. It had to have been for Chelsea and that would have been decades ago.
I remember enough to save the icing because someone is going to lick the container clean.
"Damn," I think to myself. "I'm domesticated."
Firing up Pandora, I listen to Amie Mann and crack it up as a way of waking everyone up.
The kitchen counter looks as though a food delivery truck crashed into it. A&W Root beer, Powdered donuts, popcorn, peperoni and cheese crackers are everywhere.
The living room appears to have been hit by a National Linen Service truck. Blankets, sheets and stuffed animals are littered throughout. Random sneakers and slippers lay on the floor. Book bags and plastic sacks are piled up on the table.
They begin to stir.
Normally when I leave for the Breakfast Club, Goddess is snoring beside the bed. Now she looks traumatized.
Suddenly there is a mad dash for the Cinnamon Rolls. Apparently one has more icing than the others.
"This is weird," I say out loud.
A Cinnamon roll drops to the floor and a scream follows.
Goddess makes a mad dash for it but the three-second rule applies. Dejected, my dog goes outside.
I fix a screwdriver.
"I have the experience for this," I say to myself. "I survived raising Kristen for God's sake!"
Then Sarah wanders in, hair askew, wearing one of my shirts, eyes full of sleep ... and she kisses me.
"And on the seventh day ... God said it was good."
This is going to be alright.
