A conversation I had with me last night:
Evening Girl: “I am getting up at 9:00 … no later than 9:30 a.m. … or at the latest, 10… and the first thing, I’m going to do my yoga and my Spanish lesson and then get on with my day. Well, maybe first I’ll have ONE cuppa coffee, then go do my yoga, then my Spanish lesson. Or maybe I can do my Spanish lesson whilst I drink my coffee, then go do a good, solid 30-minute yoga video. Yeah. That’s how it’s going to go down here in the morning.”
Rolls out of bed by 11:30 a.m. – forcing herself up at this point because she’s almost ashamed of herself. Almost.
Had two cuppsa coffee.
Looks at the Interwebs.
Decides on French toast for “brunch” because brunch sounds fancy and acceptable.
Thinks about making Taco our outdoor raccoon-kitty some french toast. Would have, but ran out of the French toast batter.
Eats French Toast.
Proclaims this is the best french toast ever in the history of ever. Secret ingredients include heavy cream (ran out of milk) and heavy cinnamon, cooked in a skillet of crisco+butter for crunchy fried goodness.
Is now ready for a nap.