I never realized how much in demand pizelle-making is in a man. All over the blogosphere, it seems, there are women swooning at the thought of a husband making his own pizzelles. If I had mentioned that Larry also cleans the kitchen up afterward, I think I would have to fear for my marriage.
Oh, and his sister (who doesn't keep up-to-date on my blog) called yesterday and asked me if Larry was okay, because he had sounded sort of stressed on the phone the other night. "Does he get any exercise?" she asked, solicitously. "I don't know," I demurred. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Yeah, I set her up. And I don't care.
"Be nice to me!" Susie shouts, to no one in particular. She knows her rights. Now she is waving a pretty dress in my face, demanding it be draped immediately onto her fat little body. Each morning she rises with the sun, agog with anticipation for (of?) that day's wardrobe choice. Nighttime has become a particular distressing time for her, insofar as she has to relinquish whichever pretty dress she has twirled around in all day and don inelegant pajamas in its stead. Though Susie looks fetchingly cute in her pajamas, they are very unsatisfactory for twirling purposes.
Which reminds me, I need to get out of my untwirly pajamas and into something decent before someone shows up at the door unexpectedly. Because I certainly don't look fetchingly cute in my nightclothes.