Migas: Back Home Breakfast

Coming home from vacation is so hard.

Why is there so much junk in the mailbox?
Why is there so much laundry on the floor?
Why is there nothing but condiments in my refrigerator?
Why is my dog attacking my travel loofah?
Why did I think I would need a loofah just for traveling?

Whatever.

I guess I have to stop sleeping until noon.

I suppose I’ll have to start reading something other than Us, People, OK! and In Touch.

And you’re probably going to tell me that I can’t keep eating mimosas and brownies for breakfast.

This stinks.

I’ve got to do something here.

Action must be taken.

I need to pull myself out of this back home bell jar.

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Chuckwagon Apple Fritters

I’ve been thinking about the Good Humor truck a lot lately. Like, a lot. This happens to me almost every summer.

I get super hot.
The sweating starts.
The farmer’s tan shows up.
The sweating continues.
And I think about ice cream like it’s my job.

Every summer when I was a kid, we would spend our days at the local pool. My brother and sister were champion swimmers and they were rocking the butterfly and breaststroke on the neighborhood swim team.

I was a champion eater. Which meant that I was super good at floating. So I was allowed to tag along on pool days. Score!

Around 11:19 a.m., I’d start to get excited. At 12:31 p.m. I was pretty pumped. And by 1:03 p.m., I was straight up freaking out.

Waiting. Stressing. Counting and recounting my coins. Crying a little.

And then, in the far-off distance, I heard it…

Diddly ding da ding da ding ding-a-ling a ding dongggggggggggggg

(Whatever. That’s totally the song.)

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