Surprise! Well, maybe not David is the household maker of breakfast. I don't know quite how that happened. I can cook the hell out of some dinner, but I usually can't really be bothered with breakfast. You'll never see me make pancakes or waffles. I'm fine with some toast and milk or a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Sometimes, I'll break out the micropot and make up some old-fashioned oatmeal. That's as far as I'll go. If you come to visit, David's either cooking or we're going out. So that's the background for this little vingette. (Is that spelled right? It looks funny...) David: Let's have some breakfast and then do some yard work. Me: OK. What're we having? D: I don't know yet. David answers the phone. Then the doorbell rings. Crap! I jump out of bed, wondering if I can get to the door before the person goes away. We're expecting the Dyson, after all. I throw on some door-opening appropriate layers. The Fed Ex guy left the box on the porch and was already pulling away. Suh-weet! And he brought the newspaper to the door too. Bonus! Me: THE DYSON'S HERE! D: Where is it? Me: On the porch! Let's go get it! (Bringing something big in the door is a two-person job thanks to Expert-Escapee Jasper.) We bring it in, assemble and I start vacuuming while David makes breakfast. I finish the guest room and turn it off. Me: So whatcha makin? D: Sausage, egg and cheese surprise. Me: Honey, we've been over this. If you list all the ingredients, you can't call it 'surprise.' There's no surprise! D: Yeah, whatever. I'm still calling it that. As I type this, I'm wondering if I've given my innocent husband less credit than he deserves. Maybe there is a surprise. Then I think it doesn't matter if there is because I eat way more stuff than he does. He's so picky. Still. I don't think there's any surprise. P.S. Tomorrow, more about the Dyson. Squeeee!