The International House of- oh dear God, did I really eat all that?

Every Thursday at midnight, I meet my dad at IHOP for his "lunch break".

We are always seated in the same area and our friendly waiter (let's call him Rufus) comes over to go through the formalities of asking my dad what he wants.

It's cute because my dad basically gets the same thing every time. For example, my dad does not need to tell Rufus that he wants bacon and that he wants it crispy as Rufus is well aware of this preference. (Rufus is the best.)

I, however, like to throw Rufster for a loop and get something different every time. I may go for the Nutella crepes or perhaps the stuffed french toast. Or, if I'm feeling savory (and sassy!), I might request a heaping pile of soggy hashbrowns soaked in butter, preferably with a little American flag sticking out of the top.

The only point on which I stand firm is my 86ing of any fruit that comes drowned in heavy syrup. My dad favors the fruit phlegm whereas I feel it is the equivalent of something a strawberry might've coughed up after enduring torture in the form of an Anne Murray CD on repeat.

The downside to our midnight brunch is that it is, in the words of Taco Bell, 4th meal. Were I pregnant or training for a mini-marathon, this would be far more acceptable. As it is, I often struggle to find a reason to leave the house and my ass indentation on the couch is semi-permanent.

The good part about eating too much is that the overload of carbs and sugar seems to shut my brain down and it allows me to go to sleep without the annoyance of trying to figure out if the person who wrote I sing the body electric also wrote Jabberwocky. (Whitman and Carroll, respectively, so... no.)

I think it's time for me to go to a work picnic with my Presbyterian minister, but not before I board a schooner on a school trip that capsizes for 7.4 seconds. That is to say, it's time to go to bed.

What in the name of Jacques Cousteau is a schooner?