Dinner

We sat down to dinner, but right after we said grace, Fiona managed to upend her paper plate, flopping her cheese pizza all over her lap.

"Geez, I've been so clumsy lately," she said, napkining herself off. "I keep hitting myself and running into people and making messes--"

I looked at her with some amusement. "You're a teenager."

"And I keep getting attacked by the flying waffles."

I stared. "Flying waffles?"

"Yeah. Dad stuffed the freezer so full after the last grocery run that every time I open the freezer door, the waffles jump out and attack me."

"Nobody expects the flying waffles," Rob said portentously.

"Just like nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," Fiona said brightly.

A pause. Fiona began singing softly under her breath, "Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam . . ."

"No," I said, trying to glare, but with my mouth twitching.

She shrugged and then after another pause began singing in the highest, squeakiest voice imaginable, "Doom, doom, doom, doom, doom, doom. . ."

I stared at her and began cracking up. "What's that from?"

"Invader Zim."