I always get the raw pancake.

Charlie is the master of breakfast...usually.  This morning was Pancake Sunday, which we normally don't have, but since a certain person (*cough*ME*cough*) overslept on Pancake Friday, Charlie called a do-over.  I  came downstairs with the wee one and sat at the kitchen table, telling everyone about my insane dream (my mom shacked up with a crazy dogsitter and a 20-year-old Rasta boyfriend, doing cocaine.  WTF?!) while the Hubs handled bacon and flapjack duty.

Something must have been a bit off with him, because first, he burnt the bacon.  That never, and I mean NEVER, happens.  Chubby rednecks do not let pork fat burn.  It's like a Country Commandment -- "THOU AIN'T GWONE WASTE NO FATBACK" carved into the hood of a Monte Carlo and propped up in front of Cracker Barrel.  I said nothing, just sipped my coffee and talked to the baby.  Baby's pancake came first, beautifully round, golden-brown, like something off an IHOP menu.  Of course, it was promptly hacked to pieces and then gummed to death in between bites of banana.  Like a three year old, I thought, "OOOOOOH! ME NEXT, ME NEXT!"

I was handed a plate with two not-so-perfect cakes, cooked well past golden-brown.  More like the skin of a teenage girl who got a little overzealous about tanning before Prom.  No worries, I thought, looks are not everything.  And sure enough, the first few buttery, syrupy bites were fantastic.  (I think heaven must be a never-ending stack of perfect pancakes.)  Then it happened:  cold, wet, gooey...batter.  Oozing out of my perfect pancake.  I said nothing, just scraped it away and tried to eat the outer ring of good stuff.  I can't bring myself to complain when Charlie does something as nice as cook breakfast for us (and clean up after himself).  I'm not THAT much of an ungrateful beyotch.  I have to say, though, that it kind of ruined the rest of my breakfast.

It got me to thinking about a conversation Charlie and I have on a regular basis, about how I usually get shafted on the little things.  Like at a restaurant, mine is always the order that gets f'ed up beyond belief -- not because I'm picky, mind you, but because that's just how it goes.  Maybe I clubbed baby seals in a past life?  Maybe I was John Wilkes Booth's BFF and sat around drinking with him, saying, "Do it, you should totally do it, man!"  Maybe I knocked over Gandhi trying to get a cab?  Could be anything.  All I know is, I get the shit end of the stick when it comes to basic retail/restaurant/customer service experiences.  Perfect example is my nightmare trip to BJ's Wholesale, where after shopping for two hours (with baby) I realized I didn't have my membership card.  The cashier spent fifteen minutes trying to look up my info in the computer, then told me it couldn't be found.  They'd "let me" use a guest pass for the day, but I'd have to pay in cash or with a credit card.  I had only checks.  I ended up getting treated horribly by the manager on duty, and left in a huff.  I wrote an email to customer service, but before I'd even finished firing off my rant, Charlie had already gotten on the phone and talked another manager into upgrading our membership for free.  No fuss, no fighting, just ... done.  It's like Jedi mind shit or something.  Or, alternate theory:  LIFE IS EASIER WHEN YOU HAVE A PENIS.

Any thoughts?  How do you deal with life's raw-in-the-middle pancakes?