Nothing on AMC has caught my attention like The Walking Dead. Mad Men? I never gave it a chance. Rubicon? Eh, conspiracy shows aren’t my cup of tea. Breaking Bad? I wanted to get into the show, but I couldn’t divorce Bryan Cranston his Malcolm in the Middle character (I’m still working on …
It’s finally happened. I’m not longer an almost-two-year-old bad ass. Nope. I’m a nearly-three-year-old extraordinaire. For those of you who are out of the loop, I celebrated my nearly-three-year-old birthday Saturday. It was an ordeal, let me tell you that.
Dad’s been busy doing dad things. He’s suffering what he calls book ennui. Nothing is interesting him and he’s writing habits have reduced. I don’t know, but I worry about him sometimes. He’s given up sodas, I hear. Which worries me more. He’s trying to eat less yummy food, which has me downright frightened.
I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I suspect it’s those plant people he talks about sometimes. He tried to show me the movie, but I was like, “Dad, it’s boring. Plants aren’t people. Now lemme play with Talking Tom.”