Grogu approves.

Grogu approves.

There was just an ambulance parked in front of our next door neighbors’ house. I hope everything is okay. I’m sick and tired of people getting sick.
When we adopted Patches 11 years ago the shelter told us that Patches had kittens at some point in the past.


I guess that means it’s Mother’s Day for her too.
You know it’s Mother’s Day when Rob’s cooking sets off the smoke alarms twice. Once at breakfast and once at dinner.
Oh yeah, you’re welcome
Last week I asked my love what she wanted to do for Mother’s Day. She said to make her breakfast.
Done!



Harry was on waffles, I was on bacon and sausage.
Happy Mother’s Day, Jen! We love you so much and we are thankful for all the things you do for us.

Well, there you have it. It’s midnight so it’s May 8th. My birthday. I’m fifty years old. Bring on the existential dread. Happy effing birthday.

I hadn’t even left yet and I was already missing them like crazy.

Jen sent me a text today asking if I had made an appointment to have work done on my beloved 1978 Gibson Les Paul. Her message used the exact phrase, “Les Paul.”
Fast forward to bed time and she tells me that her Facebook feed is filled with ads for Les Pauls. Including some custom shop models. She was surprised by the high prices. I was not. I told her about a ‘59 I saw for sale online today for $400,000.
That doesn’t matter though. What matters is she typed and Facebook tried to sell.
Surprised?