Three Days of the Dada

Thank some god for mall food courts. I cooked there with my wallet while my wife was away. Three nights of pizza, Brazilian BBQ and Sushi. Yeah, Baby, this is living large. But I don’t think I could do a fourth night. I’m “mall-fooded” out.

Palm trees in a California mall. Makes sense to me.

My wife is in the air. Her plane was delayed and she’s arriving late tonight. I can’t wait until she gets home. I’m going to stick out my hand like a tag-team wrestler, tag her, and head to the dog couch.

I’m tired. I’ve been getting up early to do treatments before my daughter wakes. Less than six hours of sleep each night.

If I were grading this week, I’d give my daughter an A-. She was great. If she could drive a car, I could have slept in. She put together her breakfast each morning, got dressed, and brushed her hair.

I should have worn a chauffeur’s outfit. I drove her to school and picked her up. And paid for her meals. Pretty simple, Simon.

I’d give myself a C+. Maybe B-. I realized today she hadn’t taken a shower since her mom left. Oops. My bad. That brought my grade down.

We watched American Pickers two of the nights, breaking our “no TV during the week” rule, though we have been watching American Idol this season. (We only watch shows with “American” in the title.) So, my grade goes down for the nights we were couch potatoes.

My daughter complained about a sore throat tonight and was tired. A cold coming on? I hope not. Stress from having to do all the work this week? Maybe.

My three days is about up. I’m pretty sure everyone’s good vibes kept the wet dynamite in my chest from exploding. It’s good to have friends you’ve never met. My humble thanks.

If, by chance, we ever do meet, the mall sushi is on me.

They know me at this place. "Norm, Irasshaimase."