I've set the clock for five minutes and I'm going to write a blog in that amount of time.
I'm looking at the clock and it says 10:27 but I'm having a little trouble with the math. Ah, I have until 10:32 to come up with something delightful.
I was thinking I was going to write about something that we all have in common. You know, like an airline food joke or maybe how Mondays suck. I can't do that to you. I have too much respect for you.
The amount of backspacing I'm doing is alarming. I'm spending more time backspacing than typing. Just an observation.
Holy cow, there's really not a lot you can get done in five minutes. Julia didn't go on her parade today because we all thought it was going to rain. Then it didn't rain and it was sunny. Windy, but sunny.
Deb was traumatized by a Syttende Mai parade in the past when there was a cloudburst and she and Julia got soaked and blown around and had to take refuge in a cafe. She said she wasn't going to let that happen again this year. Plus, Julia didn't want to go. She never really wants to do much of anything. I'm pretty sure if we didn't constantly prod her she'd behave like Lenin lying in state in the Kremlin.
I'm not going to look. . . I'd better look. I have another minute.
I wear the dad uniform a lot these days. A polo shirt with cargo shorts and running shoes. I go to school events and I look at the other dads and it's clear there was some kind of subliminal pulse on Mad Men or House of Cards that caused us all to dress alike.
I'm ok. . . .
10:33. I'm over. I failed. . .