Baby Driver is a great summertime movie and worth a theater trip. The R rating is pretty soft; probably a PG-13 except for two or three brief scenes of graphic violence.
I have to start keeping a lunch in reserve at work, even if it’s just a can of Spaghettios. I deluded myself into Taco Bell yesterday. I don’t need to do that ever again. Counting the unsettled afternoon tummy, it’s like four hours of self-loathing.
Dear female Facebook friends: The photographic filters that smooth all of your wrinkles and blemishes and whatever else you’re hiding also make you look ridiculously synthetic, like a plastic baby doll, and it’s not a good look. Please, knock it off. You are lovely just the way you are.
Our when-we-push-the-peanut tiling project in the boys’ bathroom is to the exciting part. Lea’s putting tile up. She’s doing a great job.
The IndyCar championship race is tight. Not following the series? It’s always a good time to jump in. Next race is in the streets of Toronto on Sunday at 2 PM CDT on CNBC.
I want an Echo Show, but not for that money. I’ll watch for a Christmas shopping special.
Still too early to call it in a mild summer, but we’re firmly into the part of the calendar that misery frequents. If we can tiptoe through another six weeks of highs in the low 90s, I’ll be a happy guy.