I know people driving along Riley Street must think, “Auuuggghhhh, look at the buckhorns in that yard. Lazy, trashy people.” Well, like the fellows who stand on curbs with handmade signs announcing fundraising car washes and pork burgers, I need to do the same with my explanation of how I’m trying to get rid of them as opposed to just mowing them now. However, how much of that do you think I could get on a piece of cardboard in print large enough to read from a car? You see my problem.

I almost am tempted to put up a sign that indicates the yard is a Purdue Experimental Project. Well, they have a “body farm” in Tennessee to help forensic people determine how bodies left by criminals or by accident decay and thereby be able to date the death. This is a “Weed Farm”.  I imagine I could make up all sorts of “facts” and “findings” and publish a booklet on what I have “learned”.

I know I could make it all up because, now I’m not saying this is so, but maybe way back when as a senior in high school, someone got fed up with doing research papers and actually concocted legitimate-sounding sources, quotes – including some “sources” that indicated the theory was WRONG. Nice-looking footnotes, carefully checked to show proper order. Do you suppose that might have taken – had it actually been done – far more time and effort than an actual “just knock-it-out” research paper? Hmmm, I wonder if it did, er, would have.

But, never mind.

I guess my sign should say; What do you expect from AmeliaJake?

Before I say anything about maybe killing weeds, I guess I should admit I am in a grumpy mood. I suspected it, but when I inadvertently pressed delete and the whole darn post deleted, I stamped my foot iN total toddler anger – and that was from a sitting position.

Actually, I would say I am beyond grumpy now that I think about it; I believe I indignant and in a snit. Crunched down eyebrows, screwed up mouth . . . and I feel my foot starting to twitch.

But, never mind. For now, let me turn to weedkillers that come in a bottle that attaches to a hose. Of course, there was the manipulation of the hose over the fence, but that was a given. Then, there was making certain of a good fit between the hose and the bottle and that is suspect, but this time did not cause a problem.

We started to spray. Immediately and for the first time all day, within five minutes two people come along with strollers. So we wait. What were they doing, waiting around the corner for us to come out? Okay, they start to spray again and it is going along all right until we can’t figure out if the weedkiller is mixing correctly with the water or not. We stop and I decide to smell the contents of the bottle which I suspect is all water, the poison having come out in the first 30 seconds. However, it smells fairly potent and looks discolored so I poured some directly on a circle around a big weed that looked like a splat on the ground. I did it in another place as well, and in a couple of days, I may walk out and be inspired to write a book about an ecological disaster.

That’s just the half of it, however. I had another bottle of weedkiller by another company and we hooked that up. And sprayed. It may be that the spots where I poured contents of the bottle directly on green stuff my be the healthiest part of the yard.

Then, for the heck of it, I decided to hook up outdoor Windex. It did not forcefully spray a window on the second story; it arced out maybe six feet and dribbled on a window in the garage and most of it ran down my arm. I simply and nonchalantly walked away to think about this. Think a lot because I have a lot of windows.

Which brings me back here and to my snit. I am letting it wash over me like a big wave –

S……N…..I…..T

I am going up to LaGrange County today; I have not been there for quite awhile and it could get interesting. I wouid not not mind taking a mongoose with me, although I suppose, from what I read, a python is more likely than a cobra. I am also taking weed killer instead of a weed-whacker because I am whacked out. I suspect there is an urban dictionary explanation of whacked out, and I would not be surprised if it meant something other than tired of working eradicating weeds. It might, just possibly, relate to being a bit off bubble. I couldn’t really argue with that. Come to think of it, a padded room wouldn’t be too uncomfortable. But I don’t think they let you choose your padding our the thread count in the padding covering. I’m shying away from the crazy aspect until I do a little research on facilities and accessories, such as padded computers and Kindles. Padded cathedral ceilings? Time to stop this paragraph writing an grab a piece of reality.

Ah, fortunately, that PoR (Piece of Reality) was a glass of iced tea. Refreshing. Hmmm, I wonder if anyone put any medication in it? Just kidding . . . because that is the mood I am in today. On the other hand, a bit of alcohol and a lemon perched on the edge might not be too unwelcome. I get the feeling I’m a walking Tennessee Williams play. Well, Sebastian, toodle-loo.

You can find them almost anywhere anymore – those photos labelled “awkward” or “embarrassing” or “what were they thinking?” This morning, on weather.com, I saw another one – this time it was about awkward Fourth of July photos and featured, of course, people in what most would consider sort of crazy clothing with a flag theme.

And what is wrong with this? It’s innocent and maybe some family time together was spent concocting the apparel and then posing for pictures. The intention of those who gather these photos, and practically point with big arrows to the introduction is: Hey, let’s snicker at somebody.

Well, isn’t that just special?

Okay, I will admit that when People of WalMart first came out, I looked and was at times taken aback . . . and thought myself more refined than those pictured. That was wrong, but it was human nature. And the novelty wore off. Especially after I started imagining a site featuring pictures of me.

Actually, I am considering posting AmeliaJake awkward photos, but there are so many to choose from . . .

Even if the fan is not on, it would be awkward to hug it, but I give every ceiling fan in the house a virtual hug when I see it making calm Humphrey Bogart Casablanca circles on above my head. I have no idea if I lived in a previous life or not, but I feel so at home with the soft breeze of the blades above.

Now, apparently, some decorators have given ceiling fans the evil eye. I find that ridiculous when I go through pictures of the candidates for Best House of 2016 in Britain. Minimalist is not accurate enough to capture the essence of the places. One house picture showed a bed, a wall and a straight chair. And the color scheme is mostly black and white. And the people who chose these houses as beautiful are scoffing at Casablanca fans. Well, fie on them.

It is Wednesday and because I have switched trash companies, take out night is Tuesday, instead of Wednesday . . . and in the middle of the night, I remembered this. The trash is out there, if it hasn’t been picked up already and I am so happy that I have/had trash in my driveway. Once upon a time, I probably thought that would be a ridiculous sentence to write. Ah, well: Sic gloria mundi transit.

The electrician was here for two days and found some interesting plugs and connector boxes in various parts of the house. I now have working three-way switches, new plugs, four new ceiling fans, new lights in the kitchen and a bathroom . . . and a couple more little projects once I find the type of light I want. We did temporarily transfer the old kitchen light to a the dark eating nook so that we could see stuff other than gloom while I decide on a new fixture. The one I thought I would like didn’t pan out to be as it appeared on the website.

In other news, I ate two tomatoes yesterday and got “the trots.” I’m okay at this point, but yestday there was a lot of “NOW” urgency. Back in the days of outhouses, all the neighbors knew when someone had the trots. That’s when I learned the phrase; overhearing family members remarking about the man who lived across the road. (It seems when you had the trots, one chose to use the privy rather than the new-fangled indoor facility.)