Tonight I figured I’d forgo the bun on my hamburger – grilled, not fried – and so made a sandwich with two big slabs of onion on each side of the hamburger tomato burger. Now I am burping. Rumbling burps. Little burps, insistent burps. I don’t know if this is typical or not, but I think, for me, it is cause and effect. Well, it was good going down.

I had beans too, with bacon bits and half a grilled hot dog. Yes, Der Bingle, I am a pig, an oinker, a porker, a sow and so forth, such as a swine. That reminds me, when Cameron rewrote Shakespeare he had himself saying “You swine.” In the first recording, it sure sounded like he said, “You slime.” I guess you had to be there . . .

Forget the blue and red designations – I looked at the national weather map a few minutes ago and Indiana is, at least for today, The Green State. We will be getting rain from the Ohio River to the Michigan line – from the Wabash and Lake Michigan to the Ohio state line.

We are going to be wet.

I hear footsteps; I think it is Cameron coming to get me to take him to school. Wait, they have paused. I hold my breath, but it is inevitable, I know. He will come. I wait . . . I hear the pencil sharpener. Soon. Soon.

Ack, we’re green . . . that means it will be a pick-up date as well.

Oh, for Pete’s sake, now Summer announces, “There’s a hole in my sock.” Think for yourself, Summer, go upstairs and grab one of Grandma’s.

My mother had a good day today – she attacked the dandelions with her long digger thing and then plopped them into a bucket with the extended grabber tool. She says she looks at them and thinks, “Take that!” before she delivers the death blow.

Oh, and Mrs. Feller has rhubarb so I will be cooking it up. The first time I saw rhubarb was when I would run out of the house and head up the path to the barn that ran along side the garden. I think it scared me; my dad probably had told me it was poisonous. I also thought I didn’t like it for eating; I know I got this in my head because I thought rhubarb was an ugly name.

Then over a decade ago my mother made what we came to call rhubarb pudding pie and I discovered I loved rhubarb. Mother has the rhubarb growing in Amish horses –t, which is what is recommended, although it doesn’t have to be Amish.

Now I find out Mrs. Feller has it in the corner of the fence across the way. Woo hoo. Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb. Oops . . . don’t mind me. It’s probably some effect of the hair dye.

My granddaughter –  a sixth grader is charged with constructing a vehicle that will run at least five meters (I am definitely still a yard and inch person.) on the thrust provided by two nine-inch balloons. I claim heroine status: I got the wheel problem solved while she was in the throes of despair and agony and letting me know all about it.

She had the balloon part producing but now something isn’t working right. I have made some suggestions but she shrugs them off. You can’t tell her anything. That is what my father once said to me, “Nobody could ever tell you anything.” I’m sorry, Daddy; I was such a jerk.

Well, here I go . . . into the fray.

I did not expect THIS. But, okay. I guess “one calf nut at a time” can get to you.

Yes, that fella we know in Georgia sent us a link to this website and we are committing to memory the ten words below:

Frenchify Bescumber Microphallus Coccydynia Ninnyhammer Buncombe Hircismus Corpulent Feist (or Fice) Cacafuego

Because of my difficulty with pronunciation, I think I will stick with Ninnyhammer.

Well, I do not know what is going on out there  – what with Bill Clinton coming to town (Kendallville) just this past Friday . . . and one guy telling the local newspaper he was going to vote for Hillary since his house is right across the street from the fire station where Bill appeared and he made $34 for parking.

I don’t get a Democratic ballot, so it’s not quite so exciting on this side. Mitch is running unopposed for the governor’s nomination and I am feeling not happy about him. He did NOT –  and neither did any of his staff – refer to complaints from my mother’s and my email about DST.  FIE ON YOU, MITCH.

ACK!! I spent a great deal of time fooling around with Quicktime to edit this to a short three seconds of Syndey . . . and then WordPress wouldn’t upload it – said it was too big. So I went over to YouTube and uploaded the shortened version and here it is in all its blurring around and waving glory. RATS, Quicktime, what did I do wrong.?

On May 5th, I thought, “Gee, I haven’t featured any of many bears we named eight years ago.” No, actually, I did not think that concisely. I believe I stumbled on this blue bear, wondered if her were named, flipped him over to look at his butt . . . and saw his label: Sadistic Blue. Then I thought, “Aha, I’ve been lax and now I can catch up a little on bear butt listing.” Well, I thought something like that.

So I photographed his face which inspired his name and his butt with the label and posted the pictures.

Later I went to the store and got dye to cover the gray in my hair. We left it on and I think it is too dark . . . and shows the classic red flashes of “I colored my hair and goofed up syndrome.” So now I am more aware of it – and more aware of it’s limpness, thinness and very skinny (what they call ‘fine’ ) texture.

Yesterday was a bummer on many levels and on top of it – sort of literally – hung my limp hair.

I happened to spy Sadistic Blue sometime in the afternoon – and I wonder if showing his butt photo had been a grave error. Maybe he had a hand in the coloring being less than optimal. Can you piss off a stuffed bear?

Oh, rats, I did not know he was reading over my shoulder.

“STUFFED!!!” he yelled and gave my hair a jerk. I think I need to be careful today.

The picture below in from Instapundit, Glenn Reynold’s blog, and shows some cows near Dayton, Tennessee. We are looking to see how many, if any, are leaning. And if one is, leaning that is . . . then who stole our cow? Or is a new fashion trend?