Well, I had not realized this although all day yesterday I knew it was the 12th and a Thursday. I wonder if Tim Russert thought about it when he got up this morning. I’m sorry; that thought just popped into my head when I clicked on the news and saw he had died.
Monthly Archives: June 2008
Pending trip to Ft. Wayne
Well, actually I am supposed to leave in about an hour – to take my daughter-in-law and my grandson to his doctor’s appointment – he’s the autistic one, to use some sort of diagnosis. His sister, who was riding roller coasters a week ago today, is going with us. We will pick him up at summer school at 12:10 pm, hope to get to his 1:15 appointment early, then go to the mall food court and I don’t know what else.
I have not yet showered; I have not done one thing to get ready. So, I am going to stick my head in the attitude/mood adjuster machine I ordered from a late night TV ad and see how well it works.
Darn, I believe it was a waste of money. Okay, time to do this the old-fashioned way. Count to three and get up
Four . . . oh, that’s not working either.
Okay, okay, time to put on my Super AmeliaJake suit and . . . it seems to have shrunk.
I am at the point of last resort: have a silent little fit and then go off and get going.
Random question at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse
I was standing at the counter, pouring Diet Coke over my crushed ice and adding a splash of Mountain Dew to it, when it occurred to me to ask Frank, “Wouldn’t it be something if people were recalled like faulty products? Or if you had a lemon law for relatives?” Frank is used to this type of question from me; fortunately, this was one he could tolerate. Some of my hypothetical scenario ones make him roll his eyes and grunt at intervals. You know that kind: So if you knew that a scientist’s mind would be triggered to discover the cure for cancer if your daughter, son or Al Gore were bitten by a cobra, would you arrange for it to happen? Yeah, that kind – they drive him crazy.
But, okay, think about this idea of people as well, products. What if different personalities had been “test marketed” and those that weren’t too stellar pulled from the production line? Of course, then I suppose the ones already in the warehouse would be repackaged and sent to . . . I’d better not speculate where.
Anyway, my mind and mouth moved on to questions like “What if God ran people production like Proctor & Gamble did its empire?” That’s just the moment when Rosemary walked in – the words were hanging in the air. Ack, Rosemary and I have different views about things . . . and that’s okay. What drives me crazy is that I think people should be feel to let their minds wander around all thoughts – such as how many angels can stand on the head of a pin thing – and Rosemary is the kind of person who . . . doesn’t. She thinks I’m irreverent.
Frank started folding up his newspaper as if he were going to go, leave, flee . . . get out of Dodge. I shot him a look and he kind of hunched back down and became inordinately interested in the Living Section.
Nothing happened. Rosemary sat down and ordered a orange marmalade, crunchy foldover and I asked, “So, Rosemary, what day did you ladies pick for the ice cream social?” Not that I really cared, but I knew that if “cobra” and “Al Gore” crossed my lips, Frank would make it a point to tear every daily Sudoku out of the paper for the next four months.
Gotta clean up . . .
Here I sit in a body that has had sweat dry on it and in clothes that have been soaked with that same sweat. Actually, they are dry too . . . and a little smelly at this point. My hair is a mess of gunk stuck in a rubber band and my feet – ah, my feet – are propped up on a coffee table.
Two years ago this August, Robert broke his ankle in a horrific manner and then last year he was limping so much, we had him go back to the doctor . . . who said, “Stress fracture; had you been on it any longer it would have shattered.”
Last night I noticed the leg was swollen . . . a lot; I noticed a strong limp. I asked, “Does it feel like it did when you developed the stress fracture last year?” Well, yes it did. He said that at first and then tried to back away from it, but we’ve got him down at the orthopedic office again to see if once more the die has been cast.
Well, we’ll see.
But as I was outside mowing part of the yard, it occurred to me that while we don’t have the romance of the pioneer experience, everyday all of us are making it through our days, or at least trying. When things are over, we may look back and talk of tales of invalid beds in living rooms or autos in accidents or flooding or storms or job losses or sick children or parents . . . or sick ourselves . . .and remember it as a time of rising to the occasion. We might even take pleasure in the memory of pulling together – of getting through the situation.
I’m not so certain we don’t all wrangle our way through our lives . . . no matter where we live.
But, in truth, I don’t think any of us really, truly face the hardships of the pioneers. Heck, even people doing the basic work of pioneers – the labor of the fields – can come in to air conditioning and TV availability. And Internet. And the advantages of modern medicine and modern transportation and modern communication.
So I guess our main endeavor should be to make the best of what has been given us. To think there ought to be a standard of behavior, a civility in out conduct. To be self-reliant and not expect hand-outs. To be accountable . . .
Oh, well, that’s my rambling for now . . . I’m off to clean up and get on with things. I want to be straight up about this, though, before I go. I have to admit I’m one to want someone else to do all these things and then point in my direction and say, “She’s with me.”
Kind of the free lunch thing . . .
Guess I’ve got to clean up my whole act.
Der Bingle’s archeology class
Now this would be an interesting study: The Lab
Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse – thinking
I do not feel as if I am in a batting cage with a machine pitching baseballs at me, but I might say I would compare it to being in the cage with a whole lot of machines tossing ping pong balls, tennis balls, baby rubber balls . . . hail, even . . . at me. And I have this feeling of “What now?” and a frenzied thought of “Oh, Miss Scarlett, I ain’t ever delivered no babies!” bouncing around in my head.
As I stand looking through the screen door – the old wooden one with the decorative knobs on it – at the rain pouring down, I am considering actually taking control of this situation and announcing: If you can’t handle peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth occasionally, get out of my way and maybe just get out.
However, I am fairly certain I will not say this. I will probably do the “take a number” thing and start handling issues in a triage manner, making unilateral decisions and letting the chips fall where they may. As Cameron cheers when my temper reaches a certain point, “Go, Grandma!”
So . . . I turn from the screen door, face the interior and the people within and get on with it.
This might be big talk for a short, soup-canned figured, coming up on being old woman . . .
Well, this is a great note
When the limb went down and took out the phone line, I assumed the houses closer to the totally crushed line area would also not have phone service and that I did not need to call. Guess what? I am the only one without a phone . . . and I used my cell phone to call them when I figured this out.
Have you ever tried to call AT&T? It is so automated it is ridiculous, but I think I learned if you just keep pushing “0” , you will connect to an operator . . . who will tell you AT&T long distance and AT&T local are two different offices and they have secret numbers. The last part I made up.
Microburst
The storm clouds in the previous entry did not keep coming toward us; instead they seemed to pull away and the move to the east. So, that was that . . . I thought. Driving back, I startled my companion by exclaiming, “Whoa!!”
Here’s why:
This, I think, is the result of a microburst. Everything else was fine. My mother experienced a microburst a couple of years ago – the walnut tree that leans at two o’clock.
Storm a-comin
Woodpile winter outline
See that line between the paint above and the washed out part below? That is where the woodpile reached when we stopped painting because of weather last fall. This is only the smallest of the woodpiles, dry old wood that we mix in with that which is not as seasoned. Shall we remove the rest of the wood and paint to the bottom or just paint to our winter line? I think I know right off the bat.