Well, knock on wood, I fixed a G4 ibook – put in a new DC board. I had to say so – just had to. The first time I tried I was too timid and didn’t push the connector in securely, so I opened it back up and pushed and put it back together and it worked.
Belly up to the bar, folks, the foldovers are on the house.
This morning I woke up and found myself making a foldover immediately; I wandered onto the porch with it, along with a soda and then hurried back to make another one. I wolfed both of them; there was no counting of the chews. (See, sometimes we chew for 35 times before swallowing – pudding can be tough – and I instruct that chewing more means eating less. This is mostly done in fun, but I guess I could could comprise between gulp and 35.)
Okay, I’ve peanut butter sandwiched myself and now must decide if I am going to take the chore route, the dynamic route of enthusiastic cleaning and spiffing up the place . . . or the meandering path of morning puzzles in the paper, some checking on Internet news. I could just pull an afghan over my head and look out through the holes.
I wonder what I would do if I were at a beach resort? Go for a long walk at the surf line, winding up with wet shorts and probably sunburnt feet? Sit on the beach and look at the ocean, getting up intermittently to cool off in the surf? Sit up on the balcony of a coffee shop drinking a diet cola and watching the ocean, then wandering across the sand to the surf? Oh, the pressure of the decision-making process.
I must think about this . . . lower the Afghan Cone of Rumination, please.
I watch the Discovery program and have done so for all of the seasons. But, until, this morning when I read an online article containing Sig Hansen quotes, I never thought of smelling the program. It’s not the fish or the smell of clothes soaked in seawater that really eluded me. I knew they would be there, just as I knew the cold was there from seeing the ice frozen on the boat. I knew I was lucky to be watching and not really being there and smelling that stuff and shivering. I put all that out of my mind. One of the perks of being a viewer.
But then Sig makes the statement that there is no daily shower on the boat and that everyone pretty much wears the same underwear for the entire voyage – he says you quickly get used to the smell. Well, that’s not working for me and I’m only watching the show. Now, chanting in my mind is “the smell, the smell, the smell . . . ” as I watch the pots of crab come aboard. (And I almost typed “crap” – it is haunting me that much.) Gee, Sig, thanks.
Another thought comes to me . . . Those of you who know me, see me on the boat, or more accurately, see me tying myself to the dock so I don’t have to get on the boat – where I would be a quivering mass of fear, yelling “I’m going to have a heart attack and die . . .” This would be while the boat was still moored.
But let’s pretend I got past that obstacle. Consider this: My walking up to the deck boss and saying, “Umm, don’t you think it would work better if you did it this way . . . ?”
So Summer and I went to see Hancock with Will Smith tonight and we had a good time; it was an enjoyable movie. Some people have had trouble with continuity but I, smart little AmeliaJake, read about the plot twist in spoiler sites and knew what was happening and could just float along with the action.
Mowed the lawn today and was dripping perspiration, thirsty enough that when I drank Gator-Ade, some of it dribbled down my chin and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. Really classy. Actually, seriously, honestly . . . it is my own sort of class. Kind of like propping my feet up on a chair in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and rolling up my sleeves on warm days. I’m not poised and put together; I’m kind of awkward and duct taped, but I don’t think about it too much.
Well, gee, I sound prideful about this . . . guess I am.
That’s not accurate. It was twenty of three when I first work up and a quarter of three when I got up to go to the bathroom . . . and ten of three when I decided I would probably be in sinus pain and sleepless and got up to clean up the kitchen after the late night rangers. Now it is 3:51 am.
I have scanned the headlines on the Internet news and am propped so my sinus cavities will drain and my pain is but a nose ache now. Here’s to gravity – a toast of aspirin, Coke and Diet Coke. The cure.
Oh, a sneeze . . . that helped.
This seems detailed and I think I am basically blogging the clock. I could blog the dog – he has been in and out and had a drink, but he is sleeping now so not much plot there. I could talk about the cat but we don’t have one, which is fine with me and fine with Sydney. He can sleep free of the fear of feline ambushes.
I may look and see if rain is predicted because, if not, tomorrow will be a day to mow and get creative with weed management in my new natural garden/lawn endeavor. You see, though, weed plot sculpting is negated psychologically if I call the outback a “yard” – which of course it is.
All of a sudden, I thought of gnomes. I think that would denote a yard, too. Now, why am I snobbish about gnomes and I leave rakes around and have the type of mutt ground cover that doesn’t have a name? I don’t know. I am waiting for the era of the inflatable gnome. And speaking of inflatables, this is July’s first week which means there are three left in the month and four in August and then Christmas things will start sneaking into the box stores. Hey, wait, maybe we could get an inflatable cow and put lights around its neck. I think I can back away from that idea.
I remember Bing Crosby being alive, but I think he’s been gone for about 36 years now. Still, I don’t think, “Oh, listen, a dead man is singing,” when I go shopping in the season’s music-filled stores. I wonder what people think whose lives did not overlap his. I have noticed that during the past three years or so, his songs are mingled more with other more . . . well . . . alive artists. So I don’t know if he is getting deader or not.
Ah, then there’s Jimmy Stewart and “It’s a Wonderful Life.” It will be a long time before he’s dead to even the younger generation thanks to the years of the no royalties on the movie and constant broadcasting that started a Christmas tradition. Just a couple of years ago, Walgreen’s had a deal on the movie and it played continuously in their stores. I asked a clerk about a shift’s worth of angels getting their wings, Mr. Potter and Clarence, not to mention Zuzu, and he gave a shiver/shrug. Gee, it’s kind of odd that a trend didn’t start of naming little girls Zuzu. Or perhaps not.
I believe my nose/head/sinus situation is better and the head pain is gone . . . but maybe yours is starting to hurt, given all this rambling about George Bailey and White Christmas stuff. Well, if it is, just grab a Coke, a Diet Coke, a couple of aspirins and delve into your own calendariffic out-of-sync ramblings. Like that Wizard of Oz thing . . . or Gunsmoke . . . mini skirts, tie-dyed shirts, VW vans with psychedelic paint jobs.
Yes, I am here, on the porch, on a Sunday morning and the first thing that popped into my mind as I clicked on the “write post” entry was “LLBean shorts” and I have no idea why. They are navy blue with a double bottom, sort of like a double boiler. It’s like pockets in back . . . you could actually put something in them, but if it were anything but a handkerchief sitting down might be uncomfortable. Two enormously deep pockets in front and two cargo patch pockets with flaps lower down. I am set – cell phone, camera, extra camera battery, money, car keys. This is tough material, this LLBean stuff . . . and it dries fast. I could live in these shorts. And since I have two pair, I often do. And you know what? I’ll wash them and throw them over the fence to dry in the sun and breeze. When we lived in Palatine and West Chester that would drive some of my neighbors crazy . . . too low class, dontcha know.
Der Bingle has left to return to Georgia. We are sad, but we have done this many, many times. Yesterday we were at Mother’s with Cameron and Summer and buffalo dogs and fried chicken and those bratwurst thingies that I don’t like . . . Shooting the BB gun and firing off bottle rockets and little firecrackers.
On the way back, we passed by many little lake communities and gatherings where big fireworks were going off. As we pulled in the drive, Kendallville was in the middle of its show and we saw them from out back. I think this is the first time I have driven through the hour of celebration and passed through an horizon of America marking its beginning.
I wondered what it would look like from an airplane. From inside the car, it was accompanied by Cameron’s political questions of his grandpa. Remarks about what you can do and say in this country . . . and I remembered what he said when he returned one time from overseas: “The best thing about leaving the US is coming back. This is the greatest country in the world.”
* lyrics to So Long Oolong, how long you gonna be gone.
My ipod, 3rd generation and four to five years old has kicked the bucket, given up the ghost, bought the farm, knocked on the pearly gates, passed over, eaten the carpet. Eaten the carpet? Where did that come from? It just slid from my fingers. It sounds ridiculous . . . maybe it is a blending of Sesame Street talk with Senior Moments. But never mind that.
Slowly over the past year, the ipod had become erratic in responding to its little round buttons above the scroll touch wheel. Then it froze on menu. A couple of squeezes and it jumped to going rapidly through a list of songs and then back to menu. Then it went to the Apple and then to the folder with exclamation point and then to alternating between the two.
I studied information on my macbook and did surgery. It was surprisingly easy and it did not make things worse. Nor did it make them better. A little while later when I attached it to the macbook, it simply said disk use and when unattached, appled and foldered at me.
So, I suppose that is that. And I will, I suppose, pull the plug.
We have this tradition – when Grandpa’s here, we make home made pizzas. Last night we made seven and I made the dough for all but one. This could be on youtube as “horrific crust accident when amateurs tried crusting at home”.
