Yes, I am foiled in my attempt to make funny at AmeliaJake, who is, by the way, the most wonderful, charming, courageous, loyal, intelligent, witty, delightful person I have ever met. I am sorry for my attempted little joke. I apologize AmeliaJake. You are the most wonderful, charming, courageous . . .
Hello there. Bob here. I managed to get a couple of quick snaps of AmeliaJake in her foil hat. The first is while we were waiting and the second is after she received the message. Oddly enough, I, Bob, heard nothing out of the ordinary – just the slow swish of the ceiling fan.
Notice the dazed look – that is how I was able to get the picture.
Aha! Twin white informational beams transfer from our receiver right to AJ. Notice the Aha eyebrow.
More later from your friend,
BOB
Ocean Spray now makes a cranberry juice product that has 5 calories per serving. The Light version has 40. I love cranberry juice, so I bought it. It isn’t as good as the stronger brew, but it is delightful to just drink it freely – from a nice glass with ice. I don’t know why I like to drink out of nice glasses but I do; then again, I like festive acrylic ones.
This juice may have its own potency – I feel a little “happy” so here’s someone else to carry the ball – Say hello, Bob.
“Uh . . . I’m Bob and AmeliaJake wants me to tell you hi. So “Hi”. Oh, wait, she says I don’t need quotes if I’m the one actually typing and saying stuff. So, is this a forum for me? I am thinking of becoming an ice road trucker bear. Sorry, a little free association there . . . hope this cranberry juice doesn’t stain.
Hey, look at this thing AJ and I found in a drawer. We don’t know if we should cook with it or if it is intended to receive signals from the mother ship. AJ is making us cute little foil hats to wear, just in case. We will sit here in our foil hats and stare at it and wait for instructions . . .
I forgot yesterday. Mother asked if I had forgotten; she knows me well enough not to ask if I had called. I forgot to call David for firewood – a couple of loads for me and a load for Mother, cut in short lengths for her stove. I don’t have to make a note of it here – unless I really want to forget to do it. I figure I will log in four or five times, slap my head as I realize I have forgotten and finally call.
Then it will be stacking time – making the piles of old and new. I have some wood that is oh, maybe 11 years old now, stacked by Quentin, Mother, Daddy and me. I left it for a long time, couldn’t bring myself to use it . . . and then last year thought, “Well, this is stupid.” So I have been using it bit by bit. Those are bittersweet fires; I have them when I am alone and I breathe them in. Well, shoot, now my throat’s all tight and hurting.
I think I am tomatoed out for a while; the idea of placing a slice of tomato on my tongue and savoring the moment no longer appeals to me. I see a tomato on a vine and think, “Oh, another tomato.” Not that I still don’t like them – I am not to the “Oh, another tomato I have to eat” phase. Well, maybe I am. Yes, I am. I have been denying it. Odd how the truth comes out when you let your fingers have a moment of keyboard power*:
Stupid, stupid tomatoes that encourage sores in my mouth and diarrhea but I eat them anyway because they make me need, need, need their flavor. Juicy, pulpy tomato freshness . . . ambrosia for a while. Stupid stupid tomatoes
* A related manifestation of the Fist of Death Syndrome.