Cameron has it in his head he wants to grow some potatoes, so he and Der Bingle went to Baker’s and got sets to plant.

They came home with two other things as well: jalapeno pepper plants and kohlrabi thingies. We have very little sun in the backyard so I let them plant in the tomato space – I guess I’ll have a cherry tomato plant and plant others at Mother’s. I forgot to take a picture of the kohlrabi, probably some sort of shock reaction.

I also trained Cameron in the art of Dandelion Warfare and he started out on this one that had established itself under the outgrown tire swing.

Ah, this will be a scrambled entry because I need to back up and mention Cameron and Der Bingle  were in the back waiting for me when I pulled into the driveway – they wanted to know where they should plant their booty. Cameron first convinced me I had run over his foot when I backed up the car a little; then while I was recovering from my horrified response, he ran in the kitchen and came out with a treat he and Der Bingle had picked up at Baker’s: a cold bottle of Sioux City Sarsparilla. I guess we will be stocking it in the Foo Bar from now on.

It’s sitting here – empty – on the clubhouse, but I brought it in to sit on the kitchen windowsill and take us through the summer with some sort of Peanut Butter Cafe panache.* I am saving the bottle cap to attach to one side of an antique alphabet block for a Christmas ornament; it will join the blocks that have lids from exotic brews from the county fair about four years ago. On that day, we got our old-fashioned root beers and also got the idea to save the caps for ornaments; I put them in my pocket and then we actually remembered our plans and nailed them on blocks in December. We put them up every year. And remember the fair. Now I suppose I will remember the run-over foot gag as well.

*Yes, Foo, I know; the sarsparilla will be have to be ordered into the cafe from the Foo Bar

I gathered my equipment together yesterday at 10:30 am, stood on the driveway looking at the apparently hardy dandelions, and then made my move. They were foamed with Ortho Max from my little green tank. I watched the mixture drip down the leaves and pool at the center; sometimes I came back and gave them a double dose.

Then, toward the end, I went even more crazy – when I was mixing more formula, I  . . . well, maybe I put in a little more of the concentrate than the directions called for. Is there a war crimes tribunal relating to dandelions?

Today we will see if the mission was successful. Results in 24 hours, the green label said. I wonder if I am like General Patton, having fought weed battles in my previous lives. That sentence seems out of place at first, but it was generated by the vision of me, wearing flared out cavalry pants,  standing on the field of battle and surveying the carnage, swizzle stick in hand . . . No, not swizzle stick, swagger stick.

Maybe I breathed in some concentrated fumes yesterday?

This morning I sat at the fairgrounds facing East while Sydney  sniffed and chased two squirrels and investigated other areas. He got in the car and I followed the lane around to the fairgrounds entrance. I was sitting – facing West now – waiting to turn on to Park, when I looked up and saw a really black horizon coming at me. Weather.com says it is not going to rain this morning and maybe we will have some sun this afternoon. I don’t know if I can trust them. Cameron suggested yesterday that I must have a threatening sky cloud that follows me around. He may be right. Oh, yeah, apparently we have already had our high for the day.

I just know I was meant to be a Southern Cal girl and not a 60- year- old Midwestern frump. Now I just have to figure out the magic formula that will do the trick. However, some of the folks here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse where we have rickety chairs and scarred tables and overstuffed sofas that are 50+ years old think my metamorphosis would upset the essence of the place. “AmeliaJake,” they say, “we can’t see you as a So Cal girl. Cargo pants and safari shirts with useful fishing or photographers’ vests don’t really translate . . . You don’t have a bikini personality, not to mention a bikini body.”

They can’t get it through their heads that with the right potion I would be young, tall, blonde and shapely. I would be sooooo cool. I think they are trying to gently tell me that I would still be a Midwestern, sudoku-working, sarcastic frump inside. Well, come to think of it, I can’t really visualize sushi peanut-butter or a big plate with a tiny bit of food elegantly arranged on it – a cracker, a dollop of PB and a carrot standing on end.

I suppose I should put any potion through trial protocols. Or maybe I will just sit here and hold my breath until I find myself in sitting on the beach . . . Uh, didn’t think that last thought through . . .  GASP . . . SNARFFLING AIR SOUNDS . . .