I have worn glasses since I counted my age in single digits, and folks, that’s a heck of a long time ago. I clean my glasses, oh, about . . . well, I can’t remember the last time actually. Sometimes something major will splash in the kitchen and I will wipe them off. Other than that, I just keep looking through them; I think most people who started wearing glasses as a kid have adapted this way. Now, Der Bingle, he came to glasses later in life and often times I find myself thinking, “Oh my gosh, he’s cleaning his glasses again for crying out loud.” If he catches a glimpse of my lenses in a certain light, he reacts as if I am wearing a sludge of mud, manure and plague germs. Sometimes he even grabs them and cleans them. He shows disgust.

I think he is a glasses wimp.

But, this morning, I have to admit I was reading and started to wonder if I were having a stroke because I was having trouble maintaining focus. Finally, I did take my glasses off and looked at them from a distance greater than an inch. There were tiny spots all over the lenses; yes, just tiny peepholes between the spots. Obviously, my eyes were shifting from peephole to peephole. Or, I should say, my eye, since I rarely voluntarily look out of my left.

So, perhaps, Der Bingle, I do need to clean my glasses . . . with Windex even. I may get around to it in a couple of hours or so. Or maybe I could just use this soft shirt here. And, really, I probably only need to do the right lens.

Oh, by the way, have you ever wondered if a town has had both a Minnetonka factory and a Mini-Tonka factory? What if the deliveries got mixed up and they started turning out steel moccasins? And kids had to play with little leather trucks with beads on them?

Oh, dear, the guys here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse think it’s time for me to have another “treatment” in the Tabasco Room. Sort of shock therapy.

ALERT    ALERT   ALERT    ALERT ALERT    ALERT   ALERT    ALERT – –  PHOTO NOT FOR SQUEAMISH

I turned on the TV this morning to get a fix on what the local station was saying about the weather, my main question being: Is the snow still going south of us. And what they said and what the weather site indicated had blended together in my head when my ears picked up some talk about necks. It seems if a woman’s neck is over 13 inches around, she is more likely to suffer heart problems. I knew I did not have a long attractive neck; I knew though that my head did not sit directly on my shoulders – I did have a neck and it didn’t seem to me to be huge. Wrong. It is over 13 inches. I suppose Summer would say it goes along with my fat head. I am going into the Foo Bar for a stiff morning bracer. For Heavens Sake, isn’t it enough to have to worry about keeping a stiff upper lip, now it’s “keep a skinny neck” too.

I also have stubby fingers which are another harbinger of ill-health genetically, not to mention are sort of not elegant looking. Well, maybe it will work out because I suppose my stubby fingers will fit around those reedy little 13 and less inch necks. Why, yes they do . . . I actually measured. I did.

Here’s a house not far from me being torn down for parking space and/or green space. I was driving back from the fairgrounds with Sydney when I saw a big yellow machine eating a house. Soooo, I grabbed my camera, flipped on the video mode and took some movies. This one shows the chimney coming down. As I looked into the house, I saw a solid wooden panel door still on its hinges and remarked I was surprised that it had not been salvaged. The new owner said he had had someone go through on Saturday who had told him there was nothing worth salvaging . . . solid wood paneled doors? Oh, I think there might have been a market, especially right down the street at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.

And here is the end – a hole in the ground.