The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse has strange things sitting about. I started staring at this toothpick holder the other day . . . and he has teeth! I think this fellow is what is known as an Anri figure – but I’m really not sure. I’ve seen him for a good part of my life; I guess I thought everyone had a little man with a big mouth who held toothpicks . . . but I just now realized about the teeth.
Yeah, yeah, these guys went and got mulch and put it out . . . but in the second picture, looking beyond the mulchers, you no longer see strings of white lights nestled in the bushes by the door. That is because of AmeliaJake and her nifty clippers.
I had terrible, terrible dreams last night from which I had a disturbing time waking. Now, my eyes and nose feel all swollen and my head aches and . . .
Is the this end of Rico?
Last evening I checked in on a blog. It is a new one for me – very well expressed and well written. It was a casual stopping by for me; the author had come to her blog that day with a not-so-casual topic. She wrote about the suicide of a close family member – one that happened years ago. Although for her, it was both years ago and it was yesterday. I’m 61 and I do know something about the word never now; I know something about remorse and regret. And anguish . . . I think I know how that feels.
I wanted to be able to write a wise comment, one that could soothe. But I wound up just saying that she was in my thoughts. Sort of a typewritten resting of my hand on hers, an acknowledgment of the vast and complex emotional territory she is in. It has been in my mind ever since.
You find a lot of things in blogs – humor and introductions to different lifestyles and great pictures of faraway parts of the country. And in some blogs you find life, honest and real. Maybe in that a writer and reader join in a realization they are not alone.
Yesterday it was chilly and rainy and at about 8:30 in the morning it was gloomy; today it is chilly and the sun is out and it is 8:30 and it’s cheerful. I feel upbeat; I actually feel like cheering for the sun. And for blue sky. We take sun when we can get it in Northern Indiana – not that it is one of the cloudiest places in the continental US, but it is changeable.
Many times you will get up to a clear sky and think oh, wow, let’s have an outing or a picnic lunch or do yard work and make things look better. Then they starting floating in – clouds. At first a bit of fluff and then as if someone spilled a box of cotton balls and then you don’t see clouds, but the tiny bits of blue sky between them. And then you are under a gauze sky. Weather.com is of some help in this now, informing your little psyche if it can’t quit holding its breath and enjoy the coming sunny day, or telling you to buck up and make certain the governor on your mood is working.
????
Woo Hoo, Thanks, weather.com.
I know I have written this before, but I just have to say it again. When we moved to Sacramento when Der Bingle was in the Air Force, I was still in the mindset that if you had a sunny day, you should get out and enjoy it. Damned near killed myself – would have had I not been in my early 20’s. Day after day of sun. Nothing got done inside and nothing got read. Finally, I think, I cracked. I looked at Robert William, handed him some toys, turned on the TV and curled up in the corner of the sofa with a novel.
He had other ideas . . . short little kid in red tennis shoes standing at the door with his hand on the knob, staring at me.
Late last fall, I decided I would plant the back field of grass with wildflowers and then have mown grass pathways. I’ve been doing a wee bit of research and now more than a wee bit uncertain about this. It appears to be a complicated and labor intensive process – unless you pay to have it done and then it is simple and easy . . . and expensive.
Plan B: Experimental areas of wildflower planting and lots of prairie grass; of course, my definition of prairie grass is roughly any grass grown tall from lack of mowing. I suspect there is a flaw in this thinking.
Plan C: Soybeans.
The diesel started to groan yesterday and I thought the sound was from the power steering, so this morning I drove it over to Max Myers Motors to see if it was low on fluid or worse. It is worse than just low, but we don’t know how much; I called Robert and he came over and got me and I am back – munching on a snack and checking email and the news. I got back in the middle of a movie called Lymetime (or something like that) starring Alec Baldwin. I really don’t care for him, but got sucked in. Sitting here with cushions and food and a TV movie has put me a lazy mood and I looked to see if another movie was on. I read through the guide and came across the word poignant in one plot summary. I don’t feel like poignant today and nothing else appealed to me, so I am typing with the story of the Venice Flood Gate construction in the background.
Actually, I want to get up and get moving and cheer up the house with a fire and candles . . . and some cleaning. More accurately I want to want to get up and . . . I know I will be glad I did but it’s raining and I am having trouble getting my oomph in gear.
Ah, I just found myself thinking, “Only in Italy” because this technical show is highlighting a snag – a national transportation strike. The workers can’t get boats to the site. I mean, isn’t this a major project to keep Venice from flooding and sinking? Wasn’t there a lot of todo about whether or not to do this project and then how to do it? Isn’t it time sensitive in relation to weather and currents? But the boat taxis are on strike.
Okay, I’m getting up.
Yes, I went into GoodWill and there were these three stools sitting here and they were cheap and so I bought them for the kitchen and wherever. They are shorter than bar stools and taller than chair, so actually work well with the kitchen counter. How they will work with butts is yet to be seen.
The cat is not from GoodWill; she is from Mother’s. Yes, this is the famous Tiffany. Tiffany was second in line to come into the house after Lucy Lib died. Tippy was first. But no more had Lucy Lib passed away than Tippy, a streetwise outdoor cat, got sick and died on the back porch. I do not know if I am now living with a mafia-like hit cat or not now, but since she was Mother’s, she is here and being cared for. Not that I can say the same for the infamous “cat chair“.
Today’s Collaboration Wednesday 30 Minute Delay ( remarks on this issue* here and here) has me sitting here with a little smirk on my face . . . It is Spring Bring. Mwahahahahahahahah.
*To be honest, I don’t think the school system considers my consternation with this practice an issue. They are, I believe, totally unaware of my opinion . . . because I have exercised outstanding self-control and not purchased a tank and driven it into the school building.
Actually, I did have a hard time this morning; I got up to take Alison to work, came back and did some email checking and then thought I felt crummy and lay down with a blanket over my head. Maybe it was knowing it was Collaboration Wednesday, or maybe I need to get in shape because the attic to dumpster maneuver yesterday took more of a toll on me than it would have 30 years ago. I well know that the aging in those 30 years has something to do with it, but I find comfort in focusing on the fitness part of the equation. At least, I can work a little on that. As for the age aspect, it is already almost a minute later – Darn, the aging genie is determined!
On top of it all, I have a doctor’s appointment in Fort Wayne today, so I am going to have to whip myself in shape. The thing that makes it doable is that GoodWill is across the street. But, I am not going to buy any more potential dumpster fodder; I am just going to look for the fun of it. I think the only thing I would spring for would be a nicely sized frame for my KEEP CALM and CARRY ON poster or the well-made expensive shorts that the sell for $3.50 instead of $50 or one of those little lampshades that clips on a light bulb or slight used Minnetonka moccasins in my size or . . . Maybe I should just pass it by this trip.
On the other hand, there might be a “refugee” waiting for me; the ones with the red yard hair, dontcha know. Oh, here is something you don’t want to know, but I feel as if truth serum courses through my veins: Sometimes I look for “brain dead” Knickerbockian red-yarned people to be organ donors. Yes, it’s true.
For The Great Poo, a compatriot for some 50 plus years, I once made a whole new body and head and hair and I used the original eyes and included the original “I Love You” heart. And Jake* too since his head was accidentally ripped off when he was four. Perhaps I have been watching too many of the Medical Incredible shows; I shouldn’t broadcast these things, but maybe out there is a Knickerbocker Redhead who has a friend who will be inspired to consider a radical operation and go for it.
* I can’t show Jake’s picture because he is in the Witness Protection Program or on the lamb, one of the two.
I am not hiding my errors in this post; I am noting them as teachers in high school did.
I was up in the attic rearranging stuff so more stuff could come up. A noble endeavor, I know. And then I heard ‘Moonlight Sonata Serenade coming out of a box; that tune is my ringtone. I knew my phone had fallen from my belt, but I clutched at my waist (speaking without a nod to truth) and yes, it was gone. And the tune was no longer playing.
“Hey!” That’s what I yelled down the attic stairs. “Hey, call my cell phone.” Someone did and I found it and then I called the missing call person back. It turned out to be Key Bank and I blurted out how thankful I was he had called, that otherwise I would have been looking for my phone in the usual places and then (would have) remembered . . . oh no, the attic.
A couple of hours later I was raking up some stuff (You use the word stuff too much.) after we had thrown a lot in the dumpster and it occurred to me to check for my phone. It was gone again. This is when you breathe calmly because it is really, really necessary. I got the house phone and called my number. I listened from the attic ladder; I listened in the upstairs lobby: I listened on the stairs; I listened in the kitchen and then in the vestibule; I listened in the driveway . . . and then I listened at the dumpster . . . twice. Alison said, “Maybe hit it hit something it and it is turned off.” Oh, great. Dumpster diving for a little quiet phone.
However, I remembered I had walked into the backyard, so I did so again, dialed and listened and heard nothing. I dialed again as I approached the corner of the garage and, yes, I heard Moonlight Sonata Serenade. I didn’t have to work hard at breathing calmly anymore.
I guess I am going to have to rig up something that will circle my belt so the case can’t slip off, especially now that summer is coming up. Let’s see, I’m mowing and I realize my phone is gone and then something shoots out of the blades. I wouldn’t breathe calmly then. I think I would swear.
After the sleeper sofa mattress went in, we captured these vignettes.
