As I clicked into this site today, I noticed that a post consisting of a death notice and an obituary followed one about my having a sinister sounding deadly cold. And then there was yesterday when I did not post anything. Even I was inclined to wonder: Am I dead? No, if there is a trend, it is slower moving. I am still here.

But here’s a twist that has some of my pals at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse staring at me – I came in remarking that after having watched tons of crime shows on Cable TV about domestic murder, I had suddenly realized how fortunate I am. I  have never, ever even had a passing idea that Der Bingle might “do away with me”.   I have taken it for granted that I would not be found drowned in a bathtub “accident” or crumpled at the bottom of the basement stairs. Well, I have thought about being crumpled at the bottom of basement stairs, but not because I was pushed or a step was sawed and weakened or whatever.

Rose – Oh, that is Rose below. Rose is one of our sweetheart patrons who is a comfort to everyone.

Rose asked me outright, “Why would you even think about this?” Well, I don’t know; it just popped into my head. And, of course, I don’t let things pop right out. No, I have to crawl all over them and go oooooh and ahhhhh and poke here and there. I make Rose sigh and order sassafras to her iced green tea when I get like this. But she keeps coming back because she is, well, Rose.

This current traipsing into the thought processes of AmeliaJake apparently gave her pause because she stopped sipping her tea and said actually she had never worried about being found with her seams ripped open. See, Rose likes me.

I am thinking cold, as in aching, coughing, sinus pain and a miserable night. I usually say I have “a cold” but this little baby feels like it is in a different category – a Stephen King category; it hovers in my chest and around my personality like an unpredictable, looming doom. Therefore, I call it “the cold”.  And today I decided to throw something scary at “the cold” and sat down in the middle of a good deal of mail that has accumulated about Mother’s death. Up until now, I had just let it stack up and then let the stack fall over and then start a new stack.

Now, I have a trash bag of processed paper. And I feel better as if “the cold” has taken  a solar plexus punch. However . . . there is this matter of income and property taxes and car titles and oh, gosh, lots of stuff.

Ah-Choo