Some people believe I have lived a sheltered life – especially in the dark side of vocabulary. I think some people may have a case. Today, one of my dear Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse friends took me aside and counseled me. I was familiar with the word dingbat – Archie always called Edith one, remember? So, I just always assumed dingleberry – and I hesitate to type it – had something to do with goofy behavior. I am not going to link to any online dictionary. My face is red. Although my first inclination was to just ignore what had happened, I just couldn’t let people stopping by think I used such a word. Ew,

My father would not want his daughter to talk that way . . . and that’s why I say “pass gas” instead of f–t. And why I will never use d———y again.

I suppose it is a generational thing.

The sky is blue and the temp is in the low seventies and I am savoring sucking it in. Just the feel of it. It makes me want to put on my moccasins and do a little alternating foot hop dance of  YES, YES, YES, YES, YES.

Der Bingle ordered a dark blue bath robe for me from Warm Things and it came today. YES! Although I must be careful not to dash out into the rain while wearing it or the weight of it wet will turn me into a puddle trying to edge back to the door.

Speaking of Der Bingle, I feel obligated to share: LZP has a son named Sam and Sam asked his dad if Der Bingle stood for Dingleberry. It was one of those moments when you press your lips together really tightly and wait until you can trust your voice to answer, “Well, I think Bing Crosby was before his time.”

And speaking of Bing Crosby, Christmas was different this year in a lot of stores. I didn’t hear his version of the Christmas songs very much. So I guess the deadness he experienced in, what was it? 1977? is finally catching up with society. Actually, we listen to a lot of dead guy’s composed music and to a lot of other dead singers; I suppose it reached a point when the kids asking parents about White Christmas and Bing Crosby found that their parents are also a bit in the dark.

I remember my mother calling me when he died and asking if I had seen a picture; I believe she was remarking on how bald he was. And then Mary Catherine Crosby turned up in Dallas, but JR is another subject.

Gosh, I am giddy with all this sucked in sunshine. I am tempted to run outdoors, arms outstretched, ready to embrace the day. However, it is possible I could be intercepted by men in white coats who would take advantage of my pose to slip the looooong sleeves of a strait jacket on me and cart me off.

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Oh, wait, I may go willingly. As I was typing the above, I received a picture mail from the Dandelion Underground. The caption is “We are back.”

Ah, what to do today? I suppose you are having trouble picking up on my motivational vibes . . . because, frankly, I am still. Not completely still, mind you; my heart is beating and my chest going up and down – otherwise, I’d be dead. You probably figured that out. These past few days I have not been of a mood to wrestle with things; these have been my “Oh, well” days. It is not a mood of sadness or despair; no, I’m more just floating along with the breeze. And not minding it really. I feel like having fun.

And why not? There is only so much you can do for some people. Only so much.