Not too long after I talked about resting eyes, Summer asked about jobs . . . and I steeled myself and said, “Let’s get rid of all the clutter in the dining room.” Whoa. It was a job, and I have to say she was a willing and cheerful worker. Wages helped, I suppose.

****

Oh, it is some hours later. Alison got sick and I spent about six hours in the ER with her. I read most of a book on my Kindle while there; saw Purdue beat Ohio State in overtime and the beginning of the Minnesota/Wisconsin game.

I also got a kink in my back from the rather hard, straight-backed chairs in the exam room and am now treating it with a pack of shortbread cookies – Sandies. I may have to double the dosage.

Well, at least one of them. Summer and I cleaned out the furnace room, pulling up rugs and vacuuming with a power sucker. Oh, yeah, it was cool. Next, we’re going to paint the floor with cement paint and  put some throw rugs down.

There’s a round table in there that is covered with Maxine comics; it is great for working jigsaw puzzles in the dead of winter . . . and warm. I’ve got to get a picture of it, but right now I’m a bit stiff from yesterday. So I’ll do it later.

But it is nifty down there –  a little hideaway with a poker -themed light over the table. That would be poker as in card games; we did have a fireplace poker in there, though. Could be we puzzle-workers were protecting our territory from over the shoulder kibitzers.

Well, that post title implies I have no drive, no oomph, no motivation. But, au contraire, I have plans . . . for, er, not just me.

Actually, I think I should say I have oomphff – love those double f’s.

I have enlisted Shane to be the taskmaster for one of our denizens here. Yes, he follows Person C around and hounds him as to his obligations. A partial translation of one of his monologues is: Yo. You get it done or I chew your arm off. No, wait. You can’t throw Wubba’s then; I chew your leg off . . .

We have having a big pot of stew here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse today

At this point I was interrupted and it is now two hours later. Two hours of AmeliaJake time!  I could stew but what’s the point . . .  I think I’ll go oomphff somebody.

People here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse have discovered the old basement station of the Underground Highway for Refugee Raggedy Ann’s and Andy’s. Here I must tell you that they are all of the Poo and Jake persuasion, but let’s just let that be for now. (Except for this LINK.) Of course, this refers back to the black blot on history when Barbie’s were asserting their plastic muscles.

But, anyway, at that time the refugees had to keep warm and so there is a fireplace in the Underground Station . . . with a really effective screen that protected them from sparks. Well, for years folks here walked by it, not really wanting to carry wood to the basement. And, then, Poof! (Not to be confused with Poo!) these people where attracted to the warm side of the force and they are having lots of fires.)

So, I ordered more firewood. Two loads of firewood. Don’t forget there’s the fireplace in the den as well.

I am counting on Alison (She who loves fires but has a bad back) to get her drafted wood-bringers to do the stacking. I’ll just stand back and watch – from a safe distance.

They’ll need a chant: TOTE THAT LOG . . . DRAT THAT BLOG.

My phone, a Sumsung Conquer from Sprint, thinks I am on Central Standard Time. I had to take it off the automatic setting to have it display Eastern Time. I realized it this morning, about right now as the sky has lightened; I was unaware of the situation when I awoke during the night. I was “lost in time” or at least displaced in time.

Personally, I think it is a sign that Indiana should be on Central Time – or at least not go on Daylight Savings Time if we remain in the Eastern Time Zone. Let’s see, how far east is the Atlantic Ocean? Oh, yeah, way, way far.

Hi again. I’m AmeliaJake’s nose and I’m writing this post because I have control of her mind. It was easy –  a little stuffiness, some sinus pressure, the tear ducts of her close set eyes pulsating with a pain that arcs across the bridge of her nose (me). (Again, a short distance since her eyes crawl up her nose – me.)

Puffed up eyes – she can’t see the Vicks. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So, what are we going to talk about. You’re expecting gossip, right? Because I’m nosy? HAHAHAHAHAHA.  I got a million of ’em. But don’t worry, I’m not bent out of shape and won’t make any snotty comments. See, now I’ve got 999,999 of them.

Too early in the morning for ya? Okay, I’ll blow this joint. 999,998.

I am reading a book tonight about crime. That’s not accurate; I’m reading a novel that has criminals in it – no history of crime, or anything like that. Just this Russian guy who is a longtime Mafia-type. Yes, real longtime. He mentions that he is in his early sixties, and we are not talking Clint Eastwood 60’s. Oh, he can still fight because he knows the moves, but he constantly complains of the arthritis in his knees and repeatedly describes himself as old. His friends are old, too. They commiserate about it. It is annoying to read this repetition when you yourself are in that age group.

There’s also a youngish man in the book – an FBI man gone bad. And on  top of it, the guy is incompetent at being bad. He has messed everything up so far. It’s not that the book is badly-written; it’s just the “old” guy and the klutz. I imagine it would be like listening to Ben Stiller dialogue when he’s up in years.

All this reminds me that there is  a word “fogeydom”.  I did not get this from some urban dictionary; this info was in Webster’s 1913 edition, and there are earlier references. So, fogeydom was around long before I ever entered whippersnapperdom. Still, somehow I can see fogeydom working its way into my life as I preempt taunts by embracing it and highlighting my fogeyisms.

I don’t know . . . We are just posting pictures of Shane a lot lately.

One of my mantras has been that humor should be clever and snicker humor should not be encouraged. I am fighting the future.

LZP sent Der Bingle the following link and asked, “What do you think Grandma Vance would have thought of this?

Here is the link but you don’t have to go there; it is a game involving a plastic pooping dog. “Pooping” is not my word – it is in the description of “Doggie Doo”. The British Toy Retailers Association has named it one of this year’s “must have” games. The dog also farts.

I’ve heard the British have a thing about scatological jokes. Maybe so; maybe so. Although I must add, “David Niven, say it ain’t so.”

Actually, the link is informative – the game is extremely popular with buyers. The video with the link is – well – graphic.

I wonder if the instructions caution you  to wash your hands. Clearly, Doggie Do is not  your grandmother’s Chutes & Ladders.