Of course, when I speak of the Indiana Jones Movie Era, I am talking about the first three – not the last which I wrote about here – something about Old Man Pants.

Let’s see, an Indiana Jones movie was at the Drive-In in Chicago when Quentin was born; that would have been the first one. This picture, which has seen far better days and looks as if it could have been touched by snake venom, must have been taken about 1986 to 88. I’d guess maybe the second movie had hit the video release date for home viewing. I say this because the shorter Indiana Jones in this picture could not have been too long in the tooth – and that’s assuming he had front ones.

Actually Der Bingle had his leather jacket and hat before Indiana Jones came to the movies. I think the jacket was from Korea or Thailand and the hat was from Australia, but I could be wrong. Quentin’s jacket was from Korea (again I think) and I don’t know where we got the hat. But, anyway, here they are cooking out back on the patio.

By the way, there is a snake story about that patio and if you want to find out about it, I believe it is here.

I woke at about 3:20 in the morning. Yes, most people in these parts were sleeping, and I went to the bathroom. Well, first I thought about going to the bathroom – such a chore, dontcha know? – and decided that, yes, it would be the wise thing to do.

Then I get back under the covers and I AM AWAKE; the situation is obvious to me: I am up a tree without a paddle. No, I deliberately fouled-up that cliche; I think it is nighttime humor more than evidence of sleep deprivation. I could be wrong. I will see what my humor is like 12 hours from now as the afternoon wanes. I imagine whatever thoughts I have – funny or not – will run the gamut from A to ZZZZZZZZZ.

Too bad other people are in the house or I would bang things around and get some serious straightening up done. However, I know my dexterity level in the best of times and I think I would more than likely do something akin to dropping a pizza pan on the floor – WANGA WANGA WANGA – in these early morning hours.

And to think I used to have days (deadline) when I would go to bed at three after writing three articles that I had started at, oh, 10 pm. I remember sitting there spending part of that time calculating possible rates of progress and finishing up times. Oh, when that last period was typed . . . the closing of the laptop was soooo delicious. Of course, getting up then at 6:30 am was a little less so, but once over the out of bed hump, I felt cheerful. Until the next deadline. I never figured out why I did this; I have only figured out that I can’t do it anymore. That trudge to the finish was like hitting the wall in a marathon – AS IF I WOULD KNOW.

Capitals. They are supposed to indicate yelling; I think that is too limiting. I think of them as emphasis. I get snide and snarky if I want to have a tantrum in typing. But that is just an early morning rambling. Actually, it’s the truth, the rambling is in the bringing it up here.

I am craving a peanut butter foldover. I don’t have any Trader Joe’s sourdough bread so I can’t pretend I’m going native in San Diego. I guess it’s a Midwest Wheat morning, and with that, I see I have made my decision am am going to the kitchen NOW. (emphasis)

I guess that post title hints at the level of my expressive creativity today. I’m here because I had some dilly-dally moments while getting ready to go to the bank and post office about 11 this morning. I was finally ready to head out the door at about noon and decided lunchtime on a Monday was not a good time to actually go inside both places. I am waiting an hour. Right here with you. I jest.

I am going to read my Kindle for awhile. The book is okay and it has lots of pages and cost 99¢ – probably not the best way to measure the worth of a book. If you’re looking at relaxation, however, I suppose it’s as good as a Redbox rental.

Two week-ends in a row Der Bingle and I have made chili on Saturday morning and he has handed me the parts of the sliced tomatoes that don’t go in the mixture. I eat them because I love tomatoes. Last week I bought regular on the vine tomatoes because I forgot his instructions to get romas. So yesterday I made certain I had the roma ones.

Okay . . . This morning as he was slicing and dicing and I was walking around the kitchen collecting spoons, washing pans and putting the chopper together, he would, as usual, slip a bit of tomato into my mouth. Everything proceeded as usual; just like last Saturday . . . until a couple of hours later when I had the dreaded intestinal cramps, followed by mock dysentery. Sorry if I’m getting dramatic here but it didn’t feel good.

I think it was the roma tomatoes; I think they are for cooking, not raw eating. At least as far as my body is concerned. Maybe I am wrong . . . as my daughter-in-law said, “Oh, you and your gut.”

I stopped talking about romas then because my intuition told me unless I quickly changed the subject, that line would become on of my definitions. You know, kids saying, “You’ve got Grandma’s gut.” Or, let’s go to a different restaurant; you know Grandma’s gut.” Heck, it could become a syndrome: Grandma’s Gut.

I don’t know, maybe it’s better than having “the vapors”, but come to think of it (and I wish I hadn’t) it might actually have some resulting vapors of its own.

What did they say yesterday? Oh, yeah, I remember. SHUT UP AMELIAJAKE.

“There was some 40 mph driving,” he said when I turned around to see him coming through the door. When we had talked earlier about the impending storm, he didn’t know if he’d come or not. When I went to pick up Alison I was on snow-covered roads and decided I’d call just to make sure he was sitting safe in the Ohio Redoubt. When I got in the house and called, his phone went to voicemail – because he was in the driveway getting his bag out of the car.

It was nice to be able to move to relief before I could even stick my toe in a mire of worry. And then, of course, he and Cameron had to take Shane to the fairgrounds with his Wubba. That dog has them wrapped around his paw big time.

The guys who left last week to visit the Redoubt are still there! We think they are partying with Cousin Vinny’s pizza and a tub of ice with sodas and bearbeer in it. Maybe Der Bingle will have to leave a webcam there one time. No, on second thought, we don’t want to know. I have heard rumors that the frat boys often hire Spikey to plan parties for them. She seems to have the knack of arranging wild and crazy fun without drawing the notice of the boys in blue. Well, to be honest, I have also heard that she helps out with the Policeman’s Ball . . . and that Tim Tebow will be there to sign autographs this year. There is supposed to be a silent auction for a pair of his football pants with grass stains on the knee.

I’m going along here as if I will fall off the earth if I stop typing. A little mania, perhaps? Ah, my psychic ear is getting a message: FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, AMELIAJAKE, SHUT UP!

Okay, I tried it and I’m not enjoying it, but I’ll keep doing it . . . because I don’t want a psychic whack up the side of my head.

Because this house is in town, I cannot go out and start a fire; this is probably a good thing, because I am in the mood for a bonfire cleansing, not to mention hijacking a Salvation Army Pick-up Truck and a couple of strong backs. On the other hand, a deep hole would be nice – maybe a five by five sinkhole that would swallow up stuff and then close back up, assuming it didn’t turn into a five by five hill.

I wonder if you can put more than branches in a wood chipper. Rats, I just thought, “Well, of course, you’ve watched the body disposal methods on murder shows.” And Cameron has been watching “Deadly Women” on Netflix . . .  Fortunately, I am clumsy enough I could get my arm caught in one and then AmeliaJake would really be part of the problem, and that doesn’t seem to be a way to make progress.

This is an old refrain for me. Sigh. I must put my mind to work finding ways to make money out of my stuff. Then again, the bonfire has the call of a siren to it. Or perhaps I am anticipating the siren I would hear from the car with the flashing lights on top. I suppose a jail cell would be an experiment in minimalist living.

The orange jump suits are the pits, though. But I have practice; remember the on sale work pants from Lands End? No? Okay, let me see if I can find the reference. Oh, there are two: HERE and HERE.

Monday was a holiday, so it seemed like Sunday. It wouldn’t have seemed like a Sunday since school was in session, but illness kept people home and Der Bingle’s schedule is based on the Federal Calendar. Anyway, I am starting my week one day late in my mind. Not that I have any crucial five-day-project commencing. In fact, I am suffering what I believe is Procrastination Catatonia; I can’t get started doing the simplest task. I work sudokus and read . . . and walk into the kitchen. I have this habit of using three little dots (visual aid:   . . . ) to indicate when I am pausing to think or stare into space. Technically, the dots are ellipses or dramatic pauses and I don’t use them as they are defined; they are supposed to represent left out words or a sense of, shall we say, drama.  I use them to represent nothingness – literally.

But enough of that – except to say right now I am in a constant dot period. (no pun intended)

Riding along in the passenger seat of the LaCrosse were California Lemon Head, The Great Poo, Alien Poo and Spikey. When they got there, they took over a chair and by now probably have control of the remotes.

It just occurred to me that I need to get some new dimensions in my life. Of course, if personal history has taught me anything, that thought will be like a little seed that decides sprouting is not all it’s cracked up to be. So here I sit with a wave of rah-rah, get on the bandwagon optimism, but the verb “to sit” is the indicator that not much will happen.  It’s my personality, dontcha know?

Well, at least I know I won’t be getting a tattoo that looks like a chain going around my ankle. See, sometimes laziness and procrastination can be your friends. Not that I have any critical thoughts about people who do have such tattoos – Oh, that’s a lie.  That’s another part of my personality, too. Not so much the lying – the judgmental aspect. Ack! I just realized fat bulges – spare tires, for instance – are invisible ink type of tattoos.  Let’s see; chain tattoo on the  ankle of a fit and healthy body vs. blank skin on a lump Michelin Man body.

Okay, it’s time for me to shut up and just go talk to Foo at the Foo Bar. Maybe she’ll show me her tattoo. Oops, didn’t shut up soon enough.