I was back in the attic yesterday for three hours.  Up there I am out of sight, probably thankfully so to some people. BUT, now I am at stage 2, which deals with putting different hoarded stuff up in designated areas. NOW is the time of the dictator. That would be me; that would be me with Great-great Aunt Sara’s carved walking stick.

This post is inaccurately titled; I was thinking of my getting back on those pull-down stairs, determined look on my face when I wrote the title. Maybe I thought I was going to write about getting back on the horse that threw you.  I was wrong in that assumption. Obviously, the attitude busting out right through my typing fingers is: Okay, you sherpas, get moving. I might have been too rash in my choice of the walking stick; perhaps an Indiana Jones whip would be more effective.

Gee, could it be I am in a bad mood today?? Did I get some bad peanut butter? I hope I don’t see myself in the headlines – with words like rampage and Nazi-like.

I guess a call to Rose is in order.

UPDATE: Rose’s appointment book is all filled up, so I guess I will be seeing Sophie. (This Sophie)

Sometimes I actually think about things being made up of teeny tiny little atoms. I think how I would not know this had not I been told it by people smarter than I. And how these smarter than I people would not know it if there were not people smarter than they are. I mean it is not an intuitive thought.

Sometimes, however, it pops up in my imagination. I read a short piece about people trapped in a air pocket as the water level rose . . . and thought it was too bad they didn’t have little saws that would chop the H’s off  of H20 so they could pair up the O’s. Of course, when you think like this, you see the sawing guys as little elves – or, I guess, nano-elves.

Maybe this is why people tell you to think big . . . keeps you from sounding like a nutcase;

I bit the bullet yesterday; I grabbed my ipod, a bottle of water flavored with Iced Tea Peach and  went up into the attic to do battle with mound of hastily deposited and frequently pawed through stuff. Well, I got up there and I decided “battle” was not what I wanted to do. I chose to nibble my way into the middle of the beast.

Of course, you know I am doing this so I can put more stuff up in the attic and that makes even me sigh and shake my head. But, anyway, I worked for three hours up there and made a dent. I also immediately put my water bottle down and did not find it again until I had worked my way back to the pull-down stairs after those three hours. You guess it: sigh, sigh and sigh.

I filled several trash bags – big and little – while I was up there and right before I myself descended, I tossed them down. Then as I headed down myself, I let my mind wander and when I got to the visual level of the floor, I stepped off what I thought was the bottom step. But, no, those white trash bags were bulging more than I realized and I wound of tumbling sideways from the third step. Of course, my landing was cushioned, but the handrail snapped off.

Alison was up there and heard me and came running, inquiring, “Did you fall?” I didn’t think fast enough and said, “Only at the bottom.” I should have whimpered from my position on the trash, “Oh, it was awful,” and let people help me to the sofa and bring me snacks and goodies. Maybe I could have convinced someone that my aches could be soothed by going to the store and bringing me two boxes of Little Debbie Boston Cream Pies.  Or maybe three. Oh, the possibilities missed.

So, what should I do today?

The moon is hanging in the sky, looking straight at ME through the top of a window. Actually, it seems to be staring and on my end of the view, it’s not like watching grass grow because frequent glances reveal it is sinking quickly. Soon it will no longer be visible and I will be left with a day wondering if it was a “sign”. Or will I  forget about it and start concentrating on it being Trash Stomping Day?

Now, there’s a chore that hangs over my head every Wednesday. No, I’m not going into my “people who load as much air as trash into the bags” rant. But I will be thinking of them as I brace the bins against the garage wall, climb up on a ladder and – augh – stomp trash.

When Summer was younger, she used to get excited and bounce up and down, boasting, “Grandma’s letting me stomp trash!” She has since wised up. Drat.

The truth of the matter is that enjoying a snack is difficult with a begging dog. Yes, you are thinking that I am a non-sharing jerk. That may be true, but doesn’t really apply here. With Shane I share . . . his cute little doggie face and all that. The problem is he doesn’t chew. Just now I made myself a little peanut butter foldover and when I sat down, there he was.. So I gave him a bite and I took one. I became acutely aware that peanut butter is one of those foods you have to chew at least a little – unless you are a dog.

Shane’s bite lasts as long as it takes to open his mouth and swallow and then he wants another. For me, the peanut butter is sticking to my tongue, teeth, roof of mouth and before I know it, he has had four bites by the time I manage to swallow one.

I have been aware of this for a long time; I just became acutely aware of it this morning because I really wanted to savor my sandwich and I was hungry too. So I stuffed four bites into my cheeks, put one on my tongue and started a marathon chewing session. Sometimes I tease my grandkids about chewing each bite 35 times. (Of course, Summer and I are so competitive, we have had “most chews” contests.) Let me tell you, I may not chew a bite of peanut butter 35 times, but having five bites in your mouth at once is not something you wolf down.  Chewing is inhibited by space and I think I actually chewed more than 5 times 35 times.

My plan needs modification – maybe smaller bites for Shane. Could he tell? Oh, I think so. Added to the speed of eating difference, he doesn’t care for the crusts. Come on,  you darn dog, it’s not like you taste it going down. I think he toys with me, knowing he can always do the “puppy dog” eyes thing.

I could just stop snacking on peanut butter sandwiches, but he’s an Australian Shepherd and you know how they have their routines. Drat, foiled again.

I had a nightmare which I can no longer remember. I was reading last night about a Nazi spy, but it wasn’t about that, although I don’t know why I’m sure of that because I can’t remember it. When I first woke, I thought, NIGHTMARE, and I knew the gist of the dream; I think I noted that it wasn’t related to the book.  Oh, well, I am staying awake for a while . . . just because I feel like it  . . . not that I’m afraid to go back to sleep or anything. Yeah, right.

I once dreamed that I wound up with a group of 30’s gangsters and we were in a car that crashed into the woods when we missed a fork in the road and the Fed’s were all around and we were doomed. Sometimes I think the “Oh, my God, how did I get into this mess” memory of that dream keeps me on the straight and narrow.

Oh, no, that straight and narrow idiom just typed itself; no thought of symbolism with the fork in the road. But, wait, the straight and narrow is what got us into the shoot ’em out situation. I think our driver must have been a secret admirer of poetry and was thinking about The Road Not Taken; he must have been too literal. i mean, “Mugsy, that doesn’t mean leaving the pavement!” I’ll bet I’m over-thinking this.

The visual aid is a little over the top, too, dontcha think?

I did not watch the Super Bowl – but I heard it from the other room. Or, more accurately, I heard the yells and catcalls that drowned out the commentary. Then as the game neared the end and the Giants had the lead, two people ran in and announced: 57 seconds left. Then they ran back in to the TV.  I heard a series of visceral despairing cries and moans and near sobs and then .  . .  much cheering. I feel I helped them win by not watching – that’s the way my luck was going this season.

Of course, I missed the commercials, but I imagine I’ll be seeing them replayed, given the cost to put them on the air during the game. Oh, rats, I haven’t been watching TV since I got my Kindle. Well, I’ll look them up on the Internet. Obviously, this is just mindless rambling here – bear with me, please . . . I’m indulging myself.

Cameron has discovered the movie Deliverance, but is hesitant to watch it. I believe his imagination is taking him to places where the movie might have gone had it been made in 2011 instead of 1972. He could watch it the way he used to watch scary movies when he was little – from underneath a blanket. Now, Summer was more of a “behind the sofa” watcher – sort of like having a Jack in the Box behind you. Oddly enough, they both took great delight in getting me to watch Snakes on a Plane.  (If it had not been so over the top, I would have been watching from behind the sofa and with two blankets over my head.)

******

Special note to Pottermom: Super Bowl Sunday – I thought of you.

LZP sent an email to Der Bingle about an internal combustion cow in a parking lot at Wal-Mart; the picture found a home at People of Wal-Mart.

And here it is:

I thought, “I KNOW THAT COW!” I put “cow limo” in the search slot and found THIS POST.

It’s a Redbox movie and I watched it. Der Bingle alerted me to it because Cameron has taken over my title of Watcher of Horrible Movies.  I exclaimed, “Two-Headed Shark  . . .  are you kidding?” When I mentioned it to Cameron, He replied, “Oh, yeah, I think I’ve heard of that.” Then as I continued walking into the dining room, I thought I heard him add to his response that it was “Two-Headed Shark ATTACK.” What the heck? He knew that?? I had to look on Redbox to verify “attack” was in the title.

And then I tried to rent it. It was out of stock in the Redbox machines here, so I vultured back to the site over the next half day and BAM! It showed up at the Redbox at Walgreen’s. I rented it. He watched it that night. I watched it the next day, which was yesterday.

I spent the rest of the day recovering. (Probably the partial nudity shocked me.)

No, not me.  But Pottermom can say it truthfully, and I so envy her. It just had to be a post title. Her full remark was:

I not only know how to fix a garbage disposal but I know how to castrate bulls.  I think that removes me from the helpless woman category.