There are times when I stop and think in how much of a rut my life is lived in. It is inaccurate to say “a rut” because, as I think about it, it is apparent there are several ruts criss-crossing each other and winding like a maze. Some are seasonal, others trendy and a good many linked to less than exemplary personality traits.

But let’s look at one of the seasonal ones – the lawn mowing rut. Ironically, in the winter it becomes over-grown, but when it’s in service, it drives Shane crazy. He hates the lawn mower. I think it is because I have mowed over several of his Wubbas. I have tried to be careful, and now that I am using the electric mower I am especially vigilant. That mower is quite light, however, and do you know Shane can pick up a wheel and give it a shake while the mower is running? Obviously, the sight of destroyed Wubbas has caused psychological problems. I base this evaluation on my tendency to yell, “Shane, you psycho. let go of the mower!”

I try to be sensitive; I do not paint little wubba icons on the mower to keep count. I do not give my machine a name, oh, such as Wubba Killer.

But, it is that day again – mower in the backyard day.  The dog and I probably both need tranquilizers . . .

I woke up about 4:15 this morning and stayed that way long enough to convince me I might as well get up and have a drink and a look at the news. When I went to get some ice, I found that the ice maker was out of sync and the separators were out of the water when it froze. So later today I’m going to have to climb up on a foot stool with a hair dryer and free the mechanism.

At first I thought not too much of it – just another chore. But after having a diet cola, reading the headlines, finding out it’s actually supposed to be sunny this afternoon and, in a video on the weather site, learning that a guy in Australia died after being bitten by a Western Brown snake, I think I’ll just lie back down.

What is it with the weather website? Exactly what does a person mistaking a Western Brown for a python and carrying it off a field have to do with weather? But, then again, this is the site that flashed in my face about the world ending when I wanted to see how cold it was going to be in LaGrange County.

Now I’m thinking ice maker chore and snakes. Lying back down might be dangerous – perchance what dreams may come? Ice snakes in the freezer?

UPDATE one minute later: As I pushed publish, the email chimed. The Amazon Deal of the Day is “Desperate Housewives” – this day is starting out shaky.

Every now and then I get this feeling that POOF I am going to turn into someone else – someone not much better than I am. Oh, no, more that that: Someone really grand and wonderful. This would be when the Indiana Jones music would start playing. But then I realize that is not going to happen and my mind sighs. Recently, however, it dawned on me that the suddenly becoming someone else feeling might not necessarily turn out to be an improvement. That is a little scary and I find perhaps it is better to stay with the AmeliaJake I know.

Still, maybe. . . with fairy dust . . . and a little push of some science not yet understood . . . I could be like Rose. Now, AmeliaJake, don’t be silly. There will be only one Rose:

I used the wet/dry vac to get the water out of the broken Maytag washer. I didn’t want to haul the wet clothes out first so I put the end of the hose in the potato ricer bucket and it worked pretty well. Do you know how much water comes out of a washer with clothes in it? Two big vac-fulls. And then when the clothes water dripped out (I put them on a rack inside the washer) I got another half vac full.

Of course this is boring; I know that. What would anyone expect from AmeliaJake after she discovered the washer was broken and then wrestled with a rubber anaconda-like hose? We have a tiny laundry room and to work on the washer, you have to remove the dryer and that means finessing it through a doorway. To do this you have to climb up and over the washer and dryer a couple of times; you regret it when you get behind one and realize you haven’t brought your footstool with you. I had to rock climb my feet up the wall to get the leverage to get on top of the washer. By the time I was done with the dryer and the washer and the lint and the vac and the dripping clothes, I was a filthy mess.

But, if you get a comfortable chair, a cool drink and wash your hands, it is amazing how easily you can tolerate being a filthy mess – sort of like going in-country in swampland, but without the alligators.

Phase Two of this event is getting the repairman to come and then say, “Oh, it’s just a switch. I can fix that in a jiffy.” I am not going to fret about it. Maybe I’ll just become a nudist because at least the shower drain is unclogged. Uh-oh, Rose just said that while I am not fretting, I sound a bit dis-spirited. Yes, it’s true – if I became a nudist I couldn’t wear my orange pants. So I guess I’d better just buck up and get the washer fixed. And we do have to keep Rose’s red and white striped socks clean . . .

Just recently I wrote about unclogging the drain in the basement shower. I hoped I hadn’t jinxed myself and it is still working, but on other water matters, there is a new problem. The washer quit and it had a full tub of water in it. It has quit this way before; a repairman came then. A repairman will have to come again, but, shoot, it’s Saturday and I won’t be able to call until Monday.

It’s a Maytag and it’s driving me crazy. Just how crazy I will get remains to be seen. You might need sunglasses – really dark ones.

A while back I bought some pants on sale from Lands End – convertible pants in the colors of orange and hot pink. Today I took it in my head to wear the orange ones to the nursing home. They were a hit, possibly because I entered the dining room pointing at them and grinning. I have a request to wear the hot pink ones soon. I would have someone take a picture of me in them, but I am already in my bright rose pajama pants with the polar bears on them.

It wasn’t my whole life, just a few hours, but by the end of the project, it seemed more cozy than cramped. When I opened the door, I knew what I would see; I had seen it before, but had always groaned and shut the door again. Today, I  decided it was time to call “Closet Busters” – but they couldn’t come and so I took on the challenge as an amateur. There was a lot of stuff in there – stuff and heavy books . . . and soft, stuffed animals, and that doesn’t include the dust bunnies.

I cleared a spot on the floor – more easily typed than done – and sat down to start sorting. I sorted and sorted and sorted and then stacked books up on the far wall where the shelves are. Do you know we had a lot of books up there? Books from all phases of my life – including my freshman years first year Latin book? No, of course you didn’t. You also did not know that, oh, about 50 years ago, the classes would dress up in makeshift togas and get on busses and travel to the regional Latin Day. But you do now. I remember schools had representatives in the vocabulary contest  – I was one of them. I had this feeling while I was staring at vocabulary questions, others were reclining on pillows eating grapes – or maybe Twinkies. I also remember watching Quo Vadis one year. Then we would ride home on the busses in our togas and coats. Actually, maybe we took sheets that we draped over our clothes as togas; That seems far more likely.

Kids don’t take Latin anymore – I was at the end of an era.

After finding the Latin book, I turned over one of the stuffed animals and found masking tape on its rear end with writing on it. Years ago Quentin and I stared at the expression on each stuffed animal and gave it a name accordingly. I found Clueless, Thwacked (His eyes looked weird) , Resolute and Obstreperous to list a few. Staring at faces and butts took about as much time as sorting. Oh, by the way, The Scarlet Pimpernel wasn’t there; he’s down in Houston with Quentin.

But eventually the closet was emptied out and I looked around and thought about how happy I would be to have this little room if I were a homeless person. There were shelves and enough floor room to stretch out in a nice sleeping bag . . . and if I cut a hole in the back wall, I would have access to the bathroom.

I just sat there and envisioned a blizzard outside and me sitting all cozy and reading in my warm little carpeted shelter. There’s something to be said for a roof over your head.  Actually, it has possibilities on stressful days. Where’s your grandmother? Oh, she’s in the Shangri-La closet . . .

Okaaaaay.

I have an announcement that I hope does not jinx me: I have unclogged the basement shower drain.
It has been a five day effort, but now the water is flowing nicely. It is not exciting to other people; it is not an announcement such as:
Grandma got a convertible.
Grandma got a Hummer.
Grandma won the lottery.
Not even a
Grandma sent me Amazon money response.

It is exciting to me. I could almost go down to Logan’s, throw peanut shells on the floor, quaff flavored iced tea, eat a Whiskey River Burger and celebrate Drain Clearing Day.

But, please, no jinx.

So, I’m back. I’m back because I can’t chase people around talking about Eric Sevareid and reminiscing about the cadence of his commentaries and I didn’t just want to stop with a lonely mini-thought about him. I looked on YouTube and found his farewell essay.

I grew up listening to Eric Sevareid. He’s been gone for 36 years (as a commentator on CBS News) and I miss him in that role. He died in 1992 and that’s 21 years ago. In those 21 years, I wouldn’t say many of his caliber have come of age.

I don’t know if there will be a “Well, part 3” today, but I kind of feel in a mood.

Yes, well, I really have had a bland brain the past couple of days and didn’t have much to say so I didn’t say it. Today is not much different, but I guess I’m not letting that stop me.

I mowed yesterday for the first time with the electric mower – Hey, I’m getting better with managing the cord on the ground and the blades on the mower. Then it rained, as I thought it would, and I felt good that the humpy little yard was leveled off. You understand we’re not talking golf course level here, right? Just basic AmeliaJake level.

But, of course, the thought came: “You know you’ll have to do this again . . . and again . . . and again.”  You know, you’ve got to give it to snow – it will melt eventually. Grass does not shrink and have you ever heard the expression “a snake in the snow” ?