So I have come back here on a quiet Thanksgiving night; I am feeling better and we are having the Turkey Thanksgiving on Saturday. I imagine it won’t be a sit down dinner – more of a buffet with turkey and a few “tasties”. I would guess this is a year of a transitional holiday season and maybe it is fitting it began with a lingering flu. It is the start of a take each day as it comes stage; in face, I think this year will close the door on past traditions and begin a stint of letting each Christmas be what it will.

I think this is the year we take our collective deep breath to do that, letting each be unique. I also think I am being redundant, a trait honed when stretching term papers required to be of a certain length. Do they still do that anymore? And, even if they do, it’s different with word processors and printers. I imagine there had to be a font size maximum set . . .

It was a slow day and we, Der Bingle and I, watched part of the marathon of James Bond movies on the Syfy channel. Then Summer and Cameron joined us for what has become a tradition in its own right – watching bad Redbox movies. When the second one proved to be too bad for all of us, we went back to James Bond.

I find it hard to switch from Pierce Brosnan and Judi Dench’s relationship of seasoned and trusted spy/spymaster to Daniel Craig and Dench’s introductory phase of Bond’s career. I think somewhere along the line they should have dropped the James Bond continuing link and followed the story of the 007 spies. But, of course, these are not movies one watches for character development or mature dialogue. At one point, I suggested to Der Bingle that the writing staff probably brought in 13-year-old boys to script some of the “wit” of Bond. And it occurs to me as I type that perhaps only now am I realizing the meaning of male bonding. Oh, well.

I am out of my groove, or rut, and maybe that is a good thing; it is somewhat unsettling, however. So I will talk with Rose and she will listen . . . because she is, as all those who know her are aware, most kind. No one can deny it.

Because I have been under the weather and on the sofa, I have done nothing. I often do nothing, but this time there has been a legitimate reason . . . and since my stomach is still a little unsettled after a bit of food, I imagine I will come to a “legitimate” decision about tomorrow.

(In the back of my mind is the thought right now: If I puke after having just taken a shower, I am going to be really pissed.)

However, today I decided to lean the artificial and very skinny Alpine tree toward me and maybe wrap some new lights on it. Even leaning, it was a little awkward and then this happened.

But that’s okay because I remembered this tree was one of three – like THE infamous bears – and, being the tallest one, its top was supposed to come off. I need to remember this when I move it in its decorated, with sock monkeys and cows, state. I WILL be moving it because it is the tree that leans a lot and I have to put it someplace where I can use raffia or ribbon to anchor it upright. It also lifts right off its X-shaped faux wood stand, if anyone forgets this and tries to hurriedly adjust it.

I wouldn’t call it a problem tree or a troubled tree and certainly not a delinquent one, but it is a bit unstable and thus the counselor sock monkeys and the soothing lowing of leaning cows.

Although I once vowed to use informative post titles, I must have been lying, because I almost never do. Today, however, I am making it real clear, because today, I am introducing an Etsy Shop, where you can get the softest, most comfortable knit things to order. I know because I have some. Remember this post:

SCARVES? Okay, the title was really This made my day and I scarfed it up, but we’ll call it scarves today. No, the “but we’ll call it scarves today”, wasn’t part of the original title, but my brain’s a little off.

(Excuse me while I brace myself for a torment of sarcastic remarks about that last clause. . . )

Okay, back to SCARVES:

Sue now has a shop – Strands of Purls and it is HERE. Sometimes I wear one of her scarves for style, sometimes for extra warmth, and sometimes I just wrap the softness around my neck and head and relax – you realize you can breathe through knitting, which helps.

She’s creative and will knit to fit your taste . . . and requirements. Here’s a little evidence of that:
Iowa City tree knitting.

You have to give and take when you read a lot of books, especially now that more writers are able to make their work available on the Internet. I have really enjoyed the storytelling ability of some authors and then grinned an an ending that, if visualized, would look like a present wrapped by a clumsy four year old. Some others have good plots but the writing is lacking; of those I am more judgmental and often just wait for a better writer to steal the plot and run with it.

Sometimes an author, yes, you Robert Ludlum – for one, will launch into a political diatribe and I just pick up those pages in my right hand and flip them over unread. Every now and then some writer will take out his disdain for a recent historical figure by making a thinly veiled character seem like a total bozo. I have discovered that, in my opinion, authors who do this tend to be not that good overall at all. Reading  ingredients is better than reading what they have written.

So I do stop reading bad books; I make that call. I have stopped reading some books of good reputation because the subject matter has upset me so – Little Red Riding Hood being one. They have been fiction books and I haven’t seen the need to torture myself for the dubious honor of finishing what I began.

There is a book, non-fiction, from which I had to take a break. It is extremely well-written and the story it tells is riveting. It is Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand. I wrote quite some time ago that I had coughed up a double-digit price for the Kindle version. I started reading all about this young Italian-American fellow named Louis Zamperini whose ability to run took him to the Olympics. I read about his flight training and missions in a B-24 and about the long time he spent adrift in the Pacific.

Then I got to the part where he and his lone companion finally reached an island, only to be picked up by a Japanese ship, whose captain turned them over to the military. I made it some pages into the account and then just had to stop. The short but vivid paragraphs about the Rape of Nanking had jolted me into seeing what was to come for this Olympic POW. I had to take a break.

Then I found myself afraid to go on – tense and close to tears, sort of like when I told my father “No more,” and slipped off his lap at the Red Riding Hood fiasco. I just stopped thinking about it – that is thinking about when I would finish – and now I realized that I am too good at putting it off.

I have started reading again, but to prepare myself, I looked up some facts about what is to come in the book. I am embarrassed that I am wary of my feelings of just reading about what others actually endured, minute by minute. And I am reminded of an American POW I interviewed who told me of returning to see enemy POW’s working fields and being well-fed in the United States, as he made his way home to Indiana.

I also found out that Zamperini came to forgive them, that Billy Graham influenced him. I’m not one to understand that, but that doesn’t surprise me. I’m just hoping that at the end I find that Zamperini and Graham at least added, “but don’t ever do it again.”

Well, I guess I ran as slowly as my internet and Sprint service following the wave of storms that came through on Sunday. I think I may also be running around in circles, feeling overwhelmed at the chores I have to do. I have to shake my head at my brain because while I was typing that last sentence, I actually thought it was probably better to run in circles than in a straight line because then you are not going to run into a brick wall. That my mind comes up with such things on its own could be scary, but I don’t consider it too scary relative to the things I suppose are formulating in the reaches of my brain that have not yet found an outlet. And maybe we should all pray that they don’t.

I bought wood glue yesterday because I need to fix a chair. Glue and AmeliaJake are dangerous partners. I don’t know maybe I will find my fingers glued to the home row on the keyboard – like this jkl;kfdsa jkl;asdffdsa;lkj. So if my next post is like that, it’s been nice knowing you.

I just deleted a paragraph because as I was typing the thought occurred that quite possibly my brain had gone missing in the night. So I am going to push “Save Draft” and try again later.

***

It isn’t that much later but I am bored. I am bored and my leg muscles ache, maybe because of age and maybe because of the weather and maybe because I wore ugg-type boots all day yesterday. My face doesn’t ache and I thought it might, since I have stepped up my facial exercise routine. Truthfully, it is not a routine; I do facial exercises when I think of it, no matter if I am in the kitchen with soap suds on my hands or in the car at a stoplight. I don’t just wait for stoplights to open my mouth and eyes wide and stick my tongue out but I usually don’t have a prompt to remember doing it because you’re not aware of being noticed the way you are when stopped at a light. Looking back, I think I have backed off the open mouth exercises at stop lights and gone to concentrating on moving select muscles in my face. It’s less noticeable.

I do think facial exercises are beneficial. People tell me I look younger than my 65 years. I am fairly certain genetic make- up has something to do with it as well.  My mother was often “carded” as a senior citizen when she asked for the discount and my paternal grandmother had unlined skin at 80.

***

Another interruption there, but I am back and I am, at this moment, opening my mouth and eyes really wide. I don’t think I’ll use PhotoBooth to document it, though.  You probably don’t want to see the famous face scrunch also.

Oh, I just realized I titled this post in a rain category and then deleted my first paragraph which was about getting my jeans wet on the front thighs. But they are dry now. There was probably a remark worthy of twitter: World, AJ’s pants are dry.

My mother had a Ronco Rotisserie and I found it stashed down in the furnace room. Now, this is something to do with cooking that I like; I just thought it would be fun to resurrect the rotisserie. I scrubbed it all up and fooled around getting the spit mechanism to come apart and watched a youtube video on cooking a chicken/turkey. And now it sits on the counter. Okay, it might be challenging to get a turkey correctly positioned and rotating, but that’s about the end of it. Actually, it might be nice to just sit and watch it go round; heaven knows I have sat and watched an empty aquarium bubble before.

If I cook anything in it, people will eat it and it will be gone and I will have to clean the rotisserie again. This is not my modus operandi. I’m more of a set the table person – nice tablecloth, stemmed glasses, heavy silverware, attractive plates. Of course, it has to be cleaned up also, but at least nobody eats it and poof, it is gone.

But there is a rub in my non-utilization of a cooking apparatus: the little thought that popped into my brain concerning more exotic poultry, say a Christmas goose or maybe a duck. That sounds like the stuff of which a party is made – Christmas carols and roasting goose . . . and then a run for the peanut butter.

Tonight I will get the alert that there is a text on my phone; it will be from Der Bingle and ask “Home?” Tonight I will text back: “Nursing home” and so he will call later. He will ask about my day and I will probably say “okay” or “fine” and go onto something else. I will be lying; today is/was a crummy day. But Der Bingle, it is only crummy by AJ standards so don’t worry. Best advice: don’t ask. That will keep me honest and we can just chat about whatever – perhaps planning our quick trip to Las Vegas which is company related. He goes to meetings and I scope out some Vegas sights that aren’t slot machines. (I also try to look like a Wholesome Midwest Female American Senior Citizen so the guys monitoring the casino floor cameras will take pity and maybe let me have a small win. I promise to shout out Yea! and This is a great place and beam wholesomely.)

The scoping out would be fairly straight forward except it is so easy to get lost in the maze. Last year I stumbled onto the Miracle Mile at Planet Hollywood and then had to really look to find my way back so Der Bingle could see it – painted ceilings and all.

I am considering GPS because when I programmed my address into my phone, it told me to walk 14 feet to the west. I am still thinking about that and what I can infer from it.

Now, I am ready to leave and wait for the alert of the text message. And, Der Bingle, if you are reading this, maybe you’ll want want to skip the question about the day. But I guess you would have been wised up to that in the first paragraph. A little short term memory deficit on my part there . . .