Surely, I am not the only one in the world who needs to just gripe about little things. I know they are little things . . . but circling in my head, aiming down to my mouth and threatening to push my teeth out – which I just had cleaned – is a weaselly whine of My sinuses hurts.

It hurts above my left eye and travels down to my nose, which is throbbing on one side. Of course, I do feel a little wimpy because Quentin is going to have to undergo another snout cleansing, as he calls it, because of irregularities in his sinus configuration. He had this done last year, surgery with bone spur removal, and it is back.

Okay, back to my whining.

It is also snowing outside, although we are not supposed to get too much. I have no doubt that this July I will be sitting in really hot, humid air on a mower and whining about the hear and wishing I was back watching snow. Probably, the engine mower will start to whine itself then and I will have to stretch out on the ground beside it and see if something is binding on a belt . . . and hope a garter snake doesn’t crawl up for a sniff.

I may just go in the Foo Bar and toss back a few.

I wrote the post right below just a few minutes ago. Then I checked the news and saw THIS, and this ain’t good.

Another shooting. And then I see the word Indiana. I look at the picture and see the name on the store looks like it could be Martin’s. And, by gosh, it is. I have not read the article yet; I just got through the first bit that said it was a Martin’s in Elkhart. Well, guess what, folks, my mother used to stop by Martin’s in Elkhart quite often. I don’t know if this is the same exact store, or not, but is close to GoodWill and just off of Highway 120 which was Mother’s preferred route.

The shooting was at 10 pm and, granted, Mother would not have been there at that time, BUT, still . . . Elkhart? Indiana? My turf? YIKES.

I have not looked at the headline news yet today. I have not checked my email. I have taken my medicine, picked up a few small pieces of trash and since misplaced my handy-dandy white kitchen bag trash bag. Sigh.

Now, I sit with afghan-draped legs out in front on me on the sofa, back braced against the sofa arm, laptop balancing on my slanting lap and just enjoying the feeling of cubby-hole warmth. However, I will have to rouse myself for my tooth cleaning. They are always so perky down there, perky and cheerful and “Oh, how are you, today?” Well, I’m sitting in a dentist chair having plaque scraped and the inventory of my tooth/gum positioning being taken. Yeah, I’m fine.

But, of course, I don’t say that because 1) they have pointy instruments and 2) their fingers are often in my mouth. My main new fear of the dentist is the fact they check for spots in your mouth that might indicate oral cancer. One young man, barely 20, started with that discovery and endured the removal of part of his tongue and chemotherapy and radiation. That can stop you in your tracks.

I have embarked on a strategy to inspire (pressure) residents into cleaning/maintenance goals. I’m not going to put too much weight on my initial impression of the response, but think, maybe, I might have to designate one room the gaol room, nicely decorated with bars and soundproofing.

I would like to end with some jolly thought, but I’m bland today – and, looking back at these mutterings, I guess bland is not as bad as it could be.