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.

Tomorrow I have an appointment to have my teeth cleaned, which makes the plodding along of today’s tasks not too bad. Oh, this is interesting: I got up to let Shane out and realized I had been sitting on my phone – fortunately, I have the Otter Box-Armor series. My phone case could probably be a murder weapon in a pinch, but if any detective ever finds a victim with an Otter Box dent in his/her head, that thought I had was just a thought . . . just a thought. Besides, anyone who knows me, realizes I wouldn’t go for the head-denting procedure; I would use the flat whack up the side of the head method. I’m impulsive and that’s my M.O.

I only have to go to the north side of Fort Wayne, but then I have to stop and reschedule another appointment and then divert into Auburn to pick up Summer’s new glasses. I forget what the frames look like; the ones she didn’t get looked as if they had been cut out of an old linoleum floor. Maybe they came with a teeny little man with a bucket and a string mop, but probably not. I mean, I didn’t even get an otter with my Otter Box. (No one think about my computer and mention Lion, please. Some little thought ramblings just have to be allowed to peter out.)

I am reading a book by a hack writer; I don’t know why, but at times I am a hack reader, so I’ll call it even.

And, of course, you can call me odd.

I’m going to take a shower and then go get my hair trimmed and I am just floating along in no direction in particular. I don’t think that’s a sin. My toe is well enough to wear my boots, which is a spirit lifter – as well as adding an inch to the short person here.

Well, I’m flighty today so good-bye to you.

This morning I lay here thinking of a kaleidoscope of things – maybe a variation of the old life passing before your eyes theme. Suddenly my mind thought of the  – excuse me, but just using the terminology heard for years – dirty old woman who lived up in Howe, but I couldn’t remember her name. I thought it has a double “s” in it, but didn’t think it was Flossie because Flossie was one of the Bobbsey Twins. (You know, Freddie’s sister, but I had better stop myself before I go off on a tangent.)

On a hunch I typed  “dirty old lady Howe, Indiana” into the Google search slot and voila – THIS SITE showed up.  This is a little different than the way I heard the story . . . from a woman who was born in 1881 in Howe (then Lima) and from her daughters born in 1908 and 1926. Now, the one born in 1881 was my grandmother, a Presbyterian by birth and then a Methodist by nearness of church in the old days. She was the adult Sunday School teacher for years and Superintendent of the Sunday School and president of the WSCS forever – Women’s Society for Christian Service. When the daughter who was born in 1908, my aunt, died in 1998, one person commented that if she didn’t get into Heaven, no one would and everyone agreed. The 1926 daughter was my mother and not so religious, although she had a decency and ethical streak a mile wide.

Their take on the situation was that Crissy did just fine until the “good Christian ladies decided to scrub her up and then she died.”  I’m going to leave it at that, other than to say sometimes the phrase, “You had to have been there” may indicate a lot of  history is up for grabs.

I opened my copy of Coastal Living to the page pictured below and I caught my breath as I realized I was looking at something that was Mother, but not AmeliaJake Well, AmeliaJake in terms of having such things done for her.

Note the battered cookie sheet and the old knife along with the little extra touch to make the brownies special. Sarah Shimp Grismore had class; there’s no doubt about it.

I didn’t notice the letdown of dull, unadorned post-Christmas early January this year so much – because we were being mugged by the weather. For us it was not a left-bleeding-in-the-gutter experience, but more of a push-into-a-drift-and-steal-your-mittens affair.

Today the temperature right now is supposed to be 39 degrees. This may be so, but there is a light coating of snow on my street – the one that was black and rain-slicked last evening. The temperature is supposed to fall to 34 during the day and, to tell the truth, I didn’t look at what is to happen tonight.

But, as I wrote, it has taken my mind off of the dreariness of the post-Christmas month.  Of course, now I am a third of the way to February, the waiting room month of the year. You sit there through Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthday and the garish colors and chocolate sweetness of Valentine’s Day, wondering if the prognosis for March will be a harbinger of spring or require another series of  snow shovel, ice-scraping treatments.

I am getting ahead of myself. Today. What am I going to do and take from today? Well, yesterday, I spent a great deal of time rearranging stuff in the basement and then Summer and I watched Presumed Innocent while we sat by the fire. (Always a good way to get rid of leftover pizza boxes while warming ourselves.)

Christmas boxes – packed, numbered, labelled are being stashed and I found two sets of musical Santa and Snowmen lights that didn’t get used. At first it seemed a bummer, but after pushing the “Try Me” button a couple of times, I figured it would be a good idea to put them in an out of the way place next year. Imagining having those lights when the kids were under seven is a little unnerving.  Little impish urchins running up, grinning, giggling and pushing the button over and over again . . . On the other hand, Summer may take it in her head to rig a remote control using her phone to set them off. Or she could connect them to a battery pack, stick them in a mesh bag, and sneak up behind people and then push the button. (It does sometimes occur to me that is is unsettling that I, AmeliaJake, can anticipate these ideas.)

My foot is better,  not shoe ready yet, although I might be able to get away with a largish study pair of Skecher walking shoes. I have a pair in winter black; they make me think little old lady more than the white ones do, but never mind the truth hurting – it’s my foot I’m concerned about.

I am need of a foldover . . . I am always more motivated to hobble into the kitchen than other rooms and here I go.

I have been talking about the cold, snow and ice – maybe because it’s more than we’ve had for awhile and maybe because it held on for a week. Today it warmed up and the salt on the roads worked and I can see the pavement. Tonight that is not necessarily a good thing. The roads are black and shiny with rain, but they are narrower because the snow mounds remain, encroaching on lanes.

Someone on North Riley parked on the street, but because his black car reached out way farther than usual; I was lucky to see the reflection of the taillights when my lights hit them, instead of me hitting the car.

My driveway is a disaster, water on top of compacted snow with big ruts and that blasted curve around the spruce. Get up enough momentum to not get stuck and you might just slide into another car or the fence.

I feel irritable; I don’t really know why, but at least I have the dark and rainy night to focus on. It’s going to rain tomorrow as well, so I can still zero in on that and not need to hunt up someone to tell to SHUT UP or whatever. Or, there is the chance my mood might lighten; not likely, but possible.

I walked into a chair with my bare foot, hitting the fourth toe really hard. Then I hopped around for some time, making noises of distress. For two days now I have been wearing my Emus (uggs) because they are big and flat and if I walk with my foot perfectly flat, it doesn’t hurt too much. Actually, I think I avoided breaking a toe (again) because putting pressure on my heel, causing the tendons to tug, does not cause immediate bad pain.  I’ve been that route before and I can tell you, it ain’t fun.

My main concern now is not dropping anything on my foot, which I almost did today.  And I do tend to yell when someone gets close to me, “Don’t step on my foot!!!”

I know this is boring, petty information, but the toe thing had consequences. I figured I’d sit by the fire and watch an old VHS movie I’d found – Brainwaves.  It was about transplanting brain processes and Tony Curtis was the evil-looking doctor, although it took me a long time to realize it. His main scenes focused on his eyebrows doing a sinister slant toward his nose and his mouth frowning. Either he was desperate for money or he took the role as a joke.

Now I’ve thought about Dana Andrews moving from films such as Laura and The Best Years of Our Lives to the one about the mad scientist who tried to shoot a rocket into the earth. Kind of a bummer of a thought.

I have been reading a lot lately, not necessarily good books, but ones that are not bad, if you invoke the “let’s pretend this could happen” rule so often used in movies. The last book involved very rich people, famous paintings, a quaint hotel in Amsterdam and a Ukrainian Genie in a Bottle (my interpretation). The foreward to the next book I have just begun ends with a reference to one of the characters being based on a lady of great intelligence and beauty. Of course.  I am not complaining; really, I’m not. I guess I’m just bracing myself for it.

(I find it ironic that the spell checker insists I am misspelling foreward.  The little dictionary on my macbook dashboard says it does not exist.)

Yesterday when the TV, internet and other things failed, I picked up my trusty shovel and decided to “experiment” around with the snow. My garage is in back; the driveway circles around a tall blue spruce and goes farther to reach the well-travelled road in front. Do you know that that snow got to be thigh deep by the spruce and knee deep everywhere else? I did it in little bits here, inventing new ways to move the snow with the least effort. Well, for awhile every time I came in, I would get antsy to get back out there. And then I got to the thigh high stuff. When I finally got through it, I thought, “I bet I can back out, turn and muscle my way out.” I backed out and started to turn, then I would dig at wheels, then turn, then dig at wheels. Finally I made it almost to the sidewalk and that’s when the wind started to come up A LOT and I realized the snow plow had pushed it up so that there was an extra four feet past the parkway to reach the entrance to the road and when I paused to gape, I got stuck.

I did get out; I drove around the block; I got back in – part way. I dug at wheels and finally made it in the garage and turned off the engine.

This morning I went out and the engine would not start. Oh, my mood was low. Maybe one of the reasons referring to the car is  Shane can’t get out the porch door and has to go out through the garage, so is afraid the backyard is no longer there.  I opened the door to the yard from the garage. AND I FORGOT TO CLOSE IT.

About an hour ago, the car started. Good. No school tomorrow. Agh. Shane wants people out of his fur and his backyard back. I’d like another Aleve and an afghan.