It has been a trying day, and I have to write that I am really annoyed when people write such things in a blog and then don’t get specific. So I am a hypocrite, but is not that it has been a major traumatic day – just a series of topics with backstories that would be be boring.

On the other hand, today a yogurt fell out of the refrigerator and did NOT crack open and splat the contents all over the floor. I did NOT get out to the car and realize I had forgotten something. Double stick tape did NOT get all fouled up and wind up being a tape ball yoyo. I watched a couple of history documentaries that had, in my opinion, a good tinge of revisionism and did NOT feel like throwing anything at the TV. I suppose I am most grateful for the non-splatting yogurt.

When I was riding along with Der Bingle in Dayton, I got to let my eyes wander to more things than the road ahead of me.  Dayton is at what I call the beginning of the Ohio River descent, which is to say there are a lot of places where you can be in a populated area and still have ravines and expanses of vegetation. And in Dayton, there were a lot of green blurs, not just the easy-to-see through stick formations that have been lining the roads here for so long.

I’m been around the barn a few times when it comes to seasons, but this is the first year that I have not anticipated the budding of the trees and bushes because winter has seemed so entrenched. Because I have not been thinking about things getting green, I did not give any thought to pulling out the grape vine that was strangling the side hedge.

This is not a task you want to undertake in summer, but I did anyway one year and discovered it was like separating fly strips. So I got Cameron and we went out to the hedge this afternoon; it didn’t look too daunting. It was a bunch of tangling branches, but looked as if you could select a grape branch, follow it to its source, use the pruning saw and slip it out.

No. Not only is it not slippery like spaghetti (that has not been overcooked), it is very strong. In fact, I now suspect it may have some inbuilt defense response that shouts out: Heads up, guys, it’s tug of war time. More than once, we had to apply our combined weight to get the section we had detached to give up its hold on the hedge. It was about the intensity of the reverse of putting a stubborn cat in a carrier.

By the time we had a good bit of it out, I felt as if we had been fighting a tentacled monster in some scary thriller. Lying on the ground, it looks like a monster, not the stuff of which attractive grapevine wreathes are made.

Now I am waiting for the sunlight to reach into the sparse depths of the hedge and encourage it to leaf out and thicken. I am not giving up hope on that one; I have actually succeeded to some degree in getting the hedge to spread out to the north a bit so it is not a just a property line fence. The myrtle that has been on a transplant migration from Fountain County, Indiana to LaGrange County to here is spreading nicely. An entire yard of myrtle might not be bad (if you don’t plan to play croquet).

Tomorrow the hedge clippers for the evergreen shrubs in front, with Cameron to clip away and me to hold the cord  . . . because when working alone, you try to be careful but get tired and think just a bit more and CUT THE CORD. It’s moments such as that that make even the foulest-mouthed person just sigh in extreme frustration and only manage an Ah Shucks. Then there is the walk of shame back to the garage with this large implement trailing a foot of brightly-colored extension cord. Nothing better than that to take the spring out of your step.

Today is Friday. Today is Friday.

Let’s just keep repeating that and maybe I won’t have to worry about my arms extending out in front of me and my walk becoming a shuffle.

I got back from Dayton on Wednesday afternoon and I was well aware it was Wednesday. Then I went to Kroger’s in the evening and caught myself thinking that all the specials should be different because they change on Thursday. So the start of this Twilight Zone shift must have started then.

But it gets odder. I awoke on Thursday thinking I’ll go get the morning paper because Saturday has the best Sudoku. Of course, it wasn’t Saturday. I thought, “Oh yeah, it’s Friday.” An all day long, I kept in mind what I had to do before business offices closed for the week-end. Then, somehow, I became aware it was Thursday. Who knew? Obviously, not me.

Perhaps all this started because when I got home on Wednesday, I rented a Redbox film and came home to find the Blue Ray remote missing. I did my usual look, which is usually successful and came up empty-handed. Not to be deterred, I turned the sofa upside down. Well, that got the sofa clean – and all the cushions neatened up. But no remote.

I looked everywhere, figuratively speaking, because if I had looked everywhere literally, I would have found it. Perhaps it was thoughts like that that zapped my brain.

So I went to sleep, pouting, and had nightmares and opened my eyes on Thursday – to what I felt, for some crazy reason was Saturday. And that takes us back to the beginning of this time awareness story. Now, on Thursday, which I had found out was not Saturday, or Friday, I puttered around and developed a slight headache, which I felt would be helped by a “slight” lie-down. I fell asleep and had all sorts of wild dreams and awoke to light in the window and thought I had slept through until the next morning – Saturday. I guess I had never truly been convinced when I lay down that it was Thursday.

Of course, it was not morning; it was afternoon and it was the same day, which was Thursday – although it felt like Friday.

And I’ll be darned if today doesn’t seem like Saturday – AGAIN. Maybe there is such a thing as Zombie Dust, sort of a different thing from what Tinkerbell and the other fairies scatter around. Although, if tomorrow is not Saturday, I guess I will be in Never Never Land. At least, I hope I am not heading toward being a Zombie.

So sorry for wasting your time.

Der Bingle and I are talking about a replacement car for moi, and it is, not daunting, but complicated – a Little Old Lady From Pasadena moment. Now, what I would like is a car with a strong engine, good tires and a couple of scratches and dents. Do you know they do not seem to have a major selling place for such cars?

I came up with the idea that Der Bingle get a newer car and I take the one he is driving now. That didn’t go over too well; he says he has his seat just right. Does that sound like a reasonable response? I think it is code for “You are not getting my engine, which is the best one that Buick ever made.” He also said that I really should get one with a rear camera.

My son Quentin remarked that now they are making cars that tell you what to do and then sigh and say to their computer selves, “You’re not listening; I’m going to go ahead and brake.” I suppose that sends me some message.

I guess I know what most people are telling me in one way or another, because I have always sensed that when I have chosen a car in the past, the car seems to almost cry and say, “Oh, no, not her.”

And I think all my bitching about getting to the milestone 70 has given people an opening to suggest that I find happiness in the slow(er) lane.

It’s going to be a humbling week.

I went to sleep last evening dirty with dust and dried sweat. I woke up knowing it was either shower or make myself a cardboard sign and sit on a corner, and let me tell you, I gave some serious thought to the cardboard sign idea.

However, in the end, I did gather up my bathrobe and a towel for my hair and headed into the shower. It always seems like a chore – actually getting under the stream of water. I mean, once you’ve made that leap of faith, there’s no going back. You are wet.

Then you have to get your hair lathered up with a shampoo that doesn’t leave much residue. It can be tricky – too much shampoo and you are washing suds out of your hair for what seems like an eternity. This is unsettling because you have been trained since earliest childhood to wash and rinse your hair TWICE.

Then there is the body scrub with a good shower gel, one that leaves you feeling clean, but not smelling like little old lady lavender. By this time you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you have forgotten to brush your teeth first, you become very aware of a big noxious area infiltrating your new clean space. I’m going to skip going into that aspect right now because it always makes me think of a cartoon invisible man walking around with only his oral cavity visible. Yes, I realize that sounds ridiculous and I probably should not have confessed to it, but after all, this is a bit of a coming clean article. (GROAN)

Then comes the part where you slide the door open, step out and reach for your bathrobe, hoping that you have not neglected to check that the sleeves are not inside out. Time for the towel to be twisted around the head like a turban and off you go to get dressed.

Of course, you feel nice and clean and shake your head at your reluctance to start a procedure with such a good outcome – and all along, you know it’s going to be just the same next time.

So, as has happened hundreds of times before, I now sit here clean and it occurs to me that I don’t want to do anything to counteract the effect. No shoveling the ashes out of the fireplace, no sticking my head into closets to pull stuff out, no going outside and vacuuming the car, no clipping the hedge and so forth. Gosh, darn, that’s just depressing. (This would be the place where I stifle a snicker.)

If anyone wants to know why I frittered the day away, it’s because I showered. That seems like a reasonable answer, as long as it is presented correctly.

Der Bingle flew out to California this morning on a 6 am flight. And at 4:45 am, he sent me a text that he was sitting at the airport thinking about the sleeping/snoring others. This didn’t wake me up because about one minute earlier, I had awakened from a nightmare, calling out his name. I’m not aware of this happening before. When I heard the text tone, I was terrified my psychic tendency had anticipated a bad news notification.

No, it was the text I mentioned earlier. I texted back about my nightmare and then another text came in. It read:

Cut me out of this loop so I can sleep.

Oh, yeah, that’s right; the evening before Der Bingle and I had been in a three way chat with LZP.  As I sometimes do, Der Bingle forgot to switch back to the two way chat and at 3:45 in the dark, cold hours of an Iowa morning, LZP had been startled by whatever text tone he has, hopefully not a klaxon sound.

So, from those of us who were in the Eastern Time Zone this morning: SORRY.

Of course, of the three of us, one of us is now in San Diego – Carlsbad by the Sea. So LZP, I suppose Der Bingle should text you: REALLY, REALLY SORRY.

I had not heard of this film, but saw it listed on Netflix. My first thought, given the title, was that it was probably a film with a Humphrey Bogart title and a disappointing everything else. But I gave it a try and, at last count, have watched it three times. It is not Casablanca, but it is definitely an AmeliaJake film – so much so that I even copied down some quotes.

Then there is this quote, which is in the movie, but from Pessoa: “The fields are greener in their description, than in their actual greenness.” I could feel that thought, not just hear the sentence.