I buy things online. It is easy and I am selective, often waiting until a retailer of a product I really do buy and use offers me a very good deal.

The Yankee Candle Company is one. First of all, I  realize that burning candles is in a way burning money and I need to have a good reason for doing so. I consider the quality of my home atmosphere a good one and scents have been proven to affect mood. For the most part, I will burn a candle from this company because the product is  high quality and the scent listings include numerous and often detailed evaluations. and, often, detailed, detailed reviews. I know what we like and what has a good, clean throw. I have found some scents that do an excellent job of neutralizing some musty odors that hang around the room a dog prefers in the rainy season. I have learned to fight the urge to buy a candle because it sports a really enticing name. I mean, the name Casablanca may make me think of romantic and noble speeches at a rainy airport and trench coats . . . but it is probably going to be very hard to smell the mood set by Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains and  . . . oh, who was that actor that lit two cigarettes at once and gave one to Bette Davis in “Now Voyager?” (Maybe I should sniff some peanut butter and look at the measurement results – see previous post.)

As a repeat customer, YCC periodically offers me two candles for the price of one and a $5 flat shipping. That’s cheaper than a Wal-Mart price. I just have to be patient and plan ahead, and, given the weight of candles, it is a very good shipping deal. I could not drive to the YCC store in Fort Wayne for that price, not to mention toting all those glass jars and wax out of the store, through the parking lot and then to my doorstep all by myself.

Shoes are another example. At my age I like the dependability of a good fit. If you bide your time, you can get a new exercise/walking shoe exactly like the one that has been such a comfortable fit for a slashed price. You can check lots of sites looking for what you need without having to go from mall to mall or store to store  only to be told it’s last season’s model or they don’t have your size. . . and it’s easier on your shoe leather. Okay, I probably am pushing the  punny stuff a bit too much.

While I’m at it, let me mention Crate & Barrel. Can you say flat shipping fee, excellent packing, high quality glassware, lots of reviews and prices again cheaper than Wal-Mart?

Often these sites will ask you to participate in a survey about your online experience and satisfaction with the product. Every now and then, I will agree because, well, why not? I got a good deal.

Today I got a phone call from a nice lady with a “foreign phone bank” accent telling me I had been selected to receive free samples and a $100 shopping card plus a $50 restaurant credit.  I told her thank  you, but no because I felt this could probably be a tricky little scam (I didn’t actually say “scam’) and if computer analysis had flagged my purchases marking me a careful shopper of quality products, I would think they would send me an email with all the fine print right there to be zoomed in on.

I could understand someone hearing “free samples” and “shopping card” and “discounted eats” and thinking, Well, if they want to send me stuff, why not? I suspect they do send you free samples . . . and then maybe they bill you $15 for shipping & handling each time. Some things aren’t too good to be true – such as Lands End $50 jeans for $7.50 . . . but, my father was one for getting the facts straight and in writing . . . or, at least in this Internet age, the facts in a fax. (Oh, Lord, the weirdness is getting a foothold.)

So, Robert Grismore, it’s a little thing, but I think I answered the survey question, “Are you a gullible nutball?” question okay.  I think  I need to work on the nutball part some more, though.

Paul Heinreid! He was the cigarette lighter and his character was Victor Lazlo. It just now came to me and I thought I’d share it. By the way, the cafe singing of La Marseillaise is always worth remembering.

Ah, well, Der Bingle sent us an article about peanut butter being a pure odorant and possibly can be used as a predictor for Alzheimer’s Disease. It may get a little tense around here as nostril to jar measurements are bandied back and forth. We expect to be contacted about a clinical trial.

It would have been better if the article had been about high peanut butter consumption being equated to low incidence of . . . uh, what was I talking about?

Of course there have always been little articles in magazines – especially the old Reader’s Digests – focusing on a condition, psychological or physical and posing a series of questions to see where you fit on the “I’m okay for the next few months” vs. “I’m going to die tomorrow” or “I will probably make it through life without murdering someone” vs. “Gee, where did I leave the butcher knife?”

Okay, it wasn’t usually that dramatic, but you get the idea. And now with the Internet. Saints preserve us. “Ten signs you might be _______. Circle a number between 1 and 5.” And then there are the online IQ tests, which I don’t talk about since I once took one and got a 76. I think it’s time to move on now . . .

Or maybe not, because I have to find a list that asks this question: If your glass is too full to hold any more ice cubes, do you you stick four or five in your pocket for later? Yes, I did this – this very morning. It actually worked out fine, well, if you don’t count the lint in my sweatshirt’s pouch pocket. It just seems a bit off; but is it crazy or (76) stupid slow?

Oh, good night, nurse . . . a couple of the folks here put up their little hands and asked if “both of the above” is a possible answer. Makes me want to bang my head against the wall . . . which could explain the 76, come to think of it. A little redhead reading over my shoulder just asked in awe, “You can think?”

Ah, here’s a hint to my purpose in life: Shane just dropped a Wubba in my lap.

On the way home from Fort Wayne, I drove down Main Street to see what was playing at the Strand and one of the movies was Gravity. I decided I’d go and I did, even bought popcorn and a drink. Before I turned my cell phone off, I took pictures of my popcorn, my drink and the blank screen (with one lady’s head shadowed against it) to prove that I was there.

I don’t believe there was any point in that.

Sandra Bullock was very good; I just don’t know if the movie was. I definitely liked the popcorn and raspberry tea, though.

Okay, I was just resting here and staring at my lower leg and for some reason I thought about the old lament: Oh, if we could only see ourselves as others see us.

Yesterday my phone produced nothing but garble for those listening on the other end. So, alarmed, I went to the Sprint store and they tested it and looked at each other, went and got their own iphones and called from them and people heard garble.  They believed the network was overwhelmed by the tens of thousands of people who did come to Apple Festival. I had noticed that traffic was extremely heavy on the main route I normally take and came home a back way that looks like you’re going into an abandoned factory area, but at the last minute the road turns and there you are, a block away from the bubbing hub- or the hubbing bub. Whatever.

By the time I got out of the store, I could tell the temperature had climbed as the fog dissipated and I decided I would wait until Sunday to go over to the Apple Festival. You see, being just 5′ tall is not too nifty when you are in a winding, massive crowd that is hemmed in by permanent buildings and temporary vendors’ kiosks. If you are in the middle, you see nothing and if the temperature is above 70, you pretty much feel as if you are in a winter mitten. If you are on the outside, you risk being knocked into hay stacks, poles, buildings and people trying to stand to the side to eat their food that they stood in line 30 minutes for.

It’s not that it’s intolerable if you are alone and have a couple of destinations in mind, but if you have someone with you, it is necessary to have physical contact. One year I negotiated such a setting with Summer attached to my shirt tail, which had started out tucked in.

So today: cooler with maybe a shower. I can do showers. I got myself ready to go – even if I could not find a companion – and opened the door. It was pouring down rain. I still thought, maybe . . . in a rain slicker with a hood.  Then I heard that hint of a wheeze in my chest that is just now starting to clear after a week of antibiotics and I thought of wet feet and how crummy it was coughing through the night. I hesitated; I believe my mind was scurrying around for still another excuse, because after all, adventures are really fun and provide great stories, and I felt my knee throb. I suspect I usually ignore it, but wimpdom was hovering over me and I watched the puddles form and decided to sit down. I looked at weather.com and rain is to be on and off, but mostly on.

Now I am feeling guilt and  this urge to go in these conditions is pushing me. My father would exclaim, “Well, if you want to just go out there and get sick . . .  Nobody could ever tell you anything.” Actually, he only said the last part once, but, boy, it has stuck with me and I feel bad about being dumb and arrogant and my daddy having to see it all those years. Reminds me of the time I talked about a convertible . . . “Well, if you want to go out there and ask to be killed . . .”

I’m off topic – it seems; but, of course, in my heart I’m not.

Damn. The more miserable it seems out there, the more I am drawn to going over and standing 5 feet tall in a massive huddle of wet people seeking shelter in the swine barn. Maybe I can entice Summer into going. Kind of use the backdoor way of persuasion – “Oh, you’d have to be stupid to do that. Imagine getting dripping wet for a Bayou Billy CherryWine! Dumbies.” You see, I once told her, “You remind me of what my father said about me once: Nobody could ever tell you anything. I was trying to help her learn from my mistakes . . . but, well,  she’s young, a cold won’t stop her . . . and her knees are fine.

Oh, dear, I feel the presence of THIS LOOK coming down on me. The look that I know translates into the constantly repeated, “Use  your own good judgement and don’t let anyone talk you into doing anything you know you shouldn’t do.” But, then, again, nobody could ever tell me anything . . .

I am typing this at 4;49 am, having treated my Chinese Sinus Torture with medicine and vertical therapy.  I don’t know whether to lie back down and see if I snooze or not. When this hits the scheduled publishing time – which I set because I was playing around with the options, being sort of bored – I will know if I did or not. I am beginning to suspect that sinus in the night and subsequent remedies can lead to mild zaniness. I may decide to try more inventive drainage head positions; a couple of times I have been so successful at this that I have had to twist kleenex into little pipe cleaner shaped things and stick them up my nostrils. That does have its social drawbacks but then who the heck is up at this time but me.

Were I of a younger generation, I might refer to the altered kleenex as nose tampons, but being my age, that is embarrassing – not as embarrassing as my idea to use straws taped to baggies as nose catheters, however. Mexican food and horseradish is an option . . .

Sometimes when I get like this, I wonder if my nutcase is starting to pinch me.

People (not me) worked  very hard getting the Apple Festival ready for this year, just as they have been doing for the past 25 years. And it is in the 70’s and foggy, with the weather.com predicting the fog conditions will remain until 3 pm. It is, by nature of being foggy, also humid. The sky is one shade of grey. It is not a cheerful day.

However, I have had some of my best times at the Apple Festival when the weather has not been optimal; for one thing, there is a great sense of authenticity – in the real life/real time sort of way.  The phenomenon is that you feel more cheerful and alive and participating when you aren’t nagged by a blasted “perfect” day that is demanding you match it and threatening  you with guilt feelings if you just automatically don’t.

In fact, I’m wondering if I can’t get someone here to go with me on this little adventure. A short hike over, a trip through the Swine Barn – God, I love that name – and maybe a mug of Bayou Billy CherryWine and a pretzel with cheese smothering it. This could be as good as the time it snowed and my feet were soooo cold through my leather soles as I munched my apple burger. Oh, by the way, we’ll be making a bunch at home, not to mention beef and noodles. The Brimfield Methodist folks sell it for a pretty penny a cupful – but, hey, my grandmother was a Methodist cook for 50+ years. Yes, AmeliaJake knows beef and noodles.

I woke to go to the bathroom around 1;30 this morning; I had guzzled lots of liquid and eaten no salty food to tell my body retain it. I guess that’s my story, but I don’t know if I’m sticking to it.

That’s not the story anyway; the real one – and it is short because it is only about 3:30 am now –  is that when I lay back down, I became aware of a slight throb behind the bridge of my nose. It wasn’t bad and it didn’t slowly start to pound; it just kept steadily throbbing. I have come to think of it as  Chinese Sinus Torture. So I got up and made myself some Cold Alka-Seltzer and drank it down . . . and then I took a little more medicine and am pushing the whole lot along with some caffeine, laced with sugar. (That would be The Cure, dontcha know?)

And I am sitting up to encourage what drainage their may be. My tear ducts are also feeling the pressure and it has occurred to me that crying would probably help, but of all things after writing a troubled post just a couple of days ago, I can’t conjure up any tears right now. Of course, I don’t want to fool around too much with the sad thought sinus therapy; I doubt it would be wise.

So, I wait to drain and for the analgesics to start acting – and I hope the play will be light-hearted and not some Tennessee Williams burden of drama. I don’t know, though, yelling Stella! might bring some atavistic relief.