A couple of days ago I titled a post “Amensia” because of a finger mistake. If you type something in the title box incorrectly, WordPress does not red-line it, which is what would happen if it were typed in the content box. So I goofed and no alarms went off. Der Bingle made a little comment about it and I looked and Wow! I had typed Amensia instead of Amnesia. So I changed it.

But there is something about “amensia” that has stayed with me. Is it those first four letters that spell “amen”? The So-Be-it factor. I mean when you’ve done your best – or near best – and you are at the point when you have to either get it done or not (You know, the do it or get off the pot thing) – maybe it’s time for an Amensia. A Geronimo exclamation.

I don’t think, though, it necessarily has to be anything earthshaking. It could be a task you abhor, but must do. Toilet cleaning is an example. I imagine I will soon find myself standing in bathroom doorway – cleaners in hand   –  sighing and bracing myself and yelling “Amensia!”

Or I could get one of my cohorts here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse to do it. They’ve been quiet lately, in the background, sitting at their tables munching foldovers and drinking cures, or hanging out at the Foo Bar where there are little umbrellas in their cures. Did I ever mention Foo serves her drinks in steins and adds the umbrella for sophistication. A lot of the time, a patron will write a song name down on the little umbrella, stick it in Lydia’s favorite drink  and put it on the top of her upright red piano . . . and she’ll play the request. They request a lot of songs and Lydia has to take frequent bathroom breaks . . . so maybe I should see if her fingers can tinkle the ceramic as well as they do the ivories.

Uh, did I make a finger mistake? Did I mean to type “tickle” in that last sentence?

Ah, well, on to my day.

AMENSIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was just thinking this morning about doing some things differently – the turning over a new leaf thing. And it popped into my head that perhaps that is one of those expressions that has prompted images to pop into heads and maybe theories about vocabulary. Actually, the first thing that popped into my head was not that thought; it was the image of a little person running out in the yard and turning over each new leaf that falls in the – uh – fall. Thousands of new them. Each one a leaf. It would get boring and turn into a long job which would only end with the ritual of turning over a new snowflake. Of course, I’m wrong: You don’t turn over a snowflake; you verify that it is not like any other snowflake you have seen.

Okay, just forget the part about snowflakes. I’m going to. I’m getting back to the leaf thing. You’re turning over each and every leaf and all of a sudden Newton’s Apple smacks you on the head and you think, “I’m going to leave.”

And that’s why the plural of leaf is leaves.

But if the leaf of which we speak in this turning process is a page in a book and the part to which a page is attached is the spine, why don’t we call it a rib? That would make a book a rack of ribs which could be a reason for bringing reading material to the table.

It could be an odd day today.

Sometimes, when I least expect it, Summer will come up with a compliment – though maybe not intended.

Yesterday we were in a fast food restaurant and she said, “A lot of old people are in here.” I just took a deep, sighing breath. Then she asked, “Why don’t you look like them?”

THIS article was on the front page of CNN.com and above the word blasphemous was this picture:

My first thought was “Errol Flynn was Jesus?”

Anyway, I read the article about the scholar John Dominic Crossan and found it interesting. I don’t usually mention religion, but I think about it – and I guess he does too.

I keep things in special boxes, most of which are made out of wood. Some came from Thailand when my husband was in service there; others are from GoodWill where people have turned in kid’s projects or crafts of which they have tired.

In one box, I have for years seen this flowered note as I have pawed around for a necklace or a ring or something special. I slowly began to think it was something other than it is. I looked at it today; it was from grandmother . . . and the Lana Jane she mentions is that cousin of mine who is nine months younger than I. Come April, though, we will both be the same age – HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. Oops, forgot myself for a moment there.

Back of card

And what she wrote.