This morning I took Alison to the dentist and on my way out of the driveway and on my way back in, I found myself exclaiming to myself: Good grief, that grass needs mowing. And so, since it was early and in the shade I mowed it. The humidity was quite high and the mower sounded as if it were function on half a cylinder, but we both did all right – until the mower ran out of grass with just a tiny bit to do out back.

Of course, I dripped sweat but I put more water in and to sound New Age, which is now Middle Age, in my Oldish Age . . . I feel (brace for it) cleansed. Sort of Swedish sauna cleansed, not the Steve Martin high colonic cleansed. And, by the way, the yard looks better. I wore Mother’s “Don’t Worry – Be Crabby” hat. Two hair-coiffed, latter middle-aged, well-dressed in tennis clothes ladies passed me on their morning walk with water bottles – Didn’t even give me a nod. Rose was in the window – she and I grinned back and forth at each other once the ladies were a bit down the sidewalk.

Then Rose had to give me a stern look because she knew in her heart of hearts that I was doing a reverse look down my nose at the walkers.  Rose particularly hates it when I do that because not only is it demeaning for me, it reminds her that her nose is flat and she can’t really do it. Oh, I’m sorry Rose; it was just a little AmeliaJake jokie. Rose? Oh, I’ve gone and done it now. Good thing the mower is out of gas or she might mow my feet or something else . . . like my hair . . .  or MY nose?

Did I just hear the weedeater start up?

I am off-track this week, not that I have lost the track – I am looking right at it – but my wheels are bumping along beside it. See, I went to Fairborn on Friday, which felt like Friday; I went to the wedding on Saturday – Barbara Egan Kren, whom I have known since she was seven was beautiful – and that felt like Saturday. Then I decided not to return on Sunday, but come back Monday morning.

So as Sunday progressed and I didn’t leave, it felt like Saturday night; and when I spent the morning in the car on Monday, it seemed like a Sunday travel day. But now it’s Tuesday? Yes, I guess so unless scientists discovered a new day between Monday and Tuesday. I have not checked the news yet so I guess that is possible. Or maybe they did tests and found out Tuesday and Thursday had actually been switched at creation and today is actually Thursday. Well, at least tomorrow will still be Wednesday . . . unless the first scenario of a newly-discovered day is true.

Believe it or not, this is how I keep myself from wandering too far into the insane, out or touch with reality, region. Or at least it aids me in maintaining the charade that I am reasonably sane. Now that I am thinking about it, I believe you can be sane and crazy at the same time. I don’t think crazy is necessarily bad, although non-crazy probably keeps the world functioning. That is why I only have minor “lost” car trips and pretend “lost” trips with the kids. And it is why if I every did head out on an unmapped trip into the great lost it would be in an SUV with water, food and blankets . . . and a cell phone – maybe even a satellite phone. Oh, and of course, a cooler of ice.

Looks like rain today. I am toying with the idea of starting a campaign: All things we don’t need into the garage where they can be prioritized for trunk trips to Mother’s burn pile of put in line 2 for trips to recycling. My walls at the floor level are lined with stuff. Alison freely admits that she had a childhood that was very hard and she is now a collector of food and clothing. She is the “stock up” queen. Now that it is time to get ready for school, we are into the school supply phase. I fantasize about a giant vacuum that would suck rooms empty except for furniture.

I have been avoiding writing about Sydney. He spent the weekend at the vet’s for rest and evaluation. His liver enzyme is still up and we are discontinuing the bit of pain medicine he gets in the morning because it puts pressure on the liver functions. His eyesight has failed considerably and he is getting really deaf. School will be starting soon and I suppose he and I will spend time quietly in the same room. I think if he knows I am very near he doesn’t get up and down all the time. And when I have to work in the yard at Mother’s I believe I will park the car in the shade and put a blanket and water beside it and put a long leash hooked to the bumper or something. If he knows the car is there, I think he will relax and sleep. Maybe I could let Rose sit with him. He has lost some more weight but the vet thinks it is old age and not cancer.

I am living the ending of Marley and Me. Course no one knows, I could go first. Fate is fate. Bury his ashes above me. I’m not trying to be maudlin – just sensibly informative. This is what facing reality can do to you, which is why I like the trips into the crazy.

I told them in Indiana I would be leaving early, around the time Der Bingle got up and left for work. Well, he’s been gone for about an hour now and I am still in my sleeping attire. I would say “Running late” is the wrong description – is there such a thing as slugging late?

Okay, I can do this. Get dressed, load up the car and take off. Typing it was step one of what could possibly be a 12 Step Plan. I think taking my feet off the coffee table could be sort of a revving up. It’s questionable.

Summer did not come with me to Dayton; she chose to stay in Kendallville and bond with my porch, although I believe her mother thinks the two of them are bonding. So it is nice and quiet here – oh so wonderfully quiet. Anticipation is noisy in the brain, dontcha know. You hear the questions before they are asked and the fact there is an “I’m bored” waiting in the next few minutes screams at you. But here anticipating Der Bingle silently reading his new Kindle is a soundless mind message; it requires nothing of me – no bracing for an onslaught or sighing at an interruption.

Feel it with me: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I did take a nap and snored. And then I ate some Cousin Vinny’s pizza. I sat on the balcony and watched people moving out since summer session has ended. One group brought a nice looking sofa (sleeper) and left it by the dumpster. Later, Der Bingle said there were some folks looking at it and I said they should forget looking and sniff it. Blunt, but true. And then he said, “He’s sniffing,” and I popped over to look as he amended his statement to say a fellow had his head down in it. Leaves blocked my view.

Der Bingle suggested it would be a good time for me to go back out on the porch. I choice instead to stretch down to the end of the backless sectional and put my nose right up to the screen. They pulled out the sleeper portion, stood for awhile, put it back together and left. I wondering if it smelled like cat and I am thinking about tiptoeing over in the dark of night and taking a sniff myself. Gosh darn, do you believe this?

Another group of girls loaded up a U-Haul with mattresses, chairs and a sofa . . . and then the guy who had been standing talking on his cell phone forever toted in the rails for the bed frame. U-Hauls have a state painted on the side now; once we had Wisconsin and once Newfoundland – this one was Wyoming. I know that because I used the lens on my camera to zoom in. One of the girls had on a yellow shirt and red pants – real  yellow, real red. All snoopers like me should have it so easy . . . Actually, I was monitoring. Yes. Monitoring the End of Term Relocation Habits of the Modern College Student.

You see, you can give anything a longish name and get around the rose is a rose is a rose dictum. At least long enough to make a getaway.

I don’t know what to do today. Yesterday, I suddenly had the urge to have my hair trimmed, cut or shaved off and so hopped in the car and went to the shop and didn’t choose an option. I let the hairdresser do it. I’m going to a wedding on Saturday and fortunately no roots are showing; they will probably spout Friday night. When I wrote the check before I left, they have to see the driver’s license and ask your birth date. It seems the person couldn’t hear the 1948 the first time, so I said it again, louder. Still, she didn’t catch it, so I said it even louder 1948.  Yes, everyone in the shop knew.  Of course, I don’t know what difference that makes to me; I mean they were looking right at me – they didn’t need a date to tell I was older.

But, back to today. It is supposed to be cooler. Perhaps I should go up to Mother’s and fly a kite. Or I could stay here and clean. Maybe I will try on the clothes I am wearing to the wedding and, having assured myself they fit, head off to Mother’s so I don’t risk staying here and eating too much while I clean. (Did you know you can hear tittering over the Internet? Well, you can and I do. Just stop it.)

Maybe I’ll do the trying on clothes thing right now . . . because I might have to  panic.

Trying on time – feel free to hum, get a snack, whatever.

Okay, I am back.

Yes, yes, yes and thank you Talbots (sale): Linen skirt, check; white knit top with crochet collar, check; linen big shirt/jacket, check.

Well, now that that is settled. Well, sort of. I actually took advantage of the sale to get two skirts, so which to wear? Oatmeal or Seaglass? Probably wait until the last minute. And the skirt waist is big enough for reception goodies. Woo-hoo. Oh, little Indian Happiness Dance.

So what to do today? I forgot about needing to clean the inside of the car . . . and we have to determine if Summer is coming along. Alison thinks she should stay because she will be bored, and there is the  scenario where Der Bingle and I return with wedding goodies in our tummies and splat ourselves on sofas and Summer says, “Finally, you’re back; where are we going now?” I don’t know how she would respond to the suggestion of the balcony. Actually, I do know.

Today is sounding more complicated. And it’s already 8:42 am. As John Wayne would say, I’m burning daylight.

There is a line of weather to the north of us that is moving at a southeast slant and we are under a thunderstorm warning – the severe kind. I can feel it coming, the way you can anticipate the end of tiring walk or seemingly endless chore. I know that we have had a some tree experience with storms of late but I still crave the physical feel of the storm.

Sometimes, however, it just dissipates or heads a wee bit in a different direction and you feel like the embodiment of dozens of rubber bands stretched to the breaking point, but never past that point. You have to gather yourself back in slowly. I remember when we lived in Ames that would happen – and because we had lots of prairie storms, the percentages produced more than just one or two of those stifled sneeze weather moments.

I distinctly recall standing at the end of the parking lot which reached to our unit – 162C – and realizing the release of a zesty storm was going to give way to continuing sultry. I know that word is an adjective, but when it sits on  your shoulders for a number of days, it transforms into a heavy, free-standing noun.

Ah, the sky is getting darker; the wind is picking up; I have checked to see that my computer is not plugged in. More wind . . . dry leaves are blowing and bushes are dancing around. I could go out and just stand in the finally changing weather, but, of course, there is the ZAP factor.

It is very dim in here now and I can see the silhouette  of the ceiling fan against the white ceiling. THUNDER. WE HAVE THUNDER. And, now, the rain, horizontal at times and buffeted by gusts of wind. Heavier now . . . and carrying the smell of rural soil and crops. Fresh. So much better than the condensation that clung to the windows this weekend. Whoever or whatever is out there is soaked. And I am snuggled in a comfy corner at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.

Is this a literal feng shui moment?

Had I had my computer with me . . . and Internet access . . . I would have posted yesterday about the impromptu, make up your own course and rules croquet game that Summer set up when she faced an unexpected obstacle.

Yes, Shane chased the balls down and ran off with them.

And, Shane isn’t the type to learn: Okay, that’s enough, good joke, but no more.