Ha! Just two days ago, we here at The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse made some observations, buttressed with police reports, about Beto O’Rourke.

Well, although we are miffed enough to find all sorts of puns filling our heads, we find that none can match the sophistication level of Mr. O’Rourke’s poem. Here’s part of it, see if you agree he has set the bar so low it is in a hole.

I need a butt-shine,
Right now
You are holy,
Oh, sacred Cow
I thirst for you,
Provide Milk.

Buff my balls,
Love the Cow,
Good fortune for those that do.
Love me, breathe my feet,
The Cow has risen.

Wax my ass,
Scrub my balls.
The Cow has risen,
Provide Milk.

Oh, by the way, if he’s a hack at poetry, look at the this article on his actual hacking. If the link doesn’t work, here is part of it:

‘I need a butt-shine. Wax my a**, scrub my balls. The Cow has risen.’ Bizarre poem Beto O’Rourke wrote to a COW when he was a computer hacker who posted fiction about killing children is revealed

Democrats’ newest presidential was member of hacker group called Cult of the Dead Cow and called himself Psychedelic Warlord, he will admit in a new book
He posted on ‘bulletin boards’ – primitive equivalents of websites – and has left some of his writing intact
One story when he was 15 described running over two children in the street and said: ‘I just sat in a daze, sweet visions filling my head.’
Also wrote a poem called ”The Song of the Cow’ in 1988 which said: ‘Wax my a**, Scrub my balls.’ Scroll down to read it in full
Group stole credit card and calling card details to avoid running up large phone bills on modems which would have been a potential felony at the time
O’Rourke admitted he pilfered long-distance service ‘so I wouldn’t run up the phone bill’ but did not admit whether that involved credit or phone card fraud
Democrat says in new book that Cult of the Dead Cow taught him how to be ‘apart from the system and look at it critically and have fun while you’re doing it’
Group also posted pirated software, tools to hack Windows computers and distributed an essay called ‘Sex with Satan’
Members later tried to keep O’Rourke’s hacking past secret when he ran for El Paso city council

After watching seasons of Kitchen Nightmares and the 24 Hour to Hell and Back shows, I am really wary of going into a restaurant and sitting down for food. I keep seeing the grease, roaches, rats, mold, rotten food and a mouse coming out of a toaster. I can’t help wonder when my food was cooked, frozen and then microwaved . . . and possibly dropped on the floor.

I am certain I am being terribly unfair to many restaurants but when I think of all the variables involved in running a restaurant, I can see how a business could get in trouble. It seems odd to say that I feel most comfortable standing at a counter watching my burrito being prepared just a few feet away.

I’m not a good cook; in fact, I just don’t like it. You work on something and BAM, someone EATS it. It’s gone. Or it’s not eaten and it’s in the refrigerator where it gets pushed farther and farther back and soon that refrigerator could easily be on Kitchen Nightmares. Sort of open the door and look at death a hundred times over.

That’s why we specialize in slices of bread and peanut butter out of jars. We use clean knives to spread it . . . and we like it that way.

However, I must say that I ate at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant in Las Vegas and it was the best food I have ever tasted. I mean if I could eat that way three times a day, I would not snack between meals and that is saying something.

Of course, Gordon might be dismayed by my limited palate. Pearls before swine sort of thing.

Returning to my initial point, I think I would like a restaurant where you entered through a glass hallway beside the kitchen. Perhaps restaurants should not advertise with pictures of food, but pictures of clean kitchens.

I put on a warm coat yesterday, one with a hood, and went out back to my tiny yard to rake. Tiny takes on a different meaning when you have a regular rake and lots of leaves. It it the price to pay for having trees, so I am not complaining; I am simply remarking on the situation. I also have to admit it is better than having to deal with a long driveway with lots of snow – but that is a different matter.

There was someone who was to rake my leaves last fall, and, indeed, some were. We had an early freezing rain and a bit of snow and I guess he didn’t get it finished. When I went out to rake up what i thought were remaining leaves, I saw what I thought was a strip of leaves stretching along in the middle of the yard.  Well, it turned out, it wasn’t a strip; it was a mountain range that had settled into a dip in the landscape.

Ok, I raked the top dry layer off and found a frozen, wet, stuck together and to the earth long mound of leaves. I left it to dry out layer by layer and will return, like Douglas MacArthur and the Philippines.

It felt good to use my muscles and breathe in the non-frigid air. I went inside after awhile to putter around and then decided to go back out. My “feel-good” muscles were not amused. After about ten minutes they sent me a memorandum that they were flabby and out of shape and I should talk to their Union Rep about a possible strike. They used pain communication and it proved to be effective.

It is sunny today and looks inviting outdoors following the bleak winter, but I have decided not to cross the picket line during the “rake down” and am offering up aspirin and sofa time to my muscles. I hope they will come to realize the additional oxygen provided to them by movement will be advantageous. I don’t know, though, they seem to have a stubborn streak.

Maybe they would like Zumba?

And here I sit, the first Monday of Daylight Savings Time, adjusting to the great leap ahead.

It’s one hour, AmeliaJake, why are you having such a problem with one hour? Well, I don’t know; I guess it has become a ritual – gripe about being on DST between March all the way to early November. It is almost a catechism for me, older than, but probably not as heartfelt as my anti-Joe Biden roll of the eyes. Ironic, one complaint is about Fast Time and the other about Slow Joe.

It is an overcast Monday, the sky such a light, light grey that it appears white. After staring out my window at it with a focused eye, I really have to say it is white, maybe a dingy off-white, but still white. If it were a Christmas light strand, the bulbs would not be “warm” white, they would be that ice white that can tempt you in the store as sparkling icicles, but in the house is not at all comforting or cheery. It is more like having a huge spotlight in the room, and sometimes you feel like the deer in its beam.

There was no need for that paragraph, only to serve as witness that the situation was observed. In other words, were it a forest out my window and a tree had fallen, I would have heard it.

People talk about the moments in life; I think they are probably referring to several consecutive moments. One actual moment would be like an individual “pop” of a popcorn bag in the microwave. Then again, encapsulating a moment of time into a memory gives it more time, so to speak. Lengthens it. If you often revisit that memory, does that moment become close to a forever? Perhaps.

This is rambling; it is what my mind does all day long. Considering I dreamed last night of a chaotic attempt to gather things together for a train ride to Paris – figure that one out, considering the ocean, – rambling might be what my mind does ALL THE TIME.

Yes, I used capital letters –  not shouting, just struck by the idea. All the time. Now would that be Fast Time? See? I’m already rambling on.

Now, I’m going to bend my fingers into fists . . . so hop off the site quickly before I type again.

I have some wood that needs burning up before the onset of warm weather. I assume it has a need to fulfill its destiny – flame and ashes and smoke. I will enjoy sitting near the hearth reading or watching a video on the VCR. You know, one of the goodies from when they first started turning old movies into video tapes.

To get that wood from pile to fireplace entails me building up my strength by going out for 15 to 20 minutes, climbing on the woodpile and chucking it over to where it can be picked up and transported in. I am a woodchucker and maybe I will be able to answer how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck were a woodchucker. Or, something like that.

I really like soap, well the aftereffects of using it. Being clean and smelling fresh is invigorating.  This needs a caveat, however, where I am concerned: I do not care for sweetly perfumed soaps; I like the outdoorsy sharpness of a woodsy evergreen.

Walking down the body wash aisle, I spied some opaque light green stuff and read that it was Himalayan Salt. Okay, I had earlier walked by a Himalayan lamp and actually used Himalayan salt for seasoning, so I really was not inclined to resist. I bought two bottles. When I used it, I liked it.

I felt invigorated as if I had made the summit at Everest or taken on an energetic Sherpa persona. I suspect that feeling imbued by Sherpa spirit is not the first thing that pops into other users’ heads. I am aware this leans toward my being eccentric; well, that’s nothing new to me.

Is it news to you?

So, somehow I got back to the adding post screen that I like. I suppose it is not modern or state of the art, but, darn it, just because you can change something doesn’t mean you should. This is not decades ago with women waiting to find out where their hemline is supposed to be to be “in style.”

Frankly, all these changes seem equivalent to someone deciding in the past to change the lines on notebook paper to run vertically or be wavy.

Now, before anyone thinks that I am against change, please keep your thoughts sensible. I certainly appreciate the word processor over the typewriter and I truly love the internet and not having to know what library has what and then what the hours are. It is this little stuff that programmers feel they have to fool around with that irritates me. I would be happy if they would just put their new format ideas in a box and I could browse through them.

I did not like opening my add a post page to see that I was “BLOCKING.” All the options that have always been at the top of the writing area were GONE. I only found my way back to this format by clicking on an option in a leap of faith. For all I know, I could have wound up with the Chinese alphabet before me.

What is really scary is that I am supposed to be “not stupid” and even a wee bit above average. I almost suspect that somewhere really savvy computer people are looking right through the screen at me and laughing. If that is so, I need an emoticon for STICKING OUT TONGUE.

In mid-February I decided to come back to the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse after a hiatus of a combination of a number of things, perhaps one being the fact that I had and continue to have trouble with turning 70, not to mention that 71 is next.

However, I was startled in my state of self-pity by the splash of a pail of Joe Biden cold water on my face. I thought it was time to do the (rough paraphrasing) I have been bloodied, but I am not slain poetic reference cited by then Governor Reagan in 1976.

So I was limbering up my fingers when I began to think, Hmmm, I believe my tummy is a bit unsettled. It was a slow process taking about a day to realize that whatever was queasying up my stomach had remained in place until – in a minute’s time, it was filling half of a large Dutch Oven I had quickly grabbed. And, of course, there was diarrhea . . . and joint pain and aches.

I caved, CAVED. After pneumonia, I sank into a mixture of stomach flu and Woe is Me and Nothing will ever be all right again. The stomach cramping is going away after about a week now and I wondered if I should try again or sink into a world of Netflix, Hulu and dvd rental movies.

I am not noble and was seriously wavering and I looked at a movie from Family Video my grandson had rented. It was titled Insidious. I thought it might be a spy movie and looked up the plot. I found this: A family looks to prevent evil spirits from trapping their comatose child in a realm called The Further.

Well, okay, I decided to once more unlock the cafe doors. Here I can ramble around with thoughts, theories, opinions and pure nonsense. I am protected by the fact that almost no one sees or reads this site. If in 30 to 40 years, someone finds something that has become politically incorrect, well, I’ll be dead. And since I will never have a statue of me in an airport named for me, I guess that won’t even rattle my ghost’s shackles.

Well, dwindling posts from the Average Janes and Joes has turned into a landslide. And that’s okay – mass blogging was a trend. However, I think I’m going to gather my momentum up and get back to speed, not because the world needs to know anything from or about me, but because I enjoy connecting, well, a least having my little hand out there waving hello.

Ten years ago I could open my computer, click on the Internet and experience all sorts of drama that had nothing to do with me. I could follow the ups and downs and catastrophe family fights on a daily basis. You really didn’t have to live your life; you could spend a good part of your day keeping track of whose in-law was miffed at whom and what toddlers all over the country were doing to drive their mothers crazy and even find out about Mormon underwear.

Then it slowly petered out. And even The Pioneer Woman gave up all pretense of being a daily companion to all those folks out there that she loved more than her luggage.

I petered down and petered out, but I am aware of this drip, drip, drip of my thoughts continuing and carving out the landscape of my character, so I think I’ll keep on writing to the wind because it’s part of my sense of being here.

Now, as to that drip, drip, drip . . . I’m not like Maxwell Coffee, not all my drops are good. Just a warning.

I noticed last night that there was a wet spot on the floor at the edge of the refrigerator and thought that once again an errant ice cube had missed the cup and escaped. In a whimsical mood, I hoped that the ice cube did not think “Freedom” and then realize it was, well, you know, the M-word.

But this morning the spot was back again and after having been mopped and dried it got wet again. I could not figure where the water was coming from for there was no telling trail back to the refrigerator. When I reached down I felt the constant sprinkle of water; investigation revealed that the hose to the ice maker had developed a crack.

I looked on the Internet and discovered that for about three dollars I could buy a plastic coupling that would fix the problem once I cut the hole away. The hardware store had one and Cameron and I moved the refrigerator out and (oh, the dirt, but never mind) and did what the video showed and WE FIXED IT WITHOUT A PLUMBER! Thank you, YouTube.