This morning. This morning just before school. This morning just before school, someone could not find her glasses and panicked – as in screaming at the world. You cannot get a panicked screamer to retrace her steps in her mind. Her mother found them after 45 minutes of searching in a room where someone had claimed she had not gone.

The living room sofa is still turned over, because we just have to calm ourselves. Lordy! I am waiting for reality show people to call and ask if we’d be interested in being the topic of a show.

My father was born on November 12, 1918 – the day after the First World War Armistice – and got his middle name Pershing from General Pershing, leader of the American Expedition Forces that war. He died in February, 2000. He has been dead for 13 years, going on 14. It does not seem possible, then again, it does not seem possible he would have been 95 today, but that’s what it comes down to – 95.

This November 12th, it is 23 degrees outside right now. I popped out into the back vestibule to grab a “wake-up” caffeine-infused diet cola and did notice it was “brisk.” I also noticed that I need to replace the insulation around the door that goes to the garage – it’s right by the door that goes to the vestibule. The cold air might have aided the caffeine, but the thought of fooling around with coiling rubber gasket-like rope and attaching it to a door made me decide I needed to fortify my spirit with some time under a warm afghan . . . just ’til I get my mind ready for the task, dontcha know. Although I could just ask a bunch of Raggedy Anns to stand one atop another right there by the crack where the door meets the jamb*.

No . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea and I probably should just delete that bit, but then, again, their reprisals might make the day interesting. Sort of like Cato and Clouseau.

I’m so proud of the fact I refused to lower myself to make a pun about being “in a jam” because of that idea. Oh, I guess I blew it.

So, okay I wasn’t talked to death Saturday and I made it through Sunday and today I found out I have no evidence of a urinary tract infection.

DOUBLE WOO-HOO

Everyone likes my new haircut and someone even told me I looked like Diane Keaton. I want to thank Donna of Scizzor Worx in Kendallville.

Better calm down before I Woo-Hoo myself to death.

I may not be here tomorrow. If someone can be talked to death, look for my obituary. It is so ironic, that I am writing this.

Ah, yes, do you remember the lady who knitted scarves for me? No, well, it was Sue, Jody’s mother, and there was an article in the paper about her participation in a special group. So far, just the one picture is in the article, but I am betting more will show up on somebody’s site.

I feel comforted knowing I have an “in” with someone who can help me disappear if need be. I will just wrap my scarves around me and stand in downtown Iowa City.

It is possible I should have made my subject matter known earlier in this post, but, gosh, I’ve gotten too lazy to cut and paste. But HERE is the article and here is the picture that accompanied it.

I had a urine test today and it showed no bacteria . . . but they are sending it off to be cultured.

I had a wee bit of adventure before dawn this morning – and thank heavens I had turned the light on in the garage. I was out there, in the shadows filling up my arms with light, dry wood to start a fire in the basement. I carefully made away around some stuff – and I was being very slow and careful. That kind of describes the way I fell: although I was placing each Emu-booted foot slowly as I progressed with my load of wood, something snagged on a boot and slowly down I went, trying to aim myself toward the side of the car so I could slide to the floor and not just flop.

The wood just arced up and then there was quite a clatter – more than any reindeer hooves made, I’m sure. I don’t know if there was a yell or not; I just remember seeing the side of the car in front of me and then I was looking under it. I knew at once I was not hurt and gratefully started to wonder how far my screams for help would have carried with all doors shut in the cold of the morning. Then I thought about how cold it was there on the concrete and got up and gathered my wood and went on – there was nothing else for it.

The fire is going . . . and I still am too. So I guess I can start counting my blessings . . .

Yesterday was an upsetting day for someone I know. A male student had a birthday yesterday and his teacher chose that day to have a very negative conference with his mother. I heard about it and I could not help but think it was a bit over the top, and, of course, I am deliberately understanding my analysis.

Here in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, we had a bit of a situation as well, Not a personal one, although some of the regulars – such as Fred who is getting ready for his seasonal job at NP Productions, took time out from making his things to take list: pointy hat, pointy shoes, green and red pants, etc to just make fun of our own pre-holiday experiment. Actually, some of my cohorts are declaring it was “her” (AJ’s) experiment.

In my defense, I think it was a nice little foray into culinary trial and error procedure. You see, the store had huge turkey legs on Manager’s Special and I thought with Thanksgiving coming up, I might just grab them and toss them in the freezer. However, I walked past a display that featured “Cook your turkey in a bag” kits. Soooo . . .  I thought, what about turkey legs? The bags were cheap and two to a box and I followed the instructions – put flour in, shake, add meat, zip tie shut and clip off a corner for venting. The first instruction, though, was to follow the cooking instruction for the item to be cooked. Okay . . . I just stuff the extra legs in my super duper Nesco oversized roaster with the turkey on Thanksgiving. Right. But now I just had six big legs with big bones and an oven. What temperature? How long? Heck, I had no idea. That didn’t stop me.

Then I was distracted and quite a while later, exclaimed, “THE TURKEY LEGS!!” Oh, yeah, they were done – falling off the bone done. Anyone who wanted to eat them King Henry the Eighth style would have needed not a bib, but something to catch pieces that just fell off.

The bag was kind of cook, though, with absolutely no mess. I’m seriously thinking of getting one of the counter top convention ovens they are selling now for under a hundred dollars to just, well, have fun with, and take with me to other . . .  wait for it . . . other venues. Dontcha just love that word?

Maybe we should start advertising the PBC & R as a “venue” for your wild parties and/or weddings  . . . and possibly wakes. Then maybe I am just typing like crazy to delay going down in the basement and starting on the “making a dent” type of housekeeping. Of course, I could use the fireplace cleaning method – start a blaze and toss the unwanted stuff in. No mess, no fuss, no evidence.

I’m just going to take my hands off this keyboard right now. It’s probably better that way.

When the blahs hit, it is better to find something to perk you up, but then, again, there are times when it is best to just roll with them. I am doing that now and if I could sing, I would probably be going Roll, roll, roll your blahs. But then, again, I think I would not really do that. I don’t know why I typed it in the first place; the blahs can have weird effects on  you. Ah, perhaps I should slowly remove my fingers from the keyboard.