I’m not going to link to the man in the banana suit. Too lazy, I guess; but I have to take a minute to link to THIS SITE that Der Bingle came across.

Here’s one of the pictures:

And, oh heck, here’s the Banana Man, after all:

You can find a lot 99¢ books at the Kindle store and a lot of them are OK by me; sometimes such books are actually  a bracelet  of well-written vignettes joined together with weak links or draw everything together in an Oh, never mind  they somehow lived happily ever after last chapter. So what if there are loose ends . . . this is fiction, people.

However, I have actually paid for a couple that were disasters. Sometimes they have an  interesting “preview” chapter, but it serves as bait for a plot involving perfect people and complete villains who resemble political figures of the day. It is so obvious it is spit written venom.

I haven’t rated any books on the Kindle page yet, but if I do, I’d better force myself to let  72 hours pass first so I don’t write, “Oh, yeah? Well, yo momma.”

Okay, I’m done.

I’m not talking about the cold outside; I’m talking about my little respiratory system. Yes, the symptoms set in last night and I slept under numerous blankets with my head propped up to relieve the pressure in my ear. This morning I scrounged a couple of Alka-Seltzer Orange Zest cold tablets and I am feeling a bit better.

It was just a couple of days ago I wrote about being lax about bundling up for this mild winter and going out with no socks on, not to mention thin moccasins.  Now, probably, there is no connection, but my father would be giving me a look from which I would infer that maybe I helped the cold virus along. I did have to put my feet on a heater to warm them back up . . .

There’s a lesson here, but I haven’t been able to assimilate it into my personality for 63 years. Maybe it is time to pay some attention to common sense axioms – Oh, like not touching an electric switch with wet hands . . .

Big Sap gets Big Zap is not a good local headline to think about.

Now, please excuse me while I wipe my nose.

The post right below this one – that’s what I’m talking about. My buddies here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse made me. They gave me that black-eyed stare. Rose, of course, looked at me as if to say, “Surely, she hasn’t lost her big HOO out of HOOSIER. Surely, she won’t let us down.”

So out I went and I wore a coat and a headband and gloves and moccasins without socks. I opened the front door to start the engine . . . and Shane jumped in. I sighed, contemplating a trip to the fairgrounds. Then I opened the truck and can you say “very, very lucky”? Not only were the cans not frozen, they were only at the slush stage; a little warming and all will be well.

But then I had to contend with Shane. To fairground or not? I would have to clear the outside of the car off and he would want me to get out and throw his Wubba . . . but I had no socks on. So I told Shane he could go later. Now, this is where I am ashamed. You know that part about going out with only moccasins? My father would have been quietly disgusted with me; I knew that and I did it anyway. BUT when the dog asked to go to the fairgrounds, I told him I had no socks. Please don’t tell Rose about this. I will carry my personal guilt all day long as it is. I’m sorry, Daddy, you are right; and I’m sorry Shane.

I already goofed up this morning with the gloves. I pulled one on my left hand and waited until I had started the car to put the other on the right. I thought, “OH, RATS, I’VE GOT TWO LEFTS.”  No, that wasn’t it; I had put the right glove on my left hand.

Normally, that’s not so bad at all for Indiana and February and winter, but this year has been mild. So instead of being happy that it’s above zero and savoring the relative warmth, I am contemplating taking a look in my truck at a couple of 12 packs of sodas. Now, usually in winter I do not keep soda in my trunk, but this year has made me soft. My regular course of action would have been to bring it into the back vestibule, put it against the wall shared with the kitchen and cover it with a tarp. Only rarely would I look at the weather prediction and bring it inside; a couple of times I forgot and we had a few  exciting “booms” out there.

If I am very, very lucky, the cans will just be frozen inside; very lucky would be cans frozen with bottoms bulging. Okay, there is no just lucky; I guess I consider myself sort of lucky in this situation if exploded cans are contained within the poofed-out carton. At the worst, I can scoop out the totally frozen slush. But you have to that while you are standing in the cold: it doesn’t work when it warms up. That sounds obvious, but it is easy to think “warm up a little bit” and, no, you don’t want to think that because if you don’t have the gumption to freeze your butt at the moment, you won’t find yourself going out later.

So, I am putting on warm pants and maybe even a coat and going out to assess the situation. Well, maybe in just a little bit. Soon. Yes. . . definitely soon.

I was back in the attic yesterday for three hours.  Up there I am out of sight, probably thankfully so to some people. BUT, now I am at stage 2, which deals with putting different hoarded stuff up in designated areas. NOW is the time of the dictator. That would be me; that would be me with Great-great Aunt Sara’s carved walking stick.

This post is inaccurately titled; I was thinking of my getting back on those pull-down stairs, determined look on my face when I wrote the title. Maybe I thought I was going to write about getting back on the horse that threw you.  I was wrong in that assumption. Obviously, the attitude busting out right through my typing fingers is: Okay, you sherpas, get moving. I might have been too rash in my choice of the walking stick; perhaps an Indiana Jones whip would be more effective.

Gee, could it be I am in a bad mood today?? Did I get some bad peanut butter? I hope I don’t see myself in the headlines – with words like rampage and Nazi-like.

I guess a call to Rose is in order.

UPDATE: Rose’s appointment book is all filled up, so I guess I will be seeing Sophie. (This Sophie)

Sometimes I actually think about things being made up of teeny tiny little atoms. I think how I would not know this had not I been told it by people smarter than I. And how these smarter than I people would not know it if there were not people smarter than they are. I mean it is not an intuitive thought.

Sometimes, however, it pops up in my imagination. I read a short piece about people trapped in a air pocket as the water level rose . . . and thought it was too bad they didn’t have little saws that would chop the H’s off  of H20 so they could pair up the O’s. Of course, when you think like this, you see the sawing guys as little elves – or, I guess, nano-elves.

Maybe this is why people tell you to think big . . . keeps you from sounding like a nutcase;

I bit the bullet yesterday; I grabbed my ipod, a bottle of water flavored with Iced Tea Peach and  went up into the attic to do battle with mound of hastily deposited and frequently pawed through stuff. Well, I got up there and I decided “battle” was not what I wanted to do. I chose to nibble my way into the middle of the beast.

Of course, you know I am doing this so I can put more stuff up in the attic and that makes even me sigh and shake my head. But, anyway, I worked for three hours up there and made a dent. I also immediately put my water bottle down and did not find it again until I had worked my way back to the pull-down stairs after those three hours. You guess it: sigh, sigh and sigh.

I filled several trash bags – big and little – while I was up there and right before I myself descended, I tossed them down. Then as I headed down myself, I let my mind wander and when I got to the visual level of the floor, I stepped off what I thought was the bottom step. But, no, those white trash bags were bulging more than I realized and I wound of tumbling sideways from the third step. Of course, my landing was cushioned, but the handrail snapped off.

Alison was up there and heard me and came running, inquiring, “Did you fall?” I didn’t think fast enough and said, “Only at the bottom.” I should have whimpered from my position on the trash, “Oh, it was awful,” and let people help me to the sofa and bring me snacks and goodies. Maybe I could have convinced someone that my aches could be soothed by going to the store and bringing me two boxes of Little Debbie Boston Cream Pies.  Or maybe three. Oh, the possibilities missed.

So, what should I do today?

The moon is hanging in the sky, looking straight at ME through the top of a window. Actually, it seems to be staring and on my end of the view, it’s not like watching grass grow because frequent glances reveal it is sinking quickly. Soon it will no longer be visible and I will be left with a day wondering if it was a “sign”. Or will I  forget about it and start concentrating on it being Trash Stomping Day?

Now, there’s a chore that hangs over my head every Wednesday. No, I’m not going into my “people who load as much air as trash into the bags” rant. But I will be thinking of them as I brace the bins against the garage wall, climb up on a ladder and – augh – stomp trash.

When Summer was younger, she used to get excited and bounce up and down, boasting, “Grandma’s letting me stomp trash!” She has since wised up. Drat.

The truth of the matter is that enjoying a snack is difficult with a begging dog. Yes, you are thinking that I am a non-sharing jerk. That may be true, but doesn’t really apply here. With Shane I share . . . his cute little doggie face and all that. The problem is he doesn’t chew. Just now I made myself a little peanut butter foldover and when I sat down, there he was.. So I gave him a bite and I took one. I became acutely aware that peanut butter is one of those foods you have to chew at least a little – unless you are a dog.

Shane’s bite lasts as long as it takes to open his mouth and swallow and then he wants another. For me, the peanut butter is sticking to my tongue, teeth, roof of mouth and before I know it, he has had four bites by the time I manage to swallow one.

I have been aware of this for a long time; I just became acutely aware of it this morning because I really wanted to savor my sandwich and I was hungry too. So I stuffed four bites into my cheeks, put one on my tongue and started a marathon chewing session. Sometimes I tease my grandkids about chewing each bite 35 times. (Of course, Summer and I are so competitive, we have had “most chews” contests.) Let me tell you, I may not chew a bite of peanut butter 35 times, but having five bites in your mouth at once is not something you wolf down.  Chewing is inhibited by space and I think I actually chewed more than 5 times 35 times.

My plan needs modification – maybe smaller bites for Shane. Could he tell? Oh, I think so. Added to the speed of eating difference, he doesn’t care for the crusts. Come on,  you darn dog, it’s not like you taste it going down. I think he toys with me, knowing he can always do the “puppy dog” eyes thing.

I could just stop snacking on peanut butter sandwiches, but he’s an Australian Shepherd and you know how they have their routines. Drat, foiled again.