My hair is a little darker in our quest to eliminate any golden/orange tint that showed up when my hair dried. Wet, it just looked normal. We will see how this goes. The problem was not just the brassy shade that showed up after a few washings – even with special shampoo (and in the summer, sun) – but the startling contrast it made with my roots that are a blend of white and light brown. It was actually the brown aspect that made the most contrast. Maybe as the brown finally gives up the ghost, I will lighten the color so it will mesh better with all white. Who knows.

Anyway, I want to thank Donna of Scizzor Worx for working with me. My paternal grandmother had gallbladder trouble and hair that was her natural color way into her 80’s; I inherited the gallbladder, but not the hair gene. Rats.

So, what to do now? I am feeling less down. I think because I did something and I am thinking, well, maybe that is a good tactic for other things in my life. Try a little action. I guess this most is mainly for me, writing about it to aid helping my brain forge pathway of soldiering on. I know that phrase makes one want to giggle, but right now, the little melodrama helps.Makes me think of the Home Guard and the cheerful song in that Angela Lansbury movie, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

I’m feeling down, so I am going to get my hair colored. The roots are showing and that adds to my downness. I guess if I were really down, I’d say to hell with roots and let them be or shave my head. But I’m going to (excuse me in advance) bitch slap myself by having a little coloring experiment. Four o’clock. If things work out visually okay, I will tell myself, “Thanks, I needed that.” And if they don’t, well, it’s coming up on February and March and they are ‘waiting room’ months in Indiana anyway. I’ll just wait until the roots spring up again.

Perhaps I should take Rose with me; she could get her hair done – maybe something in a turquoise.

Who knew? Not us, the school has an automated system that alerts families to starting delays due to weather; well, we didn’t hear the phone and no one saw the message light flashing, so we goofed up. Yes, apparently it is icy outside and I have just found out about an eight car pile-up on the west side of Fort Wayne. I have heard sirens with my own ears. I suspect it is very treacherous out there.

Now we wait and see. The forecast is for the temperature to remain at 32? until at eleven, so I am thinking that while the salt trucks will be on all the main roads, a lot of roads will be left to wait for the warm-up. That means school bus routes could remain icy . . . and then there’s the factor of student drivers. I wouldn’t be surprised if they cancel. I am not relying on the phone – I have a screen window open to school announcements. And there it goes . . . East Noble: Closed.

Well, heck.
Colin is very excited; Shane’s a little upset. His barks sound like GET. OUT. OF. HERE.

Egads! What has happened? When you click on the pictures in the two post below, the enlargement is upside down. I’m going to look into this . . . after I take a deep breath and think for a little while.

We’re coming up on the first birthday of the little guy in the picture below. His grandma is one of my dear friends – a really great lady – from West Chester, Ohio. His grandpa is okay, too. Actually, he’s a pretty lucky little fellow.

Of course, when I speak of the Indiana Jones Movie Era, I am talking about the first three – not the last which I wrote about here – something about Old Man Pants.

Let’s see, an Indiana Jones movie was at the Drive-In in Chicago when Quentin was born; that would have been the first one. This picture, which has seen far better days and looks as if it could have been touched by snake venom, must have been taken about 1986 to 88. I’d guess maybe the second movie had hit the video release date for home viewing. I say this because the shorter Indiana Jones in this picture could not have been too long in the tooth – and that’s assuming he had front ones.

Actually Der Bingle had his leather jacket and hat before Indiana Jones came to the movies. I think the jacket was from Korea or Thailand and the hat was from Australia, but I could be wrong. Quentin’s jacket was from Korea (again I think) and I don’t know where we got the hat. But, anyway, here they are cooking out back on the patio.

By the way, there is a snake story about that patio and if you want to find out about it, I believe it is here.

I woke at about 3:20 in the morning. Yes, most people in these parts were sleeping, and I went to the bathroom. Well, first I thought about going to the bathroom – such a chore, dontcha know? – and decided that, yes, it would be the wise thing to do.

Then I get back under the covers and I AM AWAKE; the situation is obvious to me: I am up a tree without a paddle. No, I deliberately fouled-up that cliche; I think it is nighttime humor more than evidence of sleep deprivation. I could be wrong. I will see what my humor is like 12 hours from now as the afternoon wanes. I imagine whatever thoughts I have – funny or not – will run the gamut from A to ZZZZZZZZZ.

Too bad other people are in the house or I would bang things around and get some serious straightening up done. However, I know my dexterity level in the best of times and I think I would more than likely do something akin to dropping a pizza pan on the floor – WANGA WANGA WANGA – in these early morning hours.

And to think I used to have days (deadline) when I would go to bed at three after writing three articles that I had started at, oh, 10 pm. I remember sitting there spending part of that time calculating possible rates of progress and finishing up times. Oh, when that last period was typed . . . the closing of the laptop was soooo delicious. Of course, getting up then at 6:30 am was a little less so, but once over the out of bed hump, I felt cheerful. Until the next deadline. I never figured out why I did this; I have only figured out that I can’t do it anymore. That trudge to the finish was like hitting the wall in a marathon – AS IF I WOULD KNOW.

Capitals. They are supposed to indicate yelling; I think that is too limiting. I think of them as emphasis. I get snide and snarky if I want to have a tantrum in typing. But that is just an early morning rambling. Actually, it’s the truth, the rambling is in the bringing it up here.

I am craving a peanut butter foldover. I don’t have any Trader Joe’s sourdough bread so I can’t pretend I’m going native in San Diego. I guess it’s a Midwest Wheat morning, and with that, I see I have made my decision am am going to the kitchen NOW. (emphasis)

I guess that post title hints at the level of my expressive creativity today. I’m here because I had some dilly-dally moments while getting ready to go to the bank and post office about 11 this morning. I was finally ready to head out the door at about noon and decided lunchtime on a Monday was not a good time to actually go inside both places. I am waiting an hour. Right here with you. I jest.

I am going to read my Kindle for awhile. The book is okay and it has lots of pages and cost 99¢ – probably not the best way to measure the worth of a book. If you’re looking at relaxation, however, I suppose it’s as good as a Redbox rental.

Two week-ends in a row Der Bingle and I have made chili on Saturday morning and he has handed me the parts of the sliced tomatoes that don’t go in the mixture. I eat them because I love tomatoes. Last week I bought regular on the vine tomatoes because I forgot his instructions to get romas. So yesterday I made certain I had the roma ones.

Okay . . . This morning as he was slicing and dicing and I was walking around the kitchen collecting spoons, washing pans and putting the chopper together, he would, as usual, slip a bit of tomato into my mouth. Everything proceeded as usual; just like last Saturday . . . until a couple of hours later when I had the dreaded intestinal cramps, followed by mock dysentery. Sorry if I’m getting dramatic here but it didn’t feel good.

I think it was the roma tomatoes; I think they are for cooking, not raw eating. At least as far as my body is concerned. Maybe I am wrong . . . as my daughter-in-law said, “Oh, you and your gut.”

I stopped talking about romas then because my intuition told me unless I quickly changed the subject, that line would become on of my definitions. You know, kids saying, “You’ve got Grandma’s gut.” Or, let’s go to a different restaurant; you know Grandma’s gut.” Heck, it could become a syndrome: Grandma’s Gut.

I don’t know, maybe it’s better than having “the vapors”, but come to think of it (and I wish I hadn’t) it might actually have some resulting vapors of its own.

What did they say yesterday? Oh, yeah, I remember. SHUT UP AMELIAJAKE.