Der Bingle and I are talking about a replacement car for moi, and it is, not daunting, but complicated – a Little Old Lady From Pasadena moment. Now, what I would like is a car with a strong engine, good tires and a couple of scratches and dents. Do you know they do not seem to have a major selling place for such cars?

I came up with the idea that Der Bingle get a newer car and I take the one he is driving now. That didn’t go over too well; he says he has his seat just right. Does that sound like a reasonable response? I think it is code for “You are not getting my engine, which is the best one that Buick ever made.” He also said that I really should get one with a rear camera.

My son Quentin remarked that now they are making cars that tell you what to do and then sigh and say to their computer selves, “You’re not listening; I’m going to go ahead and brake.” I suppose that sends me some message.

I guess I know what most people are telling me in one way or another, because I have always sensed that when I have chosen a car in the past, the car seems to almost cry and say, “Oh, no, not her.”

And I think all my bitching about getting to the milestone 70 has given people an opening to suggest that I find happiness in the slow(er) lane.

It’s going to be a humbling week.

I went to sleep last evening dirty with dust and dried sweat. I woke up knowing it was either shower or make myself a cardboard sign and sit on a corner, and let me tell you, I gave some serious thought to the cardboard sign idea.

However, in the end, I did gather up my bathrobe and a towel for my hair and headed into the shower. It always seems like a chore – actually getting under the stream of water. I mean, once you’ve made that leap of faith, there’s no going back. You are wet.

Then you have to get your hair lathered up with a shampoo that doesn’t leave much residue. It can be tricky – too much shampoo and you are washing suds out of your hair for what seems like an eternity. This is unsettling because you have been trained since earliest childhood to wash and rinse your hair TWICE.

Then there is the body scrub with a good shower gel, one that leaves you feeling clean, but not smelling like little old lady lavender. By this time you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you have forgotten to brush your teeth first, you become very aware of a big noxious area infiltrating your new clean space. I’m going to skip going into that aspect right now because it always makes me think of a cartoon invisible man walking around with only his oral cavity visible. Yes, I realize that sounds ridiculous and I probably should not have confessed to it, but after all, this is a bit of a coming clean article. (GROAN)

Then comes the part where you slide the door open, step out and reach for your bathrobe, hoping that you have not neglected to check that the sleeves are not inside out. Time for the towel to be twisted around the head like a turban and off you go to get dressed.

Of course, you feel nice and clean and shake your head at your reluctance to start a procedure with such a good outcome – and all along, you know it’s going to be just the same next time.

So, as has happened hundreds of times before, I now sit here clean and it occurs to me that I don’t want to do anything to counteract the effect. No shoveling the ashes out of the fireplace, no sticking my head into closets to pull stuff out, no going outside and vacuuming the car, no clipping the hedge and so forth. Gosh, darn, that’s just depressing. (This would be the place where I stifle a snicker.)

If anyone wants to know why I frittered the day away, it’s because I showered. That seems like a reasonable answer, as long as it is presented correctly.

Der Bingle flew out to California this morning on a 6 am flight. And at 4:45 am, he sent me a text that he was sitting at the airport thinking about the sleeping/snoring others. This didn’t wake me up because about one minute earlier, I had awakened from a nightmare, calling out his name. I’m not aware of this happening before. When I heard the text tone, I was terrified my psychic tendency had anticipated a bad news notification.

No, it was the text I mentioned earlier. I texted back about my nightmare and then another text came in. It read:

Cut me out of this loop so I can sleep.

Oh, yeah, that’s right; the evening before Der Bingle and I had been in a three way chat with LZP.  As I sometimes do, Der Bingle forgot to switch back to the two way chat and at 3:45 in the dark, cold hours of an Iowa morning, LZP had been startled by whatever text tone he has, hopefully not a klaxon sound.

So, from those of us who were in the Eastern Time Zone this morning: SORRY.

Of course, of the three of us, one of us is now in San Diego – Carlsbad by the Sea. So LZP, I suppose Der Bingle should text you: REALLY, REALLY SORRY.

I had not heard of this film, but saw it listed on Netflix. My first thought, given the title, was that it was probably a film with a Humphrey Bogart title and a disappointing everything else. But I gave it a try and, at last count, have watched it three times. It is not Casablanca, but it is definitely an AmeliaJake film – so much so that I even copied down some quotes.

Then there is this quote, which is in the movie, but from Pessoa: “The fields are greener in their description, than in their actual greenness.” I could feel that thought, not just hear the sentence.

I did do the intermediate steps also – to within some estimation of the directions. I am a lot more careful with chemicals, by the way. That is not to say that foodstuffs are not chemicals, but I think you know what I mean. Actually, that reminds me of the time Mother – who really enjoyed cooking – decided she was going to make her own ketchup and every now and then, a boom would come from the stairwell to the basement.

NO, I AM NOT A WANNABE PIONEER WOMAN. Just in case you might possibly be wondering.

I am so, eh, how do you say in English? . . . at loose ends, that I might actually go into the kitchen and cook something. I might make stuffed peppers, or I probably should say “some variation of stuffed peppers.”

I feel my resolve weakening. However, I do have a bag of green peppers in my refrigerator, which will either wrinkle all up or get funky mold spots . . . or, having eventually been thrown out, return to haunt me.

Unfortunately, I can visualize a grinning sinister green pepper showing up in my dreams, or lurking under my bed in true monster tradition. So, I guess I will actually do a little experimentation here.

This is so not me.

To be honest, I wasn’t certain I’d show up here again or not. Thinking that if I have nothing worthwhile to say, I should say nothing seemed pertinent, but, on the other hand, that has never stopped me before. So, I go on with my fingers on the keyboard.

There are a multitude of political and social issues dominating the news and discussions right now, but what sticks in my mind is my doctor at my wellness appointment Monday remarking, “You have a significant birthday coming up.” In  fact, I have spent this year so far not being 69, but constantly thinking, YOU ARE GOING TO BE 70.

70 is not the new anything.

Quite frankly, a lot of people tell me that I don’t look anywhere near my age, and that perks me up . . . for a while, and then I think, but that doesn’t make me not my age.

Then there will be the problem of protesting: No, I am not senile; I have always been odd, eccentric and snarky. And they will probably nod their heads sympathetically and smile pityingly. 

So, that’s my mood today; not an uplifting one. Well, at least I am not a golfer because we have had cold rain, wind, more cold rain and, today, bless the Weather God’s heart, snow.

But, returning to political issues, let me remain steadfast in my declaration about Joe Biden:

AmeliaJake can’t stand that man.