Rose just came over and looked at me and remarked to Sophie, “Oh, Lord, it’s one of THOSE days.” * Apparently, I am doing it again – the morose mood wandering thing that happens when I think about my little self. This is just what I need – Rose rallying the troops to keep me from going back to bed. Der Bingle always remarks, “You don’t want to let Rose down.”

“Okay, okay. I’m up and facing the day.” I sigh, knowing full-well Rose is going to say something about that being a start and to say it again with conviction and feeling.

*See post below

I saved the book that arrived just days after THIS POST to read after Christmas. It was hard not to fling my face into it, but I really wanted something to look forward to in that week that leads up to New Year’s and, eventually, February – that waiting room of a month between seasons. So I am reading it – The Anglo Files – and I have already had actual smiles on my face.  And I am not an easy smiler. In fact, I abhor times when people ask me to look at something funny and then watch my face for a reaction. Yes, it may be humorous but my mind registers it and goes on – except when someone is watching and I have to fake it or explain, “You know I’m not a smiler.”

I actually had to stop reading and just breathe and press my lips together after she pulled off the Wallis Simpson and “look what happened to her” comment.

But, anyway, my mind is still back in that first paragraph up there – the part about face-flinging; yes, it is a bit off the fling definition.  I have been using the verb “fling” a lot lately. I know how I was exposed: A book describing clicker training for dogs remarked that some eager little intelligent ones would learn so quickly they would fling themselves on the floor when given the down command. I don’t know why my amusement provided a pathway for the “fling” virus into my language area, but it did.

I don’t know, maybe Wallis Simpson married Edward VIII and had a fling. Well, that just popped out; I’d better put myself on lockdown until safeguards are put in place . . . or, at least, little warning signs.

I knew they would. I knew it back when Der Bingle made reservations for Quentin that he would come and then days would pass and it would be time for him to leave. And today he is . . . leaving, that is. I was going to go to the airport with Der Bingle to see him off, but thought about the hour drive there and back and the emotions and elected to stay here with Shane. We can cheer each other up . . . or at least sit together on the sofa and sigh.

I didn’t really take any pictures; I think because I want to keep the days in my heart. But I gave Quentin a camera and he has videos of Shane running and sitting and Wubba chasing and doing the “pull at your heartstrings” gaze.

My gosh, I believe I hear a bit of Kipling echoing from those photos . . .

Come back ye Quentin friend

It is wadded up in a ball in the laundry room – this white apron with a little blue print on it. I think it was made probably sometime in the 40’s or 50’s. Grandma wore it and Mother wore it and, this Christmas, I put it on. I had two reasons: I had come across it and I wanted to wear it and the second is that I forgot until I got two splashes on my shirt and put it on to cover them up.

It fared pretty well, not getting too splattered, although there are two obvious red spots where cocktail sauce dripped off the shrimp I was scarfing down while doing kitchen things.

When I took it off, I just tossed it in the laundry room, and a brief while ago, I feared I should have shown more respect. I think in the future I will take a little more care, just so I can make certain it stays around for awhile; but it is just an apron and Grandma tossed it and Mother tossed it and it was part of everyday life.

It is not a relic . . . well, maybe it is . . . but it is a used relic. I don’t want the day to come when people frame a shred of cloth that came from the True Apron.

I am having a problem with Christmas; it seems like a schedule. Perhaps that is because of the point I am at in the schedule of my life. I just don’t know, so I’m not going to write any more about it; I may not think about for a while, either.

I think I’m going to crawl into warm cozy spot and read or play some adventure game on this little old laptop. And, of course, there are the leftovers.

Shane and his Santa Wubba. He wonders, “Uh, does this mean I’m on the naughty list?”

This picture is from last night; I couldn’t publish it right away because we were doing some re-arranging on my computer. But, I’m up and running now. Ha! I’m sitting – we tire ourselves out at the meetings, dontcha know?

Jody in uniform at the Meeting of  The Leaning Cow Lodge.

If he’s on the plane, he’s in the air and on his way to Fort Wayne and Der Bingle and Cameron and Summer are going to down to get him and then stop on the way home at Logan’s. Shane and Sydney and I are here at home with the elves getting not in the Christmas spirit, but getting into the spirits. Ha Ha Ha . . .  I kid. We are getting in the sparkling grape juice and the fancy glasses . . . stems and everything. And jarlsberg cheese dip. And, of course, Coke and Diet Coke.