Ah, what to do today? I suppose you are having trouble picking up on my motivational vibes . . . because, frankly, I am still. Not completely still, mind you; my heart is beating and my chest going up and down – otherwise, I’d be dead. You probably figured that out. These past few days I have not been of a mood to wrestle with things; these have been my “Oh, well” days. It is not a mood of sadness or despair; no, I’m more just floating along with the breeze. And not minding it really. I feel like having fun.

And why not? There is only so much you can do for some people. Only so much.

Newfie and some of the other regulars around here have been mentioning that they feel I have been putting myself too much front and center. As I understand it, a group of them got together and by acclamation Newfie found herself spokesperson. So, for the past bit of time I have been sitting here discussion the situation with her.

This is my view from my side of the table:

Her compatriots gave her a list of “talking points” and she has been going through them one by one. At point number three, I caught the drift of their message: AmeliaJake, you are hogging the cafe and we never get to express our opinions and tell our stories. I have tried to insert a few words to address this issue, but whenever my lips part, someone* chimes in that Newfie’s list continues.

I will tell them that, of course, it was I, AmeliaJake who built this little home for eccentric refugees and I run the place and they should submit ideas for discussion to my assistant. But, the truth be told,  I am afraid. So, more probably I will humor them a little and now and then let them contribute.  Come to think of it, how did the Foo Bar get established in the PB Cafe & Roadhouse anyway. Gee, I think I even paid for the decor. Darn! How the heck did that happen.

Oh . . . my  . . . goodness. Newfie has pulled a contract out of her pocket and someone* just handed me a pen.

* Some of the someones:

Spoofie

Feisty

Spiffie

Woo

NaPoo

Spikey

Even Alien Poo and  California LemonHead

I think we have phases in life, some short and some long. I am talking about personal phases, not really those determined by outside influences. No, that isn’t what I mean; this is difficult. Okay, phases that aren’t determined by one specific event, or even two. These phases either occur naturally as a result of organic mind/body changes (perhaps aging?) and/or the constant stresses and pressures of an extended environment. Something in you changes –  a shift in mood, outlook, or whatever you want to call it. Maybe it is like the temperature falling, falling and falling and then, poof, water is ice.

To tell you the truth here, I am thinking about this as I go along and some of the ideas coming off the top of my head are smashing right on the floor; some leave me so fast they zoom right out of my awareness and all I remember is thinking I might have had a good idea. Some circle around and come back to fight for landing space with others that carry opposing speculation.

I know I often don’t know what I am talking about, but it is unsettling to realize I don’t believe I know what I am thinking about.

Yes, I am fazed . . . and no, I did not plan that pun; it just presented itself and I gave up and grabbed it and typed it.

This STUFF. I found an old bottle of it and I used it and I cannot believe I ever strayed. I am tempted to voluntarily go to Wal-Mart and get some, along with the daily use formula. But what if they don’t have it? What if I drag my tried body out there and they don’t have it? Will three dollar solar lights appease me? I don’t think so.

The smell of the shampoo – heavenly. And now my hair is short enough I can’t get it to rest on my nose. Irony, rats. I don’t know if cleanliness is next to Godliness or not, but it is on my hair and I love the feeling.

For the past two days, I have been working outdoors. Yes, painting and mowing and I also did a little inside picking up, even though I kept walking by this pillow that said, “My idea of cleaning is to sweep the room with a glance.” Actually, the painting was staining, but considering it uses a brush and a can of liquid stuff, I call it painting. Now, of course, I’m going to confuse myself by saying that I stained three sections of privacy fence. Up and down with the arm and the wood sucked, really sucked the stain in. No long gliding strokes. Because the temperature had climbed, I grabbed one of Mother’s straw hats and plopped it on my head. Supposedly I have a big head and Mother had a small head, but it fit nicely – probably because Mother had put some spongy stuff in the inner band. Yesterday I managed to get redwood stain on it and today, it caught on a branch and went beneath the wheel of the mower. It was a scary moment but followed with quick relief as I realized it had avoided the blades.

I then decided to bite the bullet and not gamble on having enough gas; I drove into town and forgot I was wearing a stained and faded San Diego tee shirt and stained and worn jeans and the stained and almost mower-eaten hat. The touristy Blue Gate Restaurant was across the street and I think the clerk thought I was not good “local color”.  Sydney hanging his head – with tongue lolling – out the window probably added even another dimension.

When I finished what I was going to mow, I positioned to drive the mower into the Wheel Horse Stable – no kidding that’s what it says above the door. Below the door the boards making up a wee bit of a ramp had rotted completely over the winter and the front wheels went up and the back wheels caught. So I backed up and fiddled with a makeshift ramp. Did it four times and the fourth time on the backout portion I caught the edge of the door frame on something and split the two by four.

So . . . I got off and thought of the Gipper speech and how I was up against it and the breaks weren’t going my way and I hauled off and made the best makeshift ramp known to man and drove that tractor right in and, yes, well, hit the mower already parked in front. GO, AMELIAJAKE!!!!

None of this was caught on film and no AmeliaJakes were harmed in the non-making of the film.

Yesterday it was chilly and rainy and at about 8:30  in the morning it was gloomy; today it is chilly and the sun is out and it is 8:30 and it’s cheerful. I feel upbeat; I actually feel like cheering for the sun. And for blue sky. We take sun when we can get it in Northern Indiana – not that it is one of the cloudiest places in the continental US, but it is changeable.

Many times you will get up to a clear sky and think oh, wow, let’s have an outing or a picnic lunch or do yard work and make things look better. Then they starting floating in – clouds. At first a bit of fluff and then as if someone spilled a box of cotton balls and then you don’t see clouds, but the tiny bits of blue sky between them. And then you are under a gauze sky. Weather.com is of some help in this now, informing your little psyche if it can’t quit holding its breath and enjoy the coming sunny day, or telling you to buck up and make certain the governor on your mood is working.

????Woo Hoo, Thanks, weather.com.

I know I have written this before, but I just have to say it again. When we moved to Sacramento when Der Bingle was in the Air Force, I was still in the mindset that if you had a sunny day, you should get out and enjoy it. Damned near killed myself – would have had I not been in my early 20’s. Day after day of sun. Nothing got done inside and nothing got read. Finally, I think, I cracked. I looked at Robert William, handed him some toys, turned on the TV and curled up in the corner of the sofa with a novel.

He had other ideas . . . short little kid in red tennis shoes standing at the door with his hand on the knob, staring at me.

The diesel started to groan yesterday and I thought the sound was from the power steering, so this morning I drove it over to Max Myers Motors to see if it was low on fluid or worse. It is worse than just low, but we don’t know how much; I called Robert and he came over and got me and I am back – munching on a snack and checking email and the news. I got back in the middle of a movie called Lymetime (or something like that) starring Alec Baldwin. I really don’t care for him, but got sucked in. Sitting here with cushions and food and a TV movie has put me a lazy mood and I looked to see if another movie was on. I read through the guide and came across the word poignant in one plot summary. I don’t feel like poignant today and nothing else appealed to me, so I am typing with the story of the Venice Flood Gate construction in the background.

Actually, I want to get up and get moving and cheer up the house with a fire and candles . . . and some cleaning. More accurately I want to want to get up and . . . I know I will be glad I did but it’s raining and I am having trouble getting my oomph in gear.

Ah, I just found myself thinking, “Only in Italy” because this technical show is highlighting a snag – a national transportation strike. The workers can’t get boats to the site. I mean, isn’t this a major project to keep Venice from flooding and sinking? Wasn’t there a lot of todo about whether or not to do this project and then how to do it? Isn’t it time sensitive in relation to weather and currents? But the boat taxis are on strike.

Okay, I’m getting up.