We didn’t eat much chicken in my house when I was growing up, mainly because I think my mother was tired of it after The Great Depression and the war years. They had plenty to eat during those times, it just wasn’t store bought food or specialty items. Everything came from the farm, even the ice was cut out of the lake and stored in sawdust for summer.

Once when Mother went to her Uncle Sam’s for Sunday dinner, she looked at the table and exclaimed, “Chicken again!” I think “Toots” was in her mother’s doghouse that day.

So, like I said in the beginning we didn’t eat much chicken at all, although Mother did develop a taste for Kentucky Fried Chicken in its heyday. And Daddy would go to the Amish restaurant Das Essenhaus and order two chicken breasts – one for him and one for Miss Alice. (Our first Australian Shepherd)

Now, Alison, on the other hand, is a chicken-eater and so is Summer; I learned it was easy to slap chicken breasts in a baking dish, toss them in the oven and present one to Summer and she’d be, if not happy, mollified. It was pretty easy. I got to the point where I liked chicken salad when I made it myself – I ain’t eating no ground-up gizzards.

Der Bingle doesn’t like chicken either so we work around him, but we do now have it in the house. Today I saw on a news site that lots and lots (as in tons) of chicken was being recalled and thought, “Oh, Lord, Der Bingle is going to be restless.” However, when I clicked on the link I found out they were talking about chicken feet. Pots of chicken feet. You really had to see the image to feel the full effect, so, here, be my guest:

Well, at least if Mother were Chinese and in her childhood now, and if it were a Sunday and she was at her uncle’s, she wouldn’t have cause to exclaim, “Chicken feet again!.”

Well, I don’t know. I go out and look it and then I think of my soon to be 66-year-old-body, which barely measures five feet. That, by the way, is how I estimate distances by eye: How many AmeliaJake’s end-t0-end to cover a span.  Ah, yes, that room is about four AmeliaJakes by a little under three AmeliaJakes. I have actually lain on the floor to make certain a distance is actually 10 feet and not nine.

But that is not what this is about; this is about a scooter and the sense of keeping it. Okay, I have a couple of grandkids who could ride it, but then I wouldn’t want to be in any way responsible for road rash or a little leg or arm injury.

Now the nice thing about scooters (under 50 cc) in Indiana is that you do not need a license to ride it or a license plate to take it out on the road. You also do not need a license to go sideways over the handlebars because you are too short to put a foot down without inviting a major change in the center of gravity.

Can  you buff out little scratches in the fiberglass body?  That would make it look brand new and the odometer is under 1,500 miles.

BUT IT IS SO CUTE!!!!!!

Oh my gosh, I just looked at sales listing that reads:  White Honda Metropolitan Scooter seeks new partner. Must be good-looking, young, spiffy, bubbly, adventurous and capable of not embarrassing said scooter or driving into a tree. Used by little old lady, who had to be let go due to uncoolness, unspiffyness, non-adventurous body and well, not bad looking for an old lady, but hey, old lady looks and perky teen-age, early 20 looks just can’t compare. Aim: companionship and fun, marriage possible but not preferable given white scooter’s zest for seeking- new- horizons-at-the-drop-of-a hat.

What? I’m being ditched?  Hey, it feels different on this side of the story. Actually, little scooter, I am feeling used. You just sweet-talked me into  a professional spa treatment, including new battery, at Hayden Honda, and now it’s So long, Old Lady. I thought I was your AJ, your buddy – and I was just a Sugar Mommy????

Step by step I open it.

I haven’t had a great deal of time to settle down and be coherent about the contents of my box. Were people here, I would be hopping up and down, drinking cola, snacking away and chuckling over possible names. Frankly, I’m still working on figuring out just who is who, but the scarecrow came right out and told me her name was Sally. She said she was a real scarecrow cowgirl and not one of those Brokeback Mountain guys.

Actually, her being a scarecrow may be why the crow first let on he was a bird and still refuses to give more than his serial number.

Along with my cows and bears and sock monkeys, we also have a couple of pigs, a crow. and roosters. The latter have special meaning to me because Lydia Vance, Der Bingle’s grandmother, used to collect them. She had red hair, although it was a beautiful Barbara Bush white when I knew her and was what I like best – a character . . . who had a lot of character – the upright kind, the iron in your backbone kind, the ‘do the right thing kind’.

I was going to put the work kook in the post title instead of “user” but I held back . . . but only until now. There I’ve said it: Kook. To tell the truth it wasn’t so much the duct tape because it was used for a reasonable purpose, if you want to restrain someone; it’s just the whole darn thing.

The local paper headlined with Man Buried up to his Neck; I cannot cite that article because a subscription is required. However Wane.com has it summarized nicely:

CROMWELL, Ind. (WANE)- Two Auburn men are facing felony charges, accused of tying up a Cromwell man and burying him up to his neck.

According to NewsChannel 15’s news partners at KPC News, Phillip Longsworth and Karl Karn are both facing a charge of criminal confinement causing bodily injury.

The incident began when Longsworth reported someone had stolen a saw from his business. That was when he and Karn allegedly lured the victim -who they say had knowledge of the theft- to Longsworth’s business.

Police say the two tackled the victim, bound his wrists and ankles with duct tape, dug a hole with a backhoe and then buried him up to his neck.

Investigators said the victim lied about the saw’s location in order to get the two men to leave and then escaped on his own.

The victim is not facing any charges related to the theft of the saw.

Both sources have a picture, but wane.com has this one is color:

Maybe this is why the K word popped into my head . . . or maybe not. I’m playing it safe here.

My tummy is upset today; this is not one of my frequent complaints. Oh, I may have lower tummy emergencies, but they are quick events. This morning my upper tummy is uneasy and is, therefore, a pain in the neck. As one who has experienced motion sickness from infancy on up, that nausea has also been an event-type experience.

I would make lemonade out of these lemons, but the acidity isn’t wise, so I will sit quietly and read. Oh! The sacrifice of a day pruning shrubs and cleaning out window wells. I’ll just have to put up with it, I suppose: A book, toast, and a bit of Sprite.

Yesterday morning I did not indulge in my Grandma Power Shower and Out the Door in Single Digit Minutes routine. No, I allowed myself 20 whole minutes and then wound up waiting in the driveway for about three. Such is life.

I’m up early this morning because I woke up in a truly “awake” state and since it was not in the middle of the night, I decided to get some aspirin for aches and a Diet Sam’s for carbonation, which I am convinced is a necessary fuel for my life force.

Mother’s cat, Tiffy, and depending on whom you ask is now Alison’s or Summer’s annoying furball has a vet appointment this morning for a bad tooth that the doctor says is very painful. Mother, are you paying attention here? I am taking care of your cat. Why you became attached to cats in the last decade of your life, I don’t know, but you did and she’s here and I’m doing my best. That means I see that she has a caretaker and I don’t encourage her to live a life of adventure, starting with playing in traffic. On the whole, we keep our distance and avoid eye-contact. I call her “That cat.”

I expect something will happen to me today. The one time I decided to do something a non-Mother way, a walnut fell on my head. Well, it wasn’t just the one time I did something in a different way . . . no need to stir the pot, however.

UPDATE: Summer found out about the following plan and exclaimed, “Auuuggghh, you know I hate it when you do that.” Heh, heh, heh. Shall I go for seven minutes?

I am in need of a shower and clean clothes and I have to leave for Fort Wayne in an hour. What a bummer. Water, soap, towels, wet hair, going through the steps of getting dressed. Sigh. You know, today might be one of those days when it gets to about 15 minutes before we have to leave and everyone has to step aside for the blitzkrieg of “Grandma shower and getting ready”. I already know where my car keys are resting and I see my purse; I’ll bet I can wait until around eight minutes until departure time.

This morning could be the start of an active day, but I doubt it. I have sleepy eyes and I have been awake for at least three hours. I think sleepy eyes is an undocumented syndrome accompanied by overall lassitude.

This is a common theme for me but perhaps that is part of the syndrome. I may believe if I type the syndrome enough times it will become The Syndrome and edge close to official.

About a month ago something happened to someone else that was totally unexpected and it has left me off-balance. I wrote about it; it was Susie’s heart attack.Yes, I felt so bad for her and, yes, I experienced the feeling that it brushed so close to me, but I honestly cannot pinpoint a reason that it has left me with he continuing sensation of that moment after someone sneaks up on you and yells, “Boo!”

I’ve stood looking at cards, sat looking at a blank screen on my computer and felt unable to find a way of expressing my concern to her. I know the heart attack is not going to unhappen and I know it is she, not I, who has had to march on through this.

It may be that writing this has helped me stop behaving psychologically like the character in Gone With the Wind who repeatedly shouts, “Miss Scarlet, I ain’t never delivered no babies . . .”

We’ll see.

You can read about the Pet Relief Station here. You will find this description:

The 75-square-foot space includes fake grass and a hydrant, two deodorizers, a handwashing station and complimentary baggies. Maintenance workers clean the restroom twice a day.

You will not find a photo and I am going to scan social media for one. Oh my, here’s a snapshot:

Der Bingle sent me this picture while at the SD airport waiting for his flight to Chicago: