You know when you lack class when you take a sip of iced tea and it dribbles down your chin . . . and you grab your shirt to wipe it off. And not just the stretchy part at the neck of a crew T-shirt, but the bottom part. Not a little dainty dab, but a big swipe of sweaty cloth.

This observation would not be about moi, of course.

I don’t know if I am AmeliaJake or if I am someone posting as AmeliaJake. I’m serious. I didn’t make up AmeliaJake although I pulled the name out of parts of my mind; AmeliaJake was always there. I think she still is. Of course, she is, but I believe AJ has taken a look at my life at this time and said, “Hey, Jody, you got it.”

Well, that’s a Hell of a note. What am I going to do standing here with this bag of life by myself? I think I need to shake AmeliaJake up a bit and insist she get some backbone and hold up her side of the bag. Or perhaps AmeliaJake was shaking me up because she felt I had left her holding the bag?

And out of the blue, I wonder: Bag? Paper or plastic?

Yes, I am incorrigible, but it comes so naturally. And to keep the record straight, the bag would be a nice sturdy cloth one.

So I guess the pondering is over? Pretty short-lived, I’d say. Can a “ponder” be quick or does it imply a length of time and bewildered angst – whatever that is? So I probably never pondered or, more likely, I am in a stage of pondering, going back and forth with who is holding the bag. Well, let’s hope neither of us drops it.

I am talking to Der Bingle who is in San Diego; I am not. However, he spent the day in a vault, so I cannot be jealous. But last night he called from in front of what used to be The Green Flash and I was envious. I asked about the smell of the ocean and he told me it was a kelp breeze. He took pictures of my favorite beach places with his phone and now I am going to close my eyes and pretend I am there.

Ah, yes, this is nice. (I opened my eyes to type. Now back to the waves and the sand and the boardwalk.)

Thursday afternoon I received a reminder call about a dental cleaning appointment for Monday morning, and now we are here at Monday. My silent groan has been going on for about four days and I DON’T WANT TO GO.

It’s really nothing, but it’s a DENTIST appointment. I just want to get in and out. Yeah, I’m in that type of mood.

I thought I had something to say, but I guess I don’t. I’m going to have to think about this development.

For those who are Spam fans and as a warning for those who are not:

I got a little busy yesterday and the day before, yesterday itself being Summer’s birthday. She is now 18. I was going to post a bit about the event but yesterday I got the scooter back from the service dealer and later rode and it and, uh, went over the handlebars once and then rode unsuspectingly onto fresh thick gravel and just flopped.

See me jumping up and down on the page, announcing, I’m okay; I’m okay! It is true, just scraped elbows and knees and my ankle is a teeny bit sore. I’m going to put on a long sleeve shirt and jeans and go back out at least one more time – getting back on the horse, dontcha know. (Better wear new underwear, just in case. (Maybe just clean underwear because I think the ER nurses cut it off.)

But, anyway, since Summer’s birthday was on a nondescript Thursday, I declared all this week her Birthday Week, and have been showing up with really crummy presents, Elmo Helium balloons, an Elmo cookie cutter, 15 absolutely horror movies that cost me $5. It that cool, or what? I’ll have to include a picture tomorrow of her snack and drink cup combo, her necklace fan, and if we can find it, the inflatable parrot. I know kids out there are just so upset I’m not their grandmother . . .

Okay, I just have to get this day started. I got up first at 6 am and then thought better of it and snuggled down. Maybe by tonight I’ll wish I stayed snuggled, but massive housework awaits . . . and, of course, that getting back on the horse thing.

I heard shrieks coming from the living room a couple of days ago and wandered in to see people watching an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive. Only the subject of the show was not wading through heirlooms, garage sale bargains, sentimental matchbooks, or stacks of National Geographic. This woman was sitting in a chair surrounded by real garbage: empty soda bottles, pizza boxes, used syringes from insulin shots, rotten food and cockroaches everywhere. Her two children live with her. I would not call this hoarding; I would call it not over the top, but under the bottom.

Now, I know I am not a neat housekeeper. (I would be neater if I could use a gun or whip on the people who live with me.) And I have kept old pizza boxes – tore in half and rolled to help get fires going. Yes, I have collars from deceased dogs in my drawers. I have saved other things that could bring me close to classification in some sort of nutcase state, but while I may trip over the occasionally not-supposed-to-be-in-the-middle-of-the-floor item, I have not had to wade through two feet of garbage with my own two feet, while stepping on many multi-footed scurrying creatures.

I sense a tingle of feeling bad about remarking on this because I have always been vocal about people whose houses look like model homes. I do feel bad for this woman because she is more than quirky; I think she is mentally ill because living in filth voluntarily is, well, not right. I don’t think she should be on a show that investigates hoarding.

In the small town where my mother grew up, there was a school teacher who was a hoarder. She was very intelligent and kept herself very clean, but her house, at the time of her death, was nothing more than paths through stacks of stuff. When men came to clean it out, they just grabbed stuff – until one book opened up and a couple of $20 bills floated out. Then they went from toting out junk to looking for buried treasure and they got quite a haul.

I realize that I watched the first few shows on hoarding because, like many others, I am a gawker at the unusual. It was a look not only at an extreme form of housekeeping, but a peek into someone’s mind and the thin line that separates us at times. As someone who can make up a story about just any object and tie it up with some heartfelt tugging string, I can see how someone could keep a hell of a lot of stuff.

The shock value of the actual garbage house captured my attention for a while, but it was really more like staring at a three-headed bunny. You can’t believe it. When you do realize what you are seeing and you believe it, it’s time to look away.

But I know myself and who knows what I will gawk at next and that’s why the networks put on the shows they do.

Yesterday, after having used the willpower of a commando war dog, Shane fought the effects of sedation. When he came home, he collapsed for the day, eating a small meal late in the day.

This morning I thought he might be hungry and had Cameron give him some dog food with his side order of shredded cheese. Soon afterward, Shane showed up and indicated he wanted me to follow him. He led me to a box of special dog food and I gave him some, along with the cheese, on a paper plate.

I thought that would be it. But no. He started to munch and then jumped away from the plate, only approaching it again for a few sniffs. He took the plate in his mouth and emptied it on the floor, only then eating the rest of the food.

I have no idea what was going on, other than that I later noticed I had put the plate down on a runner run that was on top of berber carpeting and between them was the vacuum cleaner cord. It wasn’t plugged in, however, so my theory of electric energy sensitivity went out the window, unless some electrons stayed in the cord to play instead of running home when the vacuum was turned off.

It’s overcast and sprinkling. My muscles are aching and the aspirin bottle is nearby. It has to be a sign: Sit comfy and read. At least that’s how I choose to interpret it.

So, after oral sedation and a sedative shot, Shane stayed awake to grumble during his exam. Then when he was home and felt he could relax, this is what happened:

While we were there at the Tri-State Veterinary Clinic waiting for the medicine to take effect, we met Dolly who is a teeny tiny Yorkie. She stares big dogs down; I think her name should be Rambo, or Rambette. Gregg (Dr. Gregg Barnard) is a reader, so we talked about books while we waited and that was nice. We also got an official Furminator instead of our knock-off one, and it works so much better.

Not only does it work great, but I love the name.