Well, that title up there sums up this post – for now. I’m sure I’ll have more thoughts on this later. They may not be fit to print, by this is definitely not The New York Times.

So, I had no more thoughts for a couple of days. Bummer.

YOU SEE, IT’S REALLY THE 20TH, BUT I’M SEEING IF THIS WILL POST AT ITS ORIGINAL TIMESTAMP.

I looked at two blogs this morning, one I always check and the other on just a whim. Both detailed a lot of effort put into improving/accomplishing. The second one even described setting a timer at 15 minutes intervals to add pressure to the pace of achievement.

I was awed, then envious. Gee, envy, that’s not good; I guess I’ll have to go into time-out and think about my mindset. I will think really hard. (Gosh darn, I’ll bet my grin is giving me away.)

Surely, I am not the only one in the world who needs to just gripe about little things. I know they are little things . . . but circling in my head, aiming down to my mouth and threatening to push my teeth out – which I just had cleaned – is a weaselly whine of My sinuses hurts.

It hurts above my left eye and travels down to my nose, which is throbbing on one side. Of course, I do feel a little wimpy because Quentin is going to have to undergo another snout cleansing, as he calls it, because of irregularities in his sinus configuration. He had this done last year, surgery with bone spur removal, and it is back.

Okay, back to my whining.

It is also snowing outside, although we are not supposed to get too much. I have no doubt that this July I will be sitting in really hot, humid air on a mower and whining about the hear and wishing I was back watching snow. Probably, the engine mower will start to whine itself then and I will have to stretch out on the ground beside it and see if something is binding on a belt . . . and hope a garter snake doesn’t crawl up for a sniff.

I may just go in the Foo Bar and toss back a few.

I wrote the post right below just a few minutes ago. Then I checked the news and saw THIS, and this ain’t good.

Another shooting. And then I see the word Indiana. I look at the picture and see the name on the store looks like it could be Martin’s. And, by gosh, it is. I have not read the article yet; I just got through the first bit that said it was a Martin’s in Elkhart. Well, guess what, folks, my mother used to stop by Martin’s in Elkhart quite often. I don’t know if this is the same exact store, or not, but is close to GoodWill and just off of Highway 120 which was Mother’s preferred route.

The shooting was at 10 pm and, granted, Mother would not have been there at that time, BUT, still . . . Elkhart? Indiana? My turf? YIKES.

I have not looked at the headline news yet today. I have not checked my email. I have taken my medicine, picked up a few small pieces of trash and since misplaced my handy-dandy white kitchen bag trash bag. Sigh.

Now, I sit with afghan-draped legs out in front on me on the sofa, back braced against the sofa arm, laptop balancing on my slanting lap and just enjoying the feeling of cubby-hole warmth. However, I will have to rouse myself for my tooth cleaning. They are always so perky down there, perky and cheerful and “Oh, how are you, today?” Well, I’m sitting in a dentist chair having plaque scraped and the inventory of my tooth/gum positioning being taken. Yeah, I’m fine.

But, of course, I don’t say that because 1) they have pointy instruments and 2) their fingers are often in my mouth. My main new fear of the dentist is the fact they check for spots in your mouth that might indicate oral cancer. One young man, barely 20, started with that discovery and endured the removal of part of his tongue and chemotherapy and radiation. That can stop you in your tracks.

I have embarked on a strategy to inspire (pressure) residents into cleaning/maintenance goals. I’m not going to put too much weight on my initial impression of the response, but think, maybe, I might have to designate one room the gaol room, nicely decorated with bars and soundproofing.

I would like to end with some jolly thought, but I’m bland today – and, looking back at these mutterings, I guess bland is not as bad as it could be.

Tomorrow I have an appointment to have my teeth cleaned, which makes the plodding along of today’s tasks not too bad. Oh, this is interesting: I got up to let Shane out and realized I had been sitting on my phone – fortunately, I have the Otter Box-Armor series. My phone case could probably be a murder weapon in a pinch, but if any detective ever finds a victim with an Otter Box dent in his/her head, that thought I had was just a thought . . . just a thought. Besides, anyone who knows me, realizes I wouldn’t go for the head-denting procedure; I would use the flat whack up the side of the head method. I’m impulsive and that’s my M.O.

I only have to go to the north side of Fort Wayne, but then I have to stop and reschedule another appointment and then divert into Auburn to pick up Summer’s new glasses. I forget what the frames look like; the ones she didn’t get looked as if they had been cut out of an old linoleum floor. Maybe they came with a teeny little man with a bucket and a string mop, but probably not. I mean, I didn’t even get an otter with my Otter Box. (No one think about my computer and mention Lion, please. Some little thought ramblings just have to be allowed to peter out.)

I am reading a book by a hack writer; I don’t know why, but at times I am a hack reader, so I’ll call it even.

And, of course, you can call me odd.

I’m going to take a shower and then go get my hair trimmed and I am just floating along in no direction in particular. I don’t think that’s a sin. My toe is well enough to wear my boots, which is a spirit lifter – as well as adding an inch to the short person here.

Well, I’m flighty today so good-bye to you.

This morning I lay here thinking of a kaleidoscope of things – maybe a variation of the old life passing before your eyes theme. Suddenly my mind thought of the  – excuse me, but just using the terminology heard for years – dirty old woman who lived up in Howe, but I couldn’t remember her name. I thought it has a double “s” in it, but didn’t think it was Flossie because Flossie was one of the Bobbsey Twins. (You know, Freddie’s sister, but I had better stop myself before I go off on a tangent.)

On a hunch I typed  “dirty old lady Howe, Indiana” into the Google search slot and voila – THIS SITE showed up.  This is a little different than the way I heard the story . . . from a woman who was born in 1881 in Howe (then Lima) and from her daughters born in 1908 and 1926. Now, the one born in 1881 was my grandmother, a Presbyterian by birth and then a Methodist by nearness of church in the old days. She was the adult Sunday School teacher for years and Superintendent of the Sunday School and president of the WSCS forever – Women’s Society for Christian Service. When the daughter who was born in 1908, my aunt, died in 1998, one person commented that if she didn’t get into Heaven, no one would and everyone agreed. The 1926 daughter was my mother and not so religious, although she had a decency and ethical streak a mile wide.

Their take on the situation was that Crissy did just fine until the “good Christian ladies decided to scrub her up and then she died.”  I’m going to leave it at that, other than to say sometimes the phrase, “You had to have been there” may indicate a lot of  history is up for grabs.

I opened my copy of Coastal Living to the page pictured below and I caught my breath as I realized I was looking at something that was Mother, but not AmeliaJake Well, AmeliaJake in terms of having such things done for her.

Note the battered cookie sheet and the old knife along with the little extra touch to make the brownies special. Sarah Shimp Grismore had class; there’s no doubt about it.

I didn’t notice the letdown of dull, unadorned post-Christmas early January this year so much – because we were being mugged by the weather. For us it was not a left-bleeding-in-the-gutter experience, but more of a push-into-a-drift-and-steal-your-mittens affair.

Today the temperature right now is supposed to be 39 degrees. This may be so, but there is a light coating of snow on my street – the one that was black and rain-slicked last evening. The temperature is supposed to fall to 34 during the day and, to tell the truth, I didn’t look at what is to happen tonight.

But, as I wrote, it has taken my mind off of the dreariness of the post-Christmas month.  Of course, now I am a third of the way to February, the waiting room month of the year. You sit there through Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthday and the garish colors and chocolate sweetness of Valentine’s Day, wondering if the prognosis for March will be a harbinger of spring or require another series of  snow shovel, ice-scraping treatments.

I am getting ahead of myself. Today. What am I going to do and take from today? Well, yesterday, I spent a great deal of time rearranging stuff in the basement and then Summer and I watched Presumed Innocent while we sat by the fire. (Always a good way to get rid of leftover pizza boxes while warming ourselves.)

Christmas boxes – packed, numbered, labelled are being stashed and I found two sets of musical Santa and Snowmen lights that didn’t get used. At first it seemed a bummer, but after pushing the “Try Me” button a couple of times, I figured it would be a good idea to put them in an out of the way place next year. Imagining having those lights when the kids were under seven is a little unnerving.  Little impish urchins running up, grinning, giggling and pushing the button over and over again . . . On the other hand, Summer may take it in her head to rig a remote control using her phone to set them off. Or she could connect them to a battery pack, stick them in a mesh bag, and sneak up behind people and then push the button. (It does sometimes occur to me that is is unsettling that I, AmeliaJake, can anticipate these ideas.)

My foot is better,  not shoe ready yet, although I might be able to get away with a largish study pair of Skecher walking shoes. I have a pair in winter black; they make me think little old lady more than the white ones do, but never mind the truth hurting – it’s my foot I’m concerned about.

I am need of a foldover . . . I am always more motivated to hobble into the kitchen than other rooms and here I go.