I tried to use my phone this morning and, sorry, it would not work to call – not to message. After experimenting, I found it would text to Ohio and so I did and said, “My phone won’t work.” Right to the point.
I took it to the Sprint store and the “tech guy” came in at 11 am; I was told to come back in about an hour or so. I will now have a moment of prayer for my phone. That may seem irreverent, but, boy, is it relevant.
I don’t use Facebook much at all, as I have said before; and, as I have then gone on to to refer to someone on Facebook, I will keep up the trend:
I looked at someone’s page – a person who is on my small list of friends – and there was an invitation to comment. It said: Tell ***** what’s on your mind. Oh, now that could be the start of the end of a beautiful friendship if you happen to be in a dark mood.
That was a reference to the last line in Casablanca if anyone is young and reading this and did not have parents like Robert and Quentin who were indoctrinated in classic movies and literary quotes. Oh, little things such as: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times; God bless us, one and all; Call me Ishmael; Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. Oh wait, that last one is William Faulkner and it is a little inside joke for Quentin.
That is all I can think of to post in the title spot. Well, that’s not true; there are a lot of sentiments I could cite, but I am worn down and the day is early and who knows what could happen, so let us stick with tsk, tsk, tsk.
I’ve talked about the snow and the mulch and then it warming up. We have a weather advisory of weather in the 20’s, so I am hoping this scene is not repeated:
I’m particularly impressed by the bleeding mulch stain by the car wheel.
Now, I have another picture to show you. I have a large green wicker basket – large in the since of tabletop large. It has been one of my favorites and I keep daily stuff in it by where I usually sit. Often I put it on the floor where I can readily reach down for things and drop them back in. Well, for a couple of days, I have found what looks like a situation where the basket has been overturned – stuff scattered.
I noticed it again this morning and finally got annoyed enough to stop refilling it and actually look.
Here’s the view:
Where is the bottom? I suppose now I will have to haunt rummage sales and GoodWill for another basket. That is not straight forward: the basket has to speak to me and hint of an ambiance I can use to construct comforting memories about it. Most people could just get a box or a basket; not AmeliaJake – I am sooooo hight maintenance.
It warmed up enough that I could get out and start putting mulch here and there – one bucketful at a time. I discovered that under the top layer, the mulch pile was frozen. Getting at it was like scraping frost off an old freezer – or one which has not be closed correctly. After a while, I decided enough; I came in and started a wash. Of course, the dryer is kaput, but never mind, a new one is coming.
Actually, I had better mind, because the laundry room is a nightmare to maneuver appliances in and out of. When the washer came, I requested strong, agile, innovative thinking young men. They got it done. Please, let tomorrow go well.
Then I sat down and an ad popped up somewhere on the browser page about hand-crafted bracelets with whatever words you wanted on them from VERMONT. You know what Vermont is, don’t you? Yes, it’s Ethan Allen and The Green Mountain Boys. Back in the 50’s, this was big, fun stuff in school – almost like Robin Hood.
Vermont: the battle at Bennington and the Don’t Tread on Me flag.
But do I need a bracelet with words from some poem or Churchill on it. No, hey I’ve got a wrist and a magic marker.
It snowed on my mulch and the mulch by the car froze on it. I suppose that sets the tone for this summer, which is looking like a shaggy landscape by a little known company: Old Lady is Me Landscaping. I should put the words on separate little signs so pedestrians can read them one after the other just like the old Burma Shave signs on the highway. Right there is evidence I am an old lady. Good Heavens, I remember reading them while standing on the hump on the floor of the back seat in an old sedan.
I have here in Kendallville a postage stamp yard, but you know, it feels bigger when measured in bending and picking up twigs and chores that use other muscles. You have to sigh; I mean you pick up a stick and then what do you do? Stand there and hold it? No, you have to take it to a pile and then go out for more. I wish someone would invent a wood magnet. Oh, I didn’t think that through. A tree would no doubt fall on me.
I got desperate and called for a pile of mulch; it is just too much hassle to pack up bag after bag of mulch, or so I thought. Now I have a pretty big pile of mulch and I stuck a shovel in it. I have a feeling it is going to be me, the shovel and my wheelbarrow dealing with this mulch. Too bad you can’t train ants to pick up a piece on their hard-working little bags and take it to a designated spot. I mean if they are going to call them Army ants, lets get some work out of them. It would probably be better than digging latrines.
I was sitting here with my Kindle, thinking that I had not posted anything for a while and that maybe I needed a sign to let me know if I should. It thundered. Really. So I suppose I should take off my tinfoil hat and take my chances with Alien transmissions while it is lightning.
I am trying to decide what sort of hat I should wear to guard against weird political transmissions from crazy candidates. You know, somewhere I have the cow hat that I used to wear to cheer up Mrs. Feller at the nursing home. Actually, I don’t know if I cheered her up; it may have been that I got her mind off the monotony of the place as she explained to other residents that her friend AmeliaJake was “special.” I hope I wasn’t too much of an embarrassment to her.
Suddenly, I am thinking Moose hat. I don’t know why. The idea just popped into my head . . . of my gosh, is it an Alien transmission? Disguise myself as a moose and just wander onto to secret installations? But, still, I am intrigued by the idea of a Moose hat. (Not the social club ones – but one with real antlers and fuzzy fur.)
There is a remark that people make when they encounter some situation that gets in the way like a rock: It is was it is, they say and sigh. Well, of course it is what it is . . . for now; the question is what are you going to do about it. Sometimes you have to study it, think about it. and maybe if this “is” is always going to be this “is”, then how are you going to negate it or, just possibly, use it to your advantage.
You have to keep your head, think it through and remember a poetic line from John Dryden I’ve quoted before:
It comes down to character; it always has.
I suppose the above popular attitude advice has exceptions: a frozen turkey falling out of the top shelf of the freezer and doing serious damage to your small pet – things like that. However, I am tempted to say that yesterday was in its own right a terrible day, just really terrible. I don’t think I deserve all the blame for being miserable – this is a variation on “I’m mad as Hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.”
But, come to think of it, there was no major disaster yesterday and I am not sitting here with a broken bone or concussed brain. I could have sucked it up, to use a phrase I don’t like to hear, but sometimes find coming vehemently out of my mouth, and put on a happy face. I didn’t do that and I am trying to convince myself that not meeting my pouting quota for the day would have had unfortunate results. I haven’t figured out what those might have been, but give me time – I’m good at rationalization.
Now today it is not even light yet and I am thinking of John Wayne’s remark about tomorrow: paraphrased, it is that tomorrow comes at you fresh and hopes that you have learned something from yesterday.
The thing about emotions, however, is sometimes you could just benefit from that turkey falling on your foot and tears pouring out, carrying stress hormones with them. I think I’ll start with a small package of frozen peas and I expect I will find it is not a good idea. Maybe if I threw the peas? Oh, dear, that is not a positive thought. I imagine if they had posters that highlighted cranky, negative thoughts, I could make some money thinking them up.
I may or may not write about what attitude I decided to apply to this day. I mean, it could turn out to be a confession that would look bad in court at my trial. I will say this, however: the John Wayne quote is a having quite a time contending with the one by Alice Roosevelt Longworth about being so mad she could grind her teeth into powder and blow it out her nose. Well, that would give me something to snort. (See previous post.)
My nose keeps clogging up with what I have started calling “snot clots” because I am forgetting that choice of words says a lot about you. My father would be shaking his head; one does not have to say “snot.” (And I still feel the period should be outside the quotation mark, but the rules are changing . . . or something.)
But back to my snout, and to say snout is a humorous way of indicating your nose; it is not the same relationship as snot and mucous. My younger son has had sinus surgery and several sinus problems. I was telling him about my difficulty with my nasal passages and he told me his “snout doctor’s nurse” advised him that people should not block one nostril and try to blow out the other. They should, instead, give short snorts.
Thinking about it makes your face crinkle up in laughter and I think the facial muscular activity puts pressure on sinus cavities and helps them drain. I doubt that is correct, but if it works, it works. It is so hard to go “snort, snort, snort” without starting to laugh.
Maybe it is what I should do, however; I have been pigging out in the kitchen. It could be this is how people turn into werewolves – one step at a time.