In my mind, I can hear some TV talk show house – because I often hear him in real life since by daughter-in-law likes that man I find annoying, Dr. Phil. (He’s not in the same category as Joe Biden, who, I believe, will anytime start actually foaming at the mouth and avoiding water.) I can hear that annoying man asking a question in his cloying accent, not to mention the phrasing of a man who feels “I know better than anyone else how to do/handle/rectify/ ameliorate/ eliminate anything.”

Oh, am I meandering again, distracted by petty emotions? I’ll bet I am. So, on with it. I hear Dr. Phil ask, “And who stayed up very, very late because they were trying to figure something out that is totally not necessary, consequential, or even relevant to your life and is now really sleepy and groggy?”

Oh, Phil, old boy, this time, you hit the nail on the head. I know, you’re so gosh darn good at everything.

I was lying with my eyes closed last night at about 11, after having read for an hour or so, when I happened to remember my mother and my aunt sitting at the dinner table discussing something that had popped up earlier in casual conversation. One of them had referred to some small town soap opera drama that started  before either of them had been born – and, realize my aunt was then in her late 80’s.

My ears had perked up at some implied information that didn’t make sense and I started asking questions. It was the wrong thing to do because, like  math teachers who can’t just tell you the answer, they got involved in getting all the “steps of the proof” in order. And what those steps involved was about four generations of people being related to people they thought they weren’t – but everyone of a certain age knew they were. Those people had names, sometimes they shared the same name and they weaved around and it was inevitable that Mother and my aunt would digress into getting a link just right.

It finally came to the point that Mother got a piece of paper and started making a diagram that went back and forth and doubled back on itself. Somewhere along the line, one of the participants committed suicide, but his reasoning for doing so had nothing to do with “The Secret.” After much discussion, they had it straight and I had followed this trail of, by then, mostly dead people.

Then, last night, as I said, I remembered the lazy afternoon. Only I couldn’t exactly remember it. And then I realized with the online census history and other tools, I could jog my memory. Well . . . yes, but, you know, those census takers weren’t uniformly competent. But I did manage to get most of the characters lined up, but they were floating around, not neatly sitting on a shelf in my mind. And some much history does not contain those incredibly important little tidbits of information just dropped in conversation here and there.

Try as I might, I could not make things fit together – as they neatly had on Mother’s diagram. I was about settled into sleep when I my eyes snapped open and I knew REAL LOUD in my mind that it was Sidney who had committed suicide. This felt like a breakthrough, but it was not at all, although adrenalin had been produced by my body.

I sit here this morning, hungover after a night of puzzle-working with no completed picture to show for it. How, just a few hours ago, could I have been so vigorously alert and ready for Indiana Jones discoveries? Gosh, I guess one of the snakes bit me.

I have been looking at gray, but not 50 shades of them. I did consider painting the fence in various intensities of that color. (See the typing extra work I will go to to keep from repeating a phrase, and actually, I didn’t say 50 shades of gray . . . until now) Well, anyway, I wondered about creating an optical illusion, maybe an at random optical illusion. But I did not follow through on the idea; I just kept painting through three gallons of paint and have to break open a fourth to do the last bits and the cover up your mistakes section.

Come to think of it, I could buy some small cans of grey of varying shades and add paint in various spots against my background of prosaically-named  “Light Gray”. I believe I’m spelling grey in two different ways – just caught that . . . wonder how long I’ve been doing it and am resisting the urge to look it up.

As you can probably tell, I am in a blah mood tonight. Blah, blah and blah. Wonder if it is terminal

I am often entertained and informed by HGTV. But this morning, I clicked on a link about The Most Embarrassing Kitchen in America. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was not a picture of a clean kitchen with GASP outdated counters, cabinets and . . . Heaven Forbid . . . Rooster wallpaper.

Why do people feel they have to have the trendiest appliances, paint colors, counters, cabinets and flooring? Yes, it is nice if you can afford to make changes based on taste every now and then, but why do people think what they liked ten years ago is hideous today, except for the reason some designer tells them so.

My parents bought a refrigerator the year I was born and they used it until I was about 45. And then it became a backup fridge. The kitchen in LaGrange County has always had a big, heavy solid wood door and built in cabinets with beadboard doors. The counters have . . . wait for it . . . stainless steel bands going around the edge so the Formica is held in place. The wood burning Franklin stove is there putting out the wood scent that has welcomed people for over a century.

We ate well in the kitchen; we did not go hungry. We had to open doors under the sink in winter to add a little more warmth to the pipes at night.

I am not particularly fond of the kitchen in the Kendallville house and if someone credible offered to redo the whole thing for me for free, I would say Okay, as long as I get to choose the overall general feel. I wouldn’t want to be bothered with lots of details as to drawer pulls and so forth.

I guess I should be embarrassed by my kitchen, but I’m not. Not that I wouldn’t like to have a 24/7 cook and cleaner.

Some titles sound so intriguing; however, some blurbs about books are very vague. I think some people don’t want to hurt the author’s feelings, having been in that place themselves and others heeded their mothers who told them, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” A lot of times this does not help a potential reader.

And then, sometimes, someone – oh, say AmeliaJake – might tease around about a title, having a little fun, only to get a hot email from the author claiming AJ was a sinner for reviewing a book without reading it. ???? It was a joke about a title. AJ, whose real identity will remain secret and no way connect to moi, was just glad she hadn’t made a funny about a Mafia hit man . . . or an angry lady with a cream pie in her hand and a good aim.

I was looking at a book this morning, lured by the title, and then started through some reviews. Most led me to believe I really wouldn’t like it that much, mainly because of subject matter. But I have been known to be wrong before. However, while considering it, my eyes glanced over to the right sidebar and I read this: I hardly know what to say about this magical, yet creepy, little book.

Believe me, it helped, and if I miss out on the greatest masterpiece of the 21st century, well, so be it.

I’m been up since about four this morning wrestling with the age-old (not quite) question: Can infectious gunk be transferred over the Internet? I am pondering this while my body is aching, my nose running and my breathing making this odd sound in my throat; I am pondering this because Pottermom had The Gunk. She is in Texas; I am in Indiana. I do believe I am (up-to-this point) living proof that Gunk, Gunkoids, Gunklets can find their way across the ether, enter my screen and leap out on me.

They leaped; they made a beachhead; they are heading inland.

When Pottermom wrote she had The Gunk, I felt sad for her . . . I guess I didn’t really “feel her pain”, but I do now.

I just realized, since I have established The Gunk can travel over the Internet . . . then I am, uh, passing it on. You see, when you are not feeling well, you don’t think things through adequately. I suppose I am a vector. Rats! AmeliaJake . . . out-smarted and used by The Gunk.

Since I had just finished a Cipro treatment, I took another home UTI test to verify that the tests were accurate. It turned dark purple again so tomorrow I have to go in and give another specimen. Just thought I’d mention it . . . you’re welcome.

Last spring it seemed March would never end and now it is already almost half a year later and I realized the Apple Festival is coming round again. I’ve been to a lot of them; I especially remember the year it spit snow and I had on leather soled shoes and my feet were freezing when I ate my apple burger.

I also remember the year the temperature was almost 90 and the apple fritter cookers could only do 10 minute shifts over the vats.

They used to have trolleys that ran from the Main Street area to the Fairgrounds, but they had to go to enclosed buses because some jerks decided to yell out obscenities from the open air trolleys. Yeah, that was cool.

We – meaning a changing number of people from the PBC & R – usually walk over and make our decisions on the spot as to eat something depending on the temperature and the crowds. The Swine Barn, is home to scores of crafters and in the center, with bales of hay for seating, is the performance area. I see Wes Leninkugal is coming again and so I will probably make a point of being there at that time. A couple of years ago I bought his CD that included various stringed instruments. Unfortunately, later I stepped on it.

The Wellspring Fiddlers were a family and I don’t think they come any more – which is too bad. I took pictures of one of the years past, however, showing the group and Mother, Summer and Alison,

That’s great uncle as in the son of his nephew. The nephew is Eric and this is his new son, Jackson Rodney. I, of course, am a great-aunt only because I married someone older than myself.

And here is a picture of the little guy with his grandmother.

Oh, and the middle name of Rodney? Well, that’s because the baby is named after his grandfather, Rodney, who is Der Bingle’s brother. Yes, he has more brothers than just the infamous LZP; in, fact, there were six boys in all – Der Bingle is the oldest and Rodney is #5. LZP’s number is classified by order of the Gnome Alliance.

Yesterday we took Robert down to the ortho doctor because the ankle he demolished in 2006 is acting up again; he is wearing his orthopedic boot now and when he sits down, it sticks out if front of him. I knew this and yet I walked past the loveseat on the porch the way I normally do and tripped over it.

I went down hard and squarely on my kneecap and it hurt and then it didn’t hurt much anymore. It looked okay and continued to do so until about three this afternoon when I looked down at my knee and thought, “Is that a ridge growing out of it?” I called to Alison who came out and said it was growing and that you almost expected it to start talking to you. So, since it was Friday afternoon . . . well, I went to the ER, in a peg-legged sort of way.

I had x-rays and found out nothing was cracked, broken or dislocated. It is severely contused they say and I have a prescription for pain medicine because I believe they think in the middle of the night, it may feel different than it does now. So here I sit with my leg in a compression bandage and instructions to stay off of it as much as I can for a while.

I suppose I should have fish for supper . . . because I’ve got a fine kettle of them.

I saw there was a comment on the last post; it was from Pottermom. It contained this computer talk: http://www.americanthinker.com/blog/2013/09/slowing_the_biden_juggernaut.html. This is it in a quick LINK. If you go there, you will see this picture:

I may be talking about craziness, but this, this is madness.