Yesterday I decided not to go and mow and flirted with reading a book I picked up at the dentist’s office, but I felt that some things had to be done – so I put the book down and really, really cleaned THREE bathrooms. And vacuumed the staircase and cobwebs and planned the smart- alecky things I can say to other people living here.

All of a sudden it was 5:30 and I went for my walk.

And then, all of a sudden, I remembered that The Great Gatsby is playing at the The Strand and that tickets are only three dollars. I decided to go and took my head that had been up close with three toilets and the body that is attached to it and got in the shower. I put on a skirt and a safari blouse and my parrot necklace – have I shown a picture of it here? – and drove over.

Ah, the Gatsby parties were like shows in Las Vegas; it was a colorful movie, to say the least. Do you know I watched that entire movie of opulence and did not think once of all the time I had spent earlier scrubbing areas where toilets meet floors? It was a flashy set with the outline of a story over it. Actually, it makes me think of one of those 30 second rabbit summaries of movies, only it was two hours and 34 minutes long.

It was not anywhere real. I mean I could not feel the distance between really wealthy people and my little toilet-cleaning life. Because of this movie, I think when I see something outlandishly overdone, I will be tempted to exclaim, “Oh, Great Gatsby!” But that doesn’t mean I didn’t like the flamboyance in super color and on the big screen and I want to watch the Robert Redford version again to see how that strikes me.

I think The Great Gatsby is better as a book. (Well, gee, AmeliaJake, it is supposed to be a great American classic.) In fact, the best parts of this movie as far as the story is concerned were when the narrator character (Nick) recited paragraphs verbatim.

Actually, I suppose at first reading, it is sort of a chick flick book. It is repeated readings that let you really appreciate the sentences. Well, that’s my opinion.

Oh, and that book from the dentist’s office: I started reading it and then just had to skim and then tossed it aside to be returned. I can honestly say cleaning bathrooms was more fulfilling.

I am back from the dentist with my clean teeth and a free toothbrush, along with some strong toothpaste for plaque. It is before noon and I could pull on my orange work pants with the cool pockets, spray myself with mosquito repellent and head up to LaGrange County to spend time mowing. Or, I could not do that. Flip a coin? Well, that would give me a 50% chance of actually going.

I think I’ll so some patented AmeliaJake Reasoning it Out. There is a 10% chance of rain this afternoon and yesterday when I was thinking about the week, today was predicted to have a plus 59% chance of rain and thunderstorms. I had not planned on mowing today. Now, it is, as I wrote, 10%, so should I change my plans? However, the grass may not have grown to a really needs cutting height because I cut it short last time, and, really, Mother always liked for it to have a bit of height – hated the scalped look.

Friday has only a 10% chance of rain and then it would look nice for the weekend. Of course, that means trusting the weather predictors who were wrong yesterday and Friday is 72 hours away. Then there is that old saying about not putting things off. That may be wise, but it is sooooo not AmeliaJake. Changing aspects of my character might be dangerous to my health at this point in my life. Hey, that may sound like an excuse but Winston Churchill, arguably The Greatest Briton, said that he could stop drinking but it would not be wise to tamper with the habits of a lifetime.

Let’s see: changing my plans, changing my habits. Oh, dear, TWO changes; that might really be risky.

Also the dentist’s office has a “Read & Wait” book program and I have one I started in my hand . . .

It’s a cleaning. Time flies sometimes. Actually, my appointment was for today but I had to cancel because of a conflict with an important appointment for Summer. Then I see a text message: Can I come at 11 am on Tuesday? I voicemail back, “Yes.” I get a call around five – Uh, the 11am is gone but how about 9:40?

Going to the dentist these days isn’t bad – no non-prenumbed shots to the roof of the mouth. And actual pain medicine after if needed. But way back in the corners of my mind are these gut-level memories of drills like they use in road construction and big, long needles that you FELT and the advice to ice up your jaw and take some aspirin. Yeah, that worked.

Well, that may not have been the best pep talk I’ve given myself.

Yes, I have been pampering my back today . . . and just about everything else. I have not been thinking, just reading light-weight stuff. The problem with that is the telling of the basic story isn’t bad, but when the author tries to tie it up in an ending, you do think. You think, “YUCK.” Oh, well, on to the next one.

Speaking of endings, it appears the author of the Jerry Series, to whom I served as an assistant has abandoned the project. Sooooo… That seems to leave it open for some anonymous person to pick up the story and wander around with it and then wait for the original author to go ACK!!!! or GRANDMA!!!!!!

Right off the bat, I can tell you that Jerry has six toes. Well, he had six toes; surgeons amputated the littlest one when he was learning math and insisted on Base 11. And it wasn’t the “little toe” that was taken; Jerry’s littlest toe was actually the second one over from the big toe – in other words, what would be our middle toe. That was very trying on the toe on the end. Before the operation, he had been the little piggy who had to do nothing; now he has to to WHEE WHEE WHEE all the way home.

As an aside, do you know there are little people out there who think the little toe when wee, wee, wee all the way home because his wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom before they left for home?

I should not have started thinking, right?

I am thinking I strained my lower back muscles because of pain; I made it bold because it is more than a little ache, but not nearly a big PAIN. So I took an Aleve and then I threw caution to the wind and took two aspirin – Hey, I’m got a strong stomach, and now I am slowly stretching around.

When Crate & Barrel ships some glasses, they wrap a bubble wrap around the order that consists not of the little bubbles we all know and love, but square inch pockets of air . . . and last night I folded up a piece of it and put it under the small of my back. It helped quite a bit. I may have to order more glasses – an odd number, dontcha, so they just can’t ship them in the 12 pack boxes, but need the amazing square bubble wrap.

I should have kept my mouth shut – they will probably start selling it now.

I remember mentioning that I had gone longer at NOT winning a Solitaire game at the nursing home than Mrs. Feller could ever remember for anyone – and she’s 96.

Well, Friday I had to stop at the drug store on the way over to see her and realized I had forgotten my cards, so I bought a new deck. Dorothy, her tablemate, said this new deck would surely be lucky, BUT I still didn’t win. I said I’d play one last game and this is how it dealt out:

But, wait, it gets better. This is how it played out:

We decided to quit on that game and they ate their supper – sort of. It was a losing deal – cold chicken pot pie.

Der Bingle and I, along with Summer for a few suggestions, are looking at samples of colors for the fence and the shed. In other words, we may be talking about the same subject as my last post – a train wreck. Summer thinks solid bright orange would be good. Well, that way I could put on my orange pants and have my picture taken as the “half lady”.

There’s the deciding, then the prepping, then the actual painting . . . and finally, the watching the paint dry phase. Oh, I think I skipped the part about scrubbing AmeliaJake clean.

I found the clippings below and scanned them into my computer; I think I’m going to have to do a better job of it, but for right now, I’ll let them serve.

Anna Wisler Olney was the much younger sister of Wesley Wisler, my great-grandfather. His daughter, Anna’s niece – but only a few years junior in age, was Jessie Wisler Shimp, my grandmother. Grandma was supposed to go with them that day but my mother told me that something came up and Grandma couldn’t go. Mother said she remembered Grandma walking out to the car to tell them when they stopped by. Later, people came by the house because they assumed Grandma had also been injured/killed.

Anna’s sister, Sara Jane, mentioned as a survivor was my infamous Great Aunt Sara who went to IU, married a travelling Encyclopedia Brittanica salesman, and once rode to town sitting with her head out of the window of a Buick because her hat wouldn’t fit inside.

The crossing at which they were killed is the one just south of my house on Riley Street. Mother said that Ed Olney had one of the first new automatic shift cars and they thought that might have had something to do with the accident.

I looked at what I wrote last night. So, I might be in a snit? Now to harness Snit Power . . . I’ll probably need investors.

UPDATE:

Aha! The idea of Snit Power has opened a door in my brain that is stuffed full of images of possible “Just Might Work” scenarios. And then there is that initial literal image of a field dotted with Giant AmeliaJake SnitMills. Okay, so that is nowhere near possibly working, but it looks cool in my mind. More likely are a series of teach yourself to snit AmeliaJake-style book, complete with illustrations of levels of looks of death and hints on how to make your words stun guns and/or cattle prods.

I could even scientifically bear out my intuitive snit power with experiments at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. Charts and graphs and footnotes.

HEY! THIS DOOR IS STUCK. WAIT A MINUTE . . . AM I LOCKED OUT OF MY OWN PLACE??? SOPHIE?? FOO?? LYDIA!?!.

I’m not talking big picture here – neurosis, psychosis, phobia, etc. I’m talking just plan old moods. I think I’m in a sad phase and it is pissing me off. I mean it really is. Here it is June, the month when the days get longer and longer and dawn comes early with the promise of those long days. June, the month I wait for, the month with that poem we all had to recite as sophomores . . And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, in ever, come perfect days . . Yes. Yes. Yes. June. And I am feeling the tug of sadness, despair, remorse and anguish; what incredible timing.

So I’m going to take the next two plus weeks of days-getting-longer before the tide turns and I am going to wring the daylights out of them. Everything else can just get out of my way. I’m going to take some life out of these days and I’m going to be aware of doing it.

Now that doesn’t mean I’m not going to carry my end; it means if no one’s on the other end, I’m chopping my personal end off and going on alone.

I guess that’s plain enough. Well, there may be lose ends . . . like exactly where does that downer mood go while I plunge ahead? Do I put it under the bed in a box? Hey, already I almost hit a pitfall. To Hell with where it goes.

I’m going to bed; daybreak will be here in just a few hours and I want to be ready.