This Thursday night is the VP debate and I don’t know if I can watch it because we all know:

AmeliaJake can’t stand Joe Biden.

That’s right; I can’t stand that man.  I might wind up with a TV on my foot, or more likely, I would try to reach in the TV and strangle the man. I am just going to have to break down and start citing comments made in Gail Sheehy’s book, Character,  America’s Search for Leadership.

Oh, yeah, don’t forget the fact that he graduated 76th out of 85 in his law school class, but claimed to be in the top half. When asked about it at one function, this interaction was reported:

The tape, which was made available by C-SPAN in response to a reporter’s request, showed a testy exchange in response to a question about his law school record from a man identified only as ”Frank.” Mr. Biden looked at his questioner and said: ”I think I have a much higher I.Q. than you do.’ (From this source)

Then, of course, here is the summary out of the horse’s (possibly we could substitute another animal) mouth.

I mean, that man just irritates me to no end. I can’t stand that man.

I don’t like to do windows, but I do them because I want to stay warm and cut down on heating costs. Yes, I am talking about putting plastic on my windows. Some think this is tacky; when the temperature is really down there and the wind is blowing, I really don’t care. Heck, I don’t care anyway.

I have this down to a science AND an art form, but it is boring work, and where the porch windows (11 of them) are concerned, a bit awkward. It is a long job because I have eight window panels in the den alone, eight in the living room and . . . well, a whole bunch lots of other places. They are crank out panels – wooden, with eight individual panes, but that is another story in itself.

I have storm windows that fit inside the crank outs . . .but do you have any idea how much annoying air can trickle through the glazing of 64 individual panes and then around the cut outs in the storm windows to accommodate the cranking mechanism? Well, it’s actually not a whole lot, but it’s annoying when you are trying to be cozy and don’t want to set the thermostat too high.

So, it is plastic film and hair dryer time . . . again.  3M is super, super clear and more expensive but it takes me through a couple of winters with a crystal clear, but snug, view through the den windows that make up about two walls and are above two sofas. The 30 foot living room can be fairly cozy too, with Scotch 3M between the storm windows and the 8-paned crank outs. There is another brand, in a green box, that is almost as clear and I use that on more out of the way windows.

Why am I writing these paragraphs about the minutiae of window draughts? Well, because I am shamelessly soliciting sympathy. Do  you know how overwhelming a veritable multitude of windows, plastic window film and  . . . wait for it . . . double stick tape can be – not to mention the hair dryer of shrinkage?

Now, there is part two: the new crank-out windows in the rooms that were added on. You know – the modern windows – the upgrades.  There are eight of them in the sitting room above the den and guess what? All that glass surface gets a chill to it. But those eight windows are in banks of four, and in each bank, each window is set back in its own little casing. Sixteen personally cut expanses of 3M plastic to fit in without showing.  Sigh.

Oh, I know drapes are a big help in cold climates and they are fine at night, but in daylight I like to take advantage of windows . . . so I’m biting the bullet and starting in on this task. Will I have any hair left after pulling some out in frustrations and accidents with double stick tape? It is questionable.

Okay, I’m a wimp and I vented. Oh rats! Slap my face for that unintentional pun. Not to hard . . . remember the wimp factor.

It is not supposed to frost tonight, but I am going to get up and go put a sheet over my tomatoes just in case – sort of a practice protecting move that will convince me that a sheet is not enough. Soon, I will just have to pick all the green ones and let them ripen in the house and eventually, there will be no more really “tomato tangy taste” until next summer. It’s tricky, this garden tomato thing; they taste so good, but eat too many and you will actually get sores on the inside of your mouth. You have to ration them out – no tomato marathons, but all the time  you are spacing your eating, time is running out.

Surely, there must be some Greek myth that deals with this dilemma. Or not. It is, I suppose, just irony.

A nurse told me after surgery last week that I had no stitches in my skin and I should leave the tape on my neck until it fell off. Seven days later it was still there, dirty and grungy. So I took it off; I had taken to picking at it the way I sometimes play with a necklace and, I grabbed a loose end and pulled.

Now I have a tiny line on my neck and for some reason am toying with the idea of using a black marker to make a dotted line all the way around with the words CUT HERE underneath it.

Hmm, I wonder about the grass at Mother’s . . . I think it needs mowing. Now did I think that all of a sudden because CUT HERE was staring me in the face. Ah, the wonders of the human mind . . . tricky little devil.

We had our own little People of Wal-Mart moment here today. Two people who obviously had issues with each other were  in adjacent aisles, turned the corner the aisles had in common and BOOM! Mocking  accusations flew back and forth loudly and, then,  one turned on the people surrounding them and told them to butt out of their private conversation.

Of course, I had already passed the area when everything went critical and had to do a backward eavesdropping. I was almost in the seasonal sectional and saw an inflated Rudolph Reindeer, so I took a picture to send to Der Bingle while I paused. Ah, yes, in front of me was a harbinger of good cheer and behind me was a session of folks trying to cook each other’s goose.

And then the day got sort of boring.

Summer and Cameron have Mother’s cat in the living room and I don’t hear Shane going crazy, so I am wondering, “Where is that dog?”  Perhaps he has decided to opt for covert responses to the cat instead of barking out some translation of “What is that cat doing now and why in heaven’s name would anyone want to hold her?”   Maybe there will be little catnip-baited traps showing up around here.

But, ah, speaking of showing up, Shane is here with me now, plopped on the floor but not in a sleep mode. He is acting quite nonchalant. I wonder if he has found access to super glue . . .

Though I had more nightmares last night, today I took it into my head to completely dissemble an old sofa I had jettisoned. It is now three bags of compressed stuffing and a bunch of kindling for the fireplace.

Could it be that . . .

AMELIAJAKE IS BACK?

I am not in a great hurry to go to sleep tonight since last night Der Bingle had to shake me awake . . . because I was yelling, “Help me! Help me!” Then when I fell back to sleep – and he had taken the precaution of leaving the light on, I dreamed I was walking all around some huge downtown area with skyscrapers, trains, harbors, library ruins, small shops, street vendors, trolleys, festivals and villains. And at some point, I lost my shoes. I think at times it was winter and slushy.

So, I am not too keen on getting a big ole Morpheus hug this evening. This could be the night for a marathon of old movies – even a movie marathon on WGN, home of the 10 minute commercial break every five minutes. I have to admit, though, I miss those Central Time Zone Late Shows in Chicago . . . back in the days of Walter Jacobson and Bill Kurtis. (That will date me) Oh, wait, they’re still doing the news together, only Walter’s hair is not black anymore.

I’ve probably jinxed myself now . . . I’ll dream of a marathon of Walter J’s commentaries.

After the whole work-up of getting to the bottom of the problem with my high calcium – to use a roller coaster of a phrase – one would think I would be chockful of stories of “the surgery”.  In fact, some even remarked, “I’ll bet this will be on the blog.”

But, no. That’s not the situation. Oh, there are stories all right and they’re scattered around me, but I haven’t fully embraced them yet. I am not in a mood to take a deep breath and let the humorous details pour out.  (However, the nurse who used the code word “privates” has popped forth in one little anecdote.)

Maybe it is the adjusting to new parathyroid levels and calcium levels; maybe it is this rash I have that itches. I’ll come around to it though – the telling about Ivor, for instance, who made me think of Igor and the wild surgery in the castle with the lightning and  . . . No, don’t let your imagination run wild when headed to a gurney ride.

After midnight, my instructions are “nothing by mouth” . . . That means a “tiny sip” of water with necessary medicine.  I’m scheduled for surgery at noon. TWELVE HOURS + the amount of  time for the neckomy and time to wake up. So Der Bingle stopped at Taco Bell  on his way home and got me a salad and nachos and tacos . . . which I shared. (Mainly I shared because I don’t want to generate bad vibes for tomorrow.)

It’s 10:15 pm until the No Eats Time Zone. Hey, I’m grabbing another taco.