In this post there is a picture of the Gingerbread Grandma that Summer made for my birthday. Oh, heck, maybe I have the picture still; let me see.

Yessirree, Bob, here it is.

Then we ate it, but not all of it. There is a grandma torso now on the table; I can’t complain, I started it off by doing the lobotomy. Then a hand went, a foot . . . another foot. It’s gruesome. I don’t know if I can manage a picture. But I can:

She also made me another cake – picture to come – Oh, here it is:

that is a four layer grey-iced tower. Inside, each level is a different color, representing a rainbow. The idea was grey hair but still full of life . . . she said.

Her grandpa was afraid the grey head would hurt my feelings, but Summer told him we understand each other . . . she’s right.

And, for some reason, I was tempted and succumbed and took a picture of Der Bingle’s grey/blond curls.

It’s raining and my lower intestinal tract is upset . . . and I thought, “What an opportunity to sit here all comfy and read and surf the web. I don’t know what site I was on, but I saw a link to a Travel & Leisure series of photos about scariest bridges. Of course, I clicked on it, because I am a twit. Do you know that? A dumb old twit.

Yes, the bridges are a little off-putting – oh, I am sorry for that – but what ambushed me was the thought that it would not be good to be on some of them when the little intestinal tract thing singled, NOW.

If you want to look, you can connect by clicking one of these phrases: RIGID WITH FEAR or NO GUTS, NO GLORY. (Oops, another little intestinal pun. I’m going to pay for this I know.)

I don’t know if this will work or not, but I wanted to share a card that popped up on my computer this morning. It’s from Jacquie Lawson collection and I hope you can see it HERE.

Obviously, my comments on mowing have been noticed.

Now let’s see if this works.

Because Der Bingle is heading out to San Diego at 7am from the Fort Wayne Airport (has to get there by 5am to get seat assignment) tomorrow, which is my birthday, Summer has made me two cakes today.

Here is one of them: The Gingerbread Grandma

Yikes, this time moving on thing is a trite saying, a cliche, a rumor you hear when you are younger – but, this month, it’s a kick in the pants.

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Remember one of the songs? Will you still love me when I’m 64? That song; those lyrics. Well, I remember hearing it when I was under 20 and on Monday, I can change that “will you?” to “do you?” and the “when I’m” to “now that I am.”

It doesn’t seem old now . . . to me. Summer has a different viewpoint. The question is: How may times is she going to refer to this 64-ness come Monday. If I get ready to go on my walk that day and put on my ipod to hear THAT SONG, I’m going to . . . well, I don’t know, but she could be in trouble. Maybe there will be a new song – Will you still love me when my grandma goes postal with my hair and scissors? Too drastic? Well, I’ll think about it while I’m still 63.

You will have to use your imagination because I took no picture of myself yesterday as I emerged from a day of mowing into evening.

A layer of mosquito repellent
A sheen of daylong perspiration
A covering of dust from all the stirred up dirt from the drought conditions.

Gosh, almighty, do I love soap.

That’s what all the folks here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse tell me. The folks who are left, that is. So many have taken “extended vacations” at the Ohio Redoubt that I am wondering if it was something I said. I don’t know, maybe something in reference to flat triangular noses – sort of like What’s the point of a profile shot when they have mug shots taken? Or maybe, Gee, if one turned up missing and we put a picture on a milk carton, would we wake up to find a thousand candidates at the door?

Yikes, do you suppose they were just using my non-organization skills to cover for the real reason – my lack of tact? There was the time Two Moo was sitting here while I was looking at types of cows on the Internet and remarked to Der Bingle that this one type looked like his big leather chair in the living room – kind of a burgundy brown.

Say, do you suppose we are spelling Two Moo’s name correctly? Maybe she is actually, To Moo, as in to mooo of not to moo, that is the question. She’s a big fan of Shakespeare, dontcha know? Well, maybe I shouldn’t say “big”; enthusiastic or dedicated or devoted might be more tactful.

Then it could be Too Moo – implying her cow essence is so exquisite that it approaches the sublime. Oh, dear, I just glanced over and it appears I walked by her and dropped my sweater on her head. Forget tact; they are probably going to tack me to the wall and duct tape my fingers so I can never post again. Oh, dear, I think I’ve given them an idea.

Here is a picture from the wedding of my cousin’s son and his new wife, Katie.

It is a special day . . . with and extra special back story.

I felt a little chilled this evening, so put on a heavy sweatshirt and lay down under a blankie. I woke up about two hours later as my cell phone chirped at me and I was hot. A nostril is stuffed!!!! Oh, rats, is it a summer cold? Come to think of it, I did sneeze some today.

Summer colds are bummers. I remember standing in the August heat at the LaGrange House when I was a teenager with my head leaning against a door frame as I sought a bit of a breeze, a box of Kleenex in my hand. However, we are having a relatively cool August, especially when viewed against the torrid 2012 July and maybe it is just an errant bit of pollen and  reaction to a cool afternoon rain.

I suppose I will know by tomorrow if I will be digging out the Vicks inhalers or not. Nothing like the sinus days of August with a furry dog at your side, a Wubba to be thrown in his mouth. Hey, she’s just sitting around; this would be good exercise for her. What is so infuriating is that he will chase it and bring it back, but he wants you to tug and fight to get it out of his mouth to throw again. Or would that be infurriating?  Oh, what a bad pun . . . those must be brain cells exiting with each sneeze.

My foot is just a little sore, but the rapid descent into the window well was a jolt and later I felt my muscles tingling here and there with a questioning whisper: What happened! Yes, apparently, orange is the color of befuddled muscle thoughts – who knew?

So today, Der Bingle and I did a little tomato propping-up and weed pulling. We need all those little green tomatoes to think RED.

I have been sitting here daydreaming so I guess it is time to push publish. (Something about that old saying: S__t, or get off the pot.)