I guess that post title hints at the level of my expressive creativity today. I’m here because I had some dilly-dally moments while getting ready to go to the bank and post office about 11 this morning. I was finally ready to head out the door at about noon and decided lunchtime on a Monday was not a good time to actually go inside both places. I am waiting an hour. Right here with you. I jest.

I am going to read my Kindle for awhile. The book is okay and it has lots of pages and cost 99¢ – probably not the best way to measure the worth of a book. If you’re looking at relaxation, however, I suppose it’s as good as a Redbox rental.

Two week-ends in a row Der Bingle and I have made chili on Saturday morning and he has handed me the parts of the sliced tomatoes that don’t go in the mixture. I eat them because I love tomatoes. Last week I bought regular on the vine tomatoes because I forgot his instructions to get romas. So yesterday I made certain I had the roma ones.

Okay . . . This morning as he was slicing and dicing and I was walking around the kitchen collecting spoons, washing pans and putting the chopper together, he would, as usual, slip a bit of tomato into my mouth. Everything proceeded as usual; just like last Saturday . . . until a couple of hours later when I had the dreaded intestinal cramps, followed by mock dysentery. Sorry if I’m getting dramatic here but it didn’t feel good.

I think it was the roma tomatoes; I think they are for cooking, not raw eating. At least as far as my body is concerned. Maybe I am wrong . . . as my daughter-in-law said, “Oh, you and your gut.”

I stopped talking about romas then because my intuition told me unless I quickly changed the subject, that line would become on of my definitions. You know, kids saying, “You’ve got Grandma’s gut.” Or, let’s go to a different restaurant; you know Grandma’s gut.” Heck, it could become a syndrome: Grandma’s Gut.

I don’t know, maybe it’s better than having “the vapors”, but come to think of it (and I wish I hadn’t) it might actually have some resulting vapors of its own.

What did they say yesterday? Oh, yeah, I remember. SHUT UP AMELIAJAKE.

“There was some 40 mph driving,” he said when I turned around to see him coming through the door. When we had talked earlier about the impending storm, he didn’t know if he’d come or not. When I went to pick up Alison I was on snow-covered roads and decided I’d call just to make sure he was sitting safe in the Ohio Redoubt. When I got in the house and called, his phone went to voicemail – because he was in the driveway getting his bag out of the car.

It was nice to be able to move to relief before I could even stick my toe in a mire of worry. And then, of course, he and Cameron had to take Shane to the fairgrounds with his Wubba. That dog has them wrapped around his paw big time.

The guys who left last week to visit the Redoubt are still there! We think they are partying with Cousin Vinny’s pizza and a tub of ice with sodas and bearbeer in it. Maybe Der Bingle will have to leave a webcam there one time. No, on second thought, we don’t want to know. I have heard rumors that the frat boys often hire Spikey to plan parties for them. She seems to have the knack of arranging wild and crazy fun without drawing the notice of the boys in blue. Well, to be honest, I have also heard that she helps out with the Policeman’s Ball . . . and that Tim Tebow will be there to sign autographs this year. There is supposed to be a silent auction for a pair of his football pants with grass stains on the knee.

I’m going along here as if I will fall off the earth if I stop typing. A little mania, perhaps? Ah, my psychic ear is getting a message: FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, AMELIAJAKE, SHUT UP!

Okay, I tried it and I’m not enjoying it, but I’ll keep doing it . . . because I don’t want a psychic whack up the side of my head.

Because this house is in town, I cannot go out and start a fire; this is probably a good thing, because I am in the mood for a bonfire cleansing, not to mention hijacking a Salvation Army Pick-up Truck and a couple of strong backs. On the other hand, a deep hole would be nice – maybe a five by five sinkhole that would swallow up stuff and then close back up, assuming it didn’t turn into a five by five hill.

I wonder if you can put more than branches in a wood chipper. Rats, I just thought, “Well, of course, you’ve watched the body disposal methods on murder shows.” And Cameron has been watching “Deadly Women” on Netflix . . .  Fortunately, I am clumsy enough I could get my arm caught in one and then AmeliaJake would really be part of the problem, and that doesn’t seem to be a way to make progress.

This is an old refrain for me. Sigh. I must put my mind to work finding ways to make money out of my stuff. Then again, the bonfire has the call of a siren to it. Or perhaps I am anticipating the siren I would hear from the car with the flashing lights on top. I suppose a jail cell would be an experiment in minimalist living.

The orange jump suits are the pits, though. But I have practice; remember the on sale work pants from Lands End? No? Okay, let me see if I can find the reference. Oh, there are two: HERE and HERE.

Monday was a holiday, so it seemed like Sunday. It wouldn’t have seemed like a Sunday since school was in session, but illness kept people home and Der Bingle’s schedule is based on the Federal Calendar. Anyway, I am starting my week one day late in my mind. Not that I have any crucial five-day-project commencing. In fact, I am suffering what I believe is Procrastination Catatonia; I can’t get started doing the simplest task. I work sudokus and read . . . and walk into the kitchen. I have this habit of using three little dots (visual aid:   . . . ) to indicate when I am pausing to think or stare into space. Technically, the dots are ellipses or dramatic pauses and I don’t use them as they are defined; they are supposed to represent left out words or a sense of, shall we say, drama.  I use them to represent nothingness – literally.

But enough of that – except to say right now I am in a constant dot period. (no pun intended)

Riding along in the passenger seat of the LaCrosse were California Lemon Head, The Great Poo, Alien Poo and Spikey. When they got there, they took over a chair and by now probably have control of the remotes.

It just occurred to me that I need to get some new dimensions in my life. Of course, if personal history has taught me anything, that thought will be like a little seed that decides sprouting is not all it’s cracked up to be. So here I sit with a wave of rah-rah, get on the bandwagon optimism, but the verb “to sit” is the indicator that not much will happen.  It’s my personality, dontcha know?

Well, at least I know I won’t be getting a tattoo that looks like a chain going around my ankle. See, sometimes laziness and procrastination can be your friends. Not that I have any critical thoughts about people who do have such tattoos – Oh, that’s a lie.  That’s another part of my personality, too. Not so much the lying – the judgmental aspect. Ack! I just realized fat bulges – spare tires, for instance – are invisible ink type of tattoos.  Let’s see; chain tattoo on the  ankle of a fit and healthy body vs. blank skin on a lump Michelin Man body.

Okay, it’s time for me to shut up and just go talk to Foo at the Foo Bar. Maybe she’ll show me her tattoo. Oops, didn’t shut up soon enough.

It’s the closest to the top on my left index finger. I am fairly certain it is an old lady pre-arthritic bump –  or would that be a pre-gnarl? I have always had short and crooked fingers, but now I have a nascent bump. I guess this getting older thing is real. I knew it intellectually, but, whoa, we’re getting a litter visceral here.

I need someone to take a picture of my two index fingers held together in front of me. They both point forward for about a third of the length and then veer off – the left to the northwest and the right to the northeast. Sometimes it reminds me of a two-headed snake.

Yes, obviously, I am at loose ends tonight, just letting my mind wander around. I should turn on its GPS, but sometimes its just as well not to know where you are headed. That would be the ignorance is bliss thing.  Or close to it.

Aha, Der Bingle has arrived; I called out to the kitchen, “Is that you? There’s some ham on the counter for you.”  He doesn’t need to know I heard a voice 45 minutes ago and yelled the same thing, only to have Cameron answer, “No, it’s me.” Shane is going to the fairgrounds . . . because he is soooo spoiled. His paws may freeze but it’s the principle of the thing, dontcha know.

Quentin sent me three pictures of Shane from when he was a pup. He says he’s gotten bigger, but he still has the same look about him. In other words, he really is his inner puppy.
Because one of Shane’s eyes is blue and other brown, the light-colored one came out red in the photo. I assumed fixing it would result in a dog with two brown eyes, but no, the software actually worked.
So, without further ado, here’s the 2007 version of HRH Shane.

I feel most like myself in the early morning – as if maybe there is one more chance for a dud. It may or may not be a true intuitive feeling, but so far, I keep giving it a chance. I guess hope and dawn feel good.

I think that paragraph was an aside, before there were any remarks to be an aside to. Which perhaps requires its own definition, but, heck, I just typed “I bought a free (Kindle) book” and that is an iffy sort of transaction. I’m going to let it go.

I ordered a cat story book; I do not like cats. My mother left me with a cat and my daughter-in-law and granddaughter are caring for her. My son too. As for the two of us – that cat and I – we tolerate each other and I wonder what in heck brought my mother to take to cats after decades of being a dog person.

I think it may have been a wish to have a companion; I think it may have had something to do with the fact the first cat showed up on Christmas Eve after my aunt had died; I think a series of books about cat detectives slowly brainwashed her. As my father used to say in reference to one cat, “Yo-Yo and Co-Co saved that cat.”

So, anyway, I was drifting along the titles of free Kindle books and came upon on that actually had the word cat in the title. I thought of Mother and went on down the list. Then I came back and read the synopsis; I wasn’t impressed, but the note on the author caught my attention:

Anne L. Watson is a retired historic preservation architecture consultant and now pursues a variety of interests, including photography, soapmaking, and baking with cookie molds. “Skeeter,” her first book, has been followed by several others, including the literary novel “Pacific Avenue.” A former resident of San Pedro, California — the setting of “Skeeter” — Anne currently lives in Friday Harbor, Washington, with her husband and fellow author, Aaron Shepard, and one formerly-stray cat.

i think the primary hook for me was soapmaking, although I’m pleased with the historic preservation part. My mother liked old buildings and once she made home-made ketchup, maybe because she thought my dad would appreciate its taste. It wasn’t bad, but some did blow up. KABOOM. (I have such learned some people stick problematic canned acidic foodstuff in sand. Now that is an aside.)

It is on my Kindle now. This one’s for you, Mother. Just don’t expect me to go hugging a cat.