Hi again. I’m AmeliaJake’s nose and I’m writing this post because I have control of her mind. It was easy –  a little stuffiness, some sinus pressure, the tear ducts of her close set eyes pulsating with a pain that arcs across the bridge of her nose (me). (Again, a short distance since her eyes crawl up her nose – me.)

Puffed up eyes – she can’t see the Vicks. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

So, what are we going to talk about. You’re expecting gossip, right? Because I’m nosy? HAHAHAHAHAHA.  I got a million of ’em. But don’t worry, I’m not bent out of shape and won’t make any snotty comments. See, now I’ve got 999,999 of them.

Too early in the morning for ya? Okay, I’ll blow this joint. 999,998.

I am reading a book tonight about crime. That’s not accurate; I’m reading a novel that has criminals in it – no history of crime, or anything like that. Just this Russian guy who is a longtime Mafia-type. Yes, real longtime. He mentions that he is in his early sixties, and we are not talking Clint Eastwood 60’s. Oh, he can still fight because he knows the moves, but he constantly complains of the arthritis in his knees and repeatedly describes himself as old. His friends are old, too. They commiserate about it. It is annoying to read this repetition when you yourself are in that age group.

There’s also a youngish man in the book – an FBI man gone bad. And on  top of it, the guy is incompetent at being bad. He has messed everything up so far. It’s not that the book is badly-written; it’s just the “old” guy and the klutz. I imagine it would be like listening to Ben Stiller dialogue when he’s up in years.

All this reminds me that there is  a word “fogeydom”.  I did not get this from some urban dictionary; this info was in Webster’s 1913 edition, and there are earlier references. So, fogeydom was around long before I ever entered whippersnapperdom. Still, somehow I can see fogeydom working its way into my life as I preempt taunts by embracing it and highlighting my fogeyisms.

I don’t know . . . We are just posting pictures of Shane a lot lately.

One of my mantras has been that humor should be clever and snicker humor should not be encouraged. I am fighting the future.

LZP sent Der Bingle the following link and asked, “What do you think Grandma Vance would have thought of this?

Here is the link but you don’t have to go there; it is a game involving a plastic pooping dog. “Pooping” is not my word – it is in the description of “Doggie Doo”. The British Toy Retailers Association has named it one of this year’s “must have” games. The dog also farts.

I’ve heard the British have a thing about scatological jokes. Maybe so; maybe so. Although I must add, “David Niven, say it ain’t so.”

Actually, the link is informative – the game is extremely popular with buyers. The video with the link is – well – graphic.

I wonder if the instructions caution you  to wash your hands. Clearly, Doggie Do is not  your grandmother’s Chutes & Ladders.

The title was Shane Shane Shane Shane

This is mostly for Quentin; roll over the picture to see my identifying remarks.
There are not two headless wubba throwers – the gallery preview cut off the head in the second – but it’s there if you click on the picture.
Probably, I should have titled this Zooming on Shane; I could do that now – but that would involve backtracking.

Yes, I know yesterday was the first of November; I walked all around it and stared at it and could only muster a “Gosh, it’s November.”  So now it’s the second and I have actually steadied myself enough to type about it. Except, I don’t think I have anything to say, really.

I mean, this isn’t my first November. People are laughing, I know. If I were to count out loud how many Novembers I have seen, it would take more than a few seconds – unless I counted by tens. I have Thanksgiving turkeys and harvest decor in the house. I even have a turkey hanging from the chandelier. I am determined to make this more than an “Okay, you bozos, come to the table for turkey” event.

That means note cards, people. On the refrigerator, doorways, cabinets. It will not be a Nazi Thanksgiving; it will be more of one identifying the potential respectful and aware ones from the bickering naboobs (intentional spelling) of drumstick gnawing.

Ha! But that’s not the half of it. There will be more note cards, all announcing, “Pick up after yourselves or no Christmas decorations, tree or . . . ”

Come to think of it, I may have been wrong; I may, indeed, be an Elf Nazi. Christmas cookies? Come, let us talk about it at GrandmaStrasse.

This is the headline:

Peanut butter prices skyrocketing

Here is a bit from the article:

 . . . peanut butter prices have begun going into effect following one of the worst peanut harvests in decades.

To see the whole thing, including the Smucking picture, go to this place.

Lydia is playing dirge music on the piano.

I felt like shit this morning. I had a hard time typing that; my father would not be pleased with my using that expression. So I guess I really meant it. But I feel better now. I don’t feel as if I am incredibly out of sync with things; I have taken my deep breath and am ready to take charge of my day . . . because AmeliaJake always likes to be in charge, dontcha know.

I’ll let you know what happens . . . like maybe I might go too far on the in charge pendulum of power.

This is not like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington; this is about the HO HO Man. He went to the Ohio Redoubt of the West Facing Cave today and is already mingling with the troops and giving pep talks.

Let’s hear it for the

Green

Oh, no. I forgot the picture first time around.

Cameron, Summer, Der Bingle and I went to PetSmart yesterday, looking for Wubbas and more soothing shampoo for Shane. Der Bingle and I were in one aisle when Cameron came around the corner holding one of these:

Der Bingle gave a bit of a whimper and sagged some. Yes, Cameron has the Rubber Chicken Gene, also exhibited often by his great-uncle LZP