I really don’t like it too much when people launch off into a long narration about their dreams; I will not do that. But if I did, it would include walking though a maze of concrete block rooms with hogs in them sleeping on straw. I had someone’s baby in my arms; I think it was a girl because she had a pink ruffled outfit. There is much, much more, but I take pity and will work my way through the aftermath by myself.

Aha, today is Day 2 of cleaning, which means people are going to start to feel scared. One day was an anomaly; two days will not bode well for the slobmeisters. I’ll bet they plan some out-of-house activity for Wednesday. I know, we could all go to Mother’s and clean. See, I’m ready for them – I have my back-up plan. I can really put fear into them; I can send someone to the store for more trash bags. I wonder if October is bringing the real witch in me out of the closet. The thing is: Our house is so cluttered, I know I have a pointy, black, authentic witch’s hat here someplace.

That reminds me, it will soon be time  for the Pilgrim Hunt for Thanksgiving. Got to find the turkey that hangs from the chandelier also. He usually stays until Christmas because I feel sorry for him; I think I hang bells and holly on him. (The little Pilgrims I put in obscure spots on one of the trees so they can celebrate too.) Yes, I am a kook. Two days ago I considered springing for a cottage Christmas decorating magazine. Then I saw the price – in a teeny font – specifying $5.99 in the U.S. and a dollar more in Canada. I think I can do festive without that expense.

I’m thinking about this already because, at least I think because – it will be one year this 17th since Mother died and I have not progressed very far in improving my life, which I should have done before my parent’s died, but I guess they knew me and were used to it. Last year, with Thanksgiving and Christmas looming after the burial on the 24th and Der Bingle getting a blood clot in early December, we stumbled through. And I think it was stressful for the kids, after all. On Christmas Day, I was dreading sitting down at the table and when Cameron said he was hungry, we spontaneously had a buffet dinner. The atmosphere was full of relief – no sitting down looking at the empty place at the table. This year, I don’t know what we will do.

Of course, if plane schedules work out, Quentin will be here and that will help us make the adjustment to a missing Grandma on Christmas. I am making no plans; I am just going to prepare the house and pantry for Christmas and let things take their own course – no schedule, no deadlines, just taking things as they come.

I feel bad about Mother being dead. I know that sounds inane. I know she is protected now from the things going awry in life that upset her so, but she didn’t want to miss out on things. She used to talk about how they would remember her. She didn’t need to have worried. They remember her often as a strong-willed, do what she could for them, very well-dressed and accessorized feisty lady. Someone shows some spirit on TV or in a movie and  am sure to hear, “Wow. that’s Grandma GiGi.”

You know, when I came home from the meeting with the school official who spoke of Summer being expelled because she had been sick for seven days, people told me, “Your mother would have taken him apart.” Oh, yeah. Say, Mother, mid-term progress reports are coming out and Summer has all A’s and in advanced classes too. Just thought I’d add that in.

Okay, I’ve come to the place where I take a deep breath, look at today, and start working on the house and myself.

I can’t be sure of tomorrow, but today I was sucked into a spasm of cleaning and a plan to deep clean every darn thing in the house. Uh, is that a domicile high colonic? Oh, AmeliaJake, think it through . . . do not imagine it as a high colonic. Perhaps I can buy into the idea of getting the house clean enough so people can tell holiday decorations from the clutter. No, actually, I am really interested in getting to the dirt in the nooks and crannies. I’m not going to analyze it, but simply go with the flow and make hay while the sun shines philosophy.

Of course we are talking AmeliaJake standards, which are high . . . in the sense that you really don’t want to eat off the floor.

I think the real reason I have gone over to the cleaning side is so I can be a Nazi enforcer.

***

We did have a new experience today. Last night the cable went out on the high def boxes and today Summer came down and said, “I’m sorry; it was my fault; I messed up the plug.” Sorry? Fault?  Of course, she did venture that she could have tripped over it.

Ah, yes, my feet are in front of the firestove. They are toasting.  My calves hurt this morning, so what was I doing yesterday? I remember nothing, really.

***

Oh, dear, I was quickly checking to see if songs from itunes had copied onto the computer when, somehow, this old file popped up.  It made me groan.

Alma Wickham got married years ago this month to Daniel Mater and, of course, became Alma Mater, which should not have been a problem and, actually, wasn’t. However, Daniel was a professor at Cornell in the 1970’s made her the butt of many jokes, and she tried to avoid all the alumni meetings where quite a number of those gathered actually loudly sang:

Far above Cayuga’s waters

With it’s waves of blue

Stands our noble Alma Mater . . .

and then guffawed their way through “Glorious to view” and with mirth-charged spirits launched into the second verse.

Finally, she decided to start using her middle name which was Anne . . . and that was fine. Professor Mater passed away suddenly in 1982, though, and Anne, formally Alma, married the head of the Physics Department, Lewis Teak in 1984.

It was, of course, a quiet wedding, attended by a few close friends and one life-of-the-party fellow, Norman Hastings, who owned a used furniture store next to a popular lunchroom near campus. After the ceremony, all the gentlemen took the opportunity to kiss the bride. When Norman approached the head of the “queue”   – as he was wont to say – having left England in 1966, exactly 900 years after the Norman Invasion, as he was wont to point out, he took Anne’s hands in his, leaned back to gaze at her radiant face and announced, “Ah, what a lovely Anne Teak you are.”

Just as Anne fixed Norman with an icy stare of death, Doug Graves came though the front door, exclaiming, “So sorry to be late; I’ve been just buried in work.”

After the reception, Anne (Alma) turned to Lewis and said, “Really, dear, I think we should just have a quiet getaway week at my cottage in Malcolm Falls.”  Lewis quite agreed.

So, two days later, after having watched Brighton Early on the morning news, they climbed in Lewis’ Hummer and headed off.  On the way, Anne told him several tales of her friends and family in Malcolm Falls and that her cousin, Jean Wickham, was planning to throw a party for them at the old homestead.

Lewis thought it would be nice to see the ancestral home, but Anne told him the party would not be where her family had settled, but at the original home site of one of the other pioneers – the Old family. He asked, “That wouldn’t be the Phil N. Old family would it?” And she answered, “Why, Louie, however did you guess?”

She proceeded to tell him that Jean’s mother had a sister who had married into the Old family, but that her mother-in-law, Jessica Old, had been Ima Young’s daughter. Jean herself had married Oliver Poole of the Virginia Pooles. She had met Oliver while visiting her college roommate Ruth Hamm in Norfolk.

Lewis pulled the car over at a gas station and turned and looked at Anne. “Are you telling me,” he asked, “that your cousin Jean’s roommate was a Virginia Hamm and now Jean is Jean Poole?”

“Yes,” she answered, momentarily puzzled. Then her face sported a large grin as she murmured “gene pool . . . gene pool.”

Lewis exploded out of the car and leaned back in the window, more stating than asking, “And you don’t see a weird trend here, my dear former Alma Mater?”

Anne whispered, “It’s a curse.” Going around to get the gas nozzle, Lewis turned and said to Anne, who had by now climbed out of the car herself, “It is NOT a curse. I’m a physicist and there are no curses – well, except the one that keeps the Cubs from winning the World Series.”

He got so agitated that he scratched the paint on his Hummer when he manhandled the gas nozzle out of the tank.”  They stared at the scratch and Anne – who, by the way, was seriously considering going back to being Alma – said, “ You know what you have now, don’t you? A Humdinger, that’s what.”

She got back in the car and Lewis went in to pay. He came back and brought a couple of fountain sodas with him. As he handed his to her, he said slowly and firmly, “I believe you live in the punning dimension; this may be the greatest breakthrough in physics since Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. It could mean a Noble Prize.”

Alma (Anne) took her lips off her straw and watched him as he started the engine. “You believe that,” she asked?  You know, you might just be headed for the phunny farm.”

Lewis drew in a slow breath and said, “Okay, look, I think this is it; I think both of us have a link to the Punning Dimension (notice he is capitalizing it now) and when we joined together, our punning potential reached a critical state . . . and poof . . . we have a rip in reality fabric.”

Alma (Anne) started to protest, but then tentatively spoke his name, “Lewis? . . . Lewis, the mechanic who worked on my cars for years retired and called to tell me the guy who is taking his place is . . . Alf A. Romeo.”

Lewis allowed himself a triumphant “Ha!” Then hit the steering wheel and chortled, “The new director of the town band is Claire Annette!”

“Oh, gosh,” Alma (Anne) said, “The banker’s daughter, Kerry, who went to the Julliard School of Music?  Well, she met a man from Japan, Floyd Oki, and she married him. She’s  . . . Kerry Oki.”

Suddenly she grabbed Lewis’ arm and begged him to stop. “We can’t go to Malcolm Falls . . . It would be the perfect storm scenario. Our punning factor and  . . . I have to tell you, Lewis, a lot of people think Malcolm Fallians do strange things. We can’t chance it.”

“Malcolm Fallians??” Lewis was energized; he could see himself in Stockholm  – hear the applause. “The Perfect Storm, eh? George Clooney could play me . . . “ Just as Alma uttered, “Get Real,” the Hummer crossed the city limits sign on the very edge of Malcolm Falls and perhaps did enter another dimension.

They never reached Malcolm Falls and perhaps they are heading toward a distance star – – maybe the bright one that little Polly Ester calls Venice.

Kendallville is geared up for Apple Festival this weekend; unfortunately, Saturday’s weather prediction is not too good. The festivities and the accompanying area garage sales are supposed to see rain and temps in the 50’s. The temperature doesn’t bother me; it’s the rain. Nothing says bummer like cold rain. I’ve gone when snowflakes have been in the air and it wasn’t bad, although my leather-soled shoes conducted the cold of the pavement exceedingly well. And you could see the steam rising off of the appleburgers. I’ve gone when the temperature was in the 90’s and that was okay since I wasn’t cooking fritters or wearing a pioneer costume. Not great, but okay. Threw back a lot of Bayou Billy drinks that day.

All week long the extended prediction has been for sun, sun, sun and then a rainy weekend and then sun, sun, sun. Then yesterday, Saturday was ranked in the partly cloudy column; tonight, it is back in the rain category. I feel for the organizers; I really do.

We always purchased some unique thing at Apple Festival for Mother’s birthday; once he could read, Cameron pointed out a “Grow Dammit” iron sign for her herb garden. It pleased her immensely. I don’t know if I’ll go this year. I don’t think the kids and I feel like it. I don’t think we need to get out there and go “We’re going to have a good time.” I think we have a sense that this is not something we have to do to prove we are living and celebrating life; there is an air of just standing by and taking a break to remember. I’ll do something else this year; it simply feels right to stop and mark a passing of a family era.

I’m thinking of making bread tomorrow, experimenting since Der Bingle will be here. He’s always been one to toss different ingredients around. But no Tabasco sauce bread . . . and horseradish isn’t encouraged. We’ll see. Cameron is having a fling with cornbread; I don’t care for it, but my dad was quite fond of it. Summer is weaning herself off Zebra Cakes.

***

The new basketball schedule was published today on the East Noble site. Last year was 6-15. The coach attended every game.

It is rumored that Gordon Ramsay is going to visit the cafe here, not to turn us around, but to study our methods. If he wants to garnish the foldovers, well, we’ll let him try. Of course, we’re thinking a dollop of jelly and he may be thinking parsley.

I am on one end of the sofa and Summer is stretched out with her little sick feet on my lap.We have the firestove going, warming up her. She has a comforter my grandmother made on her top half and a modern fiber-filled throw on her knees and feet. For a while Sydney was on top of her. He wasn’t sick, but I think he’s always a little tired.

Her sickie muscles may be achy because her sickie little legs are moving around on my lap and jiggling the laptop and, ahem, I have lost the home row twice already.

We have a doctor’s appointment for her this afternoon . . . and I’m certain I will have updates. Shane, by the way, is trying the ritual Wubba squeaking to drive out evil spirits.

I have a bunch of things to do and I am having trouble launching myself into them. A lot of these things I do over and over again and I think maybe other people should GET A CLUE. Also my nose hurts, from the inner part of the sticking out section on my face into the sinuses around it. I have scarfed an Alka-Seltzer Orange Zest dose and am waiting for relief. Also motivation, but motivation isn’t part of the old jingle: Plop, Plop. Fizz. Fizz. Oh,  what a relief it is.

I’m planning on starting a fire in the basement – in the fireplace, don’t get excited. The woodsmoke scent will filter up the stairs and the heat will chase any dampness away. Then I thought I would spray a nice bleach solution all over the shower down there. I am assuming nothing will blow up.

Housework. I don’t like it. But then I watched a Hoarder show last night which started with a lady making the same statement at the beginning of the show. And guess what? She was living in a house  you could not walk through that was full of cat feces and dead cats. Some of the cats were so dead, they were shriveled up and dried out.  And the house was so bad the cleaners were in HazMat gear as they picked up catting droppings with big shovels.

I don’t know if that motivates me or just plain scares me. Oh, and, she shops everyday at GoodWill. Now that scares me.

Then there’s dinner for the two rugrats here. I think we could have a little sporting practice – I’ll make foldovers and shout “go long.”

Aha! I forgot to say I now have a whistle. Yesterday Shane was barking like a total nutcase because some guy was on the roof. Okay, I just read that as I typed it and perhaps when someone is on your roof and you are a dog, you don’t have to be a nutcase to bark alot. But, anyway, I became irritated at his total inattention to my commands to stop and whistled. I don’t whistle well, but this one time it came out loud and piercing and he stopped in his tracks.

I thought, “Good God, you ARE an Australian Shepherd from real working stock. Did you hear whistles when you were a wee pup? We’re giving it a try. I think Quentin is a little worried this will be the start of a regime of the autocratic whistler, but I will try and keep myself in check.

I think the pressure is easing in my little nose and some drainage is occurring; that means I am supposed to get on the ball.

I am still sitting here. Obviously, there is a glitch in my plan.  Maybe if I imagine there is a cobra nestled in the cushions behind me . . . No, no, I don’t want to fool around introducing that thought to my mind. It come could back to haunt me. Do you know when I was a little girl, I had a fear of snakes crawling into the foot of my bed. I think that comes from being an early reader or old scary movies shown on TV. Having a tendency to be irrational might be an additional factor.

Later, alligator.

See this man. I really, really can’t stand him. I haven’t met him. He’s a big shot in the Democratic Clan. A lot of them can’t stand him either. They’ve met him.

This picture is from the CNN internet site; I go there because I want to see what the liberals are saying. It was on the FRONT PAGE of the news site. I wanted to puke.

I went to the Fox News site; they another picture of him but you had to click to politics to see it.

The word “abrasive” is used over and over again in articles about him, when the writers are putting the best spin they can on it. I think he is arrogant and mean and needs to be socked in the nose. And I’m putting my best spin on it.

*****

A little added bit: I typed in this guy’s name and the word nasty and got a lot of hits. Here’s one from Chicago: Right here.

Here’s a little article that Spikey and Festivus (you’ll meet him later) sent to me from the Ohio Redoubt of the West Facing Cave.

Want a hint before you click? OK.

Ah, yes, Collaboration Wednesday, has moved to Monday. I suppose they thought it would be better to start off the week with a 30-Minute delay, rather than interrupting it with one. I’m not so sure; Monday morning was always a bench mark. Make it up on Monday morning and you had done the hardest part of the week. Now, that steel in your backbone has been challenged by the 30-Minute delay. Trying to set your body in the right frame for the week? Forget it. Forget it. Forget it.

Monday morning fortitude is a time-released thing and it starts to wear off quickly. You suck it up and go, or you start sliding into the “I’ll just rest my head for a moment” pitfall and the next thing you know your system is being shocked by the viscous counter-vibrating forces of an amusement park ride in Hell.

Oh, well.

Sydney and Shane parked at every single person we saw on the way to school -Every Single One. Sydney barked because Shane did, and Shane barked because he was, in fact, shouting, “YOU ARE NOT WITH THE HERD, YOU NINNIES!”

On the way back we waited for three adult women early morning walkers to steam across the intersection. There was Big Strides with Strong Legs, Tries Valiantly to Keep Up, and Huffing and Puffing.

Big Strides ignored Shane; Tries Valiantly glared at him for breaking her focus, and Huffing had these pleading eyes that begged him to stand on the electric window button, leap out, push her to the ground and bark for the shepherd to come.

Oh, and Summer did not go because she almost threw up on the driveway. It was kind of sad – when I got back from taking Cameron, she was sitting there with her nicely-completed poster assignment on a possible career choice. Hers is veterinarian. Well, maybe Sydney and Shane will sleep with her today.