Yes, I went HERE yesterdeay. Well, my specific “HERE” is at  5825 Covington Road in Fort Wayne and I came away in one hour’s time with a new windshield. I can’t tell you how much I had been procrastinating about the windshield thing and then pop, the pebble indentation zoomed out three inches in one direction and a couple in the other. From the inside, it looked as if it were a quarter to six and from the outside, a quarter after.

Then he took another jump and another and I was in the position of replacement, not resin repair. i delayed a week with Der Bingle nagging me to get on the ball. Actually, he started out slow with the reminders, probably figuring he had a long road ahead. But, I, AmeliaJake, did something totally out of character – I actually researched it and made an online appointment and got the car in and got a new windshield.

Nothing to it with the Safelite people. The shop I went to was in the end of a strip mall and for a moment I panicked, thinking oh, my goodness, how can I have goofed up the directions so much – I must be losing more brain cells than I thought.

And, then, there it was- three or four big bay doors and an office next door. Lots of trucks around, getting ready to make runs to a specific address – YOU DON’T HAVE TO LEAVE YOUR HOME OR OFFICE. Of course, it is probably cheaper to go in-shop and I didn’t mind.

I peeled off the apartment parking sticker from Der Bingle’s complex, dropped off my keys and walked about 100 feet down the way to Fazoli’s where I decided to try the summer deal:

I was a wee bit worried at first since it was over 90 outside, but I caved and ordered  penne and meat sauce. Hey, it worked out okay; I ate slowly and each little coated penne tubelet greeted my tongue with a comforting taste. I also had iced tea with raspberry. See:

Munch and sip, munch and sip. I took a couple of bites of my bread sticks, but let it go at that in deference to the heat. Then I got a refill of tea, puttered around at my table and then headed back to Safelite. My car was ready in another ten minutes and I was on my way.

Then it rained.

Then I went to Mother’s and mowed.

Then everything got still and I thought “Oh my Gosh” and retreated to the porch. But it did not storm – at least not at Mother’s, although I heard thunder. So I came home in sunlight, which was better than the eerie vampire-like gloom when I thought it was going to storm.

Anyway, I used my storm-waiting time to read part of one of Mother’s books devoted to stories about the Titanic. Did you know that John Jacob Astor’s second wife was only 18 when they were married and that his first wife had signed a prenuptial agreement and only got $50,000 a year? Yes, I know that was 1912, but by gosh, they had been married 21 years and he had over 100 million. Of course, the divorce and remarriage cost him greatly in social circles and he had a hard time finding a minister who would marry them. But, then, I don’t think he much cared.

Now I have piqued my curiosity and will be looking some more Astor facts. Seeya.

* Aha, here’s a tidbit: Madeleine Astor

A liver enzyme came back quite elevated in Sydney’s blood work, although the pancreatic enzymes were okay. The liver one was in the 300’s and normal is about 128 at most, if I remember correctly. We are starting him on some medicine to help his liver and will be checking him again in two weeks. If he has not responded, then we will have some more testing.

The vet doesn’t think Sydney is in much pain, but we need to continue with the antibiotic and keep him out of the heat and try to keep him from doing a lot of things. Oldtimers – the ones before me – used to say when someone was irritable that their liver was acting up. A lot of truth in those observations.

I gave him the medicine to help his liver and he followed me into the kitchen where I reached for the blue bottle of his other medicine. Before I could turn around, he had made a u-turn and was trotting toward the den. Guess I’ll catch him a little later.

This is not a time for people to be yelling from room to room and snapping off sarcastic answers, because I think I just might haul off and punch them right in their noses . . . just a little subtle heads-up.

Update: I just checked the weather and we have patchy dense fog this morning, so this post is on a two-hour delay.

I think it is Shane who has the loose stools*. Great way to begin a post, huh? Well, that is how I began my day.  Shane doesn’t bark when he has to go out; he goes to the door, period. He doesn’t come and get you when he has to go out; he goes to the door, period.

Well, I glanced around to see him walking back from the direction of the door and went to open it for him. Too late, as I opened the door . . . don’t continue if squeamish . . . it brushed through a large amount of loose stool and squashed it into the rug and up into the bottom metal thing on the door.

About the size of a large dinner plate, if you are wondering. Odd that I should use dinner plate as a comparison, now that I think about it.

Yesterday, Sydney was very irritable and seemed sort of scrunched up in his posture, so we went off the the vet for a visit. The usual routine: blood drawn, antibiotic shot and pain shot and pills for both in the coming days. That is if it is a flare-up of pancreatitis.  After his night of pain some years ago, we don’t gamble with the “maybe it isn’t” question.

But back to Shane. I can’t help but wonder why it is that he will nag you to death to throw the wubba, but won’t raise a paw to get your attention about the needing to go out thing.

Okay, enough of a little break for me – I’m off to get the deep cleaning “pet odor” shampoo.

*Loose stools: Not a term I normally use; it has the cringe factor for me . . . like bowel movement. I don’t know why – maybe because when I was little, they were words preceded by a throat clearing and a hushed tone? Terms I learned to brace myself for. Come to think of it, when I was little, adult voices when addressing some subjects sounded like grown-ups in Charlie Brown.  I believe if the kids wanted to tease me unmercifully, they would chase me around the house, ominously saying “bowel movement” and then guffaw uncontrollably. I’m certain they would choose to do so . . . if I were more open about my perspective on this personal language. I keep them off-balance by  inventing something they think embarrasses me. Oh, something like manure.

I was going to write in the post-title box: No weather for old women. I couldn’t do it. Not yet. I am not an old woman yet, although I will be hot this week as the temperature heads toward 90 degrees and the humidity climbs. I am using the heat and exposure to it as a toughening up and getting fitter method. I think it is working to some degree – well to about 85 of them. That was the temperature yesterday when I finished up a bit of the tiny front yard  after Cameron had mowed most of it . . . and my face got really red. But then it always does. I don’t really know it, but people exclaim, “Your face is so RED.”

I  am only drinking coke/diet coke in the morning when I first get up to stave off withdrawal and, ironically, to facilitate my body’s withdrawal from bed.  I have become a fan of the little pouches of Crystal Clear’s tea powder. It is far more refreshing than a cola in sweating situations. Also, I think it makes me pee more, which is probably good for my kidneys  . . . although for Der Bingle, I ‘m sure it is too much information.

Now that Summer is taller than I and approaching her freshman year in high school, I find he is leaning toward my dad’s position that ladies are supposed to be, well, ladies. My father would remark on occasion that he didn’t think a “lady would say that”.  Now, Der Bingle says to me he expects me to be a role model for Summer. Don’t forget this is the person who is known as “Cave Girl” on my speed dial.

I have tried to give her the “I see some of my obnoxious traits in you so learn from my mistakes” talk and it doesn’t go in one ear and out the other. No, it is more like the arrow on Steve Martin’s head – it goes up to her ear, then detours along the perimeter of her head to the spot above her other ear and moves on. You can sort of watch the airflow movement if you look closely.

Well, I’d better clean up . . . got to set an example for Alley Oops, dontcha know.

Right now I could use a shower . . . and I will get one pretty soon. But right now I am just sitting here with my traveling bags in front of me. Going back and forth between here and Mother’s has evolved into “bag living”. I started by throwing a few necessities into the big Land’s End monogrammed tote bag I gave her one year for Christmas. Then that it got so full it was impenetrable. So I divided stuff into two bags. Then I progressed to two bags and small plastic compartmentalized organizer with a handle. It seemed like a good idea so I got another one to but all my cords and batteries for cameras and computers and phones.

This, of course, involves more than one trip from car to house and back again. So, I prioritized as to what needed to come in first  and what could wait in the car. Oh, I forgot to mention I usually bring a cooler with ice in it. Of course, that needs to come into the cooler house – to not sit in a hot car. And the electronics . . . that has to come in.

The crucial contents are my medicine and the small Estee Lauder cosmetic bag adapted to carry every key Mother had.  Never, never, forget the key bag – which is supposed to stay at all times in the Land’s End bag.

By the way, I keep a suitcase in my trunk and often gas cans to be filled in route.

I am a vagabond.

But what really gets me is when I am trapped into the “feeling in the bottom of the bag” maneuver. Yes, some things inevitably filter to the bottom and I have to fish for them . . . hoping I won’t have to turn the bag upside down. This morning I popped a pill out of it’s foil and bubble container and it hopped down into the depths. I heard it.  It took a lot of effort and tilting to retrieve that little pill from bottom of that big bag. Guess what it is for? Yeah, blood pressure.

I have dripped for two days in a row with the sweat of humidity. My hair has at times looked frightful. I use a common cliche because I have made a point of not looking in the mirror, but from the way it has fought going under a hat even though the roots were soaked with sweat, I know it is more than just bed hair. It is more likely witch hair.

This morning when I was working with the vacuum on the back porch at Mother’s – the regular one, not the wer.dry vac – I discovered it was not sucking. That sucked. Turns out someone vacuumed up TWO pencils and they were stuck and holding back a huge clot of lint, dirt and hair.  I would have sucked them out with the wet/dry vac, but the reason I had the regular one out was because I was sucking out the filter on the wet/dry one. So I dug for them with a fork. Screens on three sides of me and the sweat was running down my face. I could feel it pop out drop by drop, just the way I have watched chickenpox develop – one by one.

I mopped my face with my shirt because the paper towels were tooooo far to reach. I felt very down home and it didn’t feel bad. However, the Irish Spring body wash did feel better.

Are you still back on the chickenpox remark? Yes, I know it is an unexpected thing to hear. When Robert William was five, he got the chickenpox in kindergarten when we were at Wright-Patterson AFB.  He lay on his stomach without a shirt on on our bed and Der Bingle and I realized we could actually seen the individual pox form. A reddening, a widening, an upthrust . . . right out of little pale skin.

We were ooohing and ahhhing and Robert William was crying that he couldn’t stand it. It was like time-lapse photography in real time. We probably got bored, though, because he was covered with them. I don’t think our personalities were evolved enough that we thought to call him “pox boy” at the time. But it came to me now.

You know, I don’t think Quentin’s pox developed in front of our eyes; I think his came at night and he got up looking like a polka dot boy. We didn’t call him that, either, even though he was also covered head to toe with them. (And between toes)

I don’t know when we started designating people with an adjective, but we do it all the time now. Not that we’re nasty . . . each and every time . . . and sometimes we aren’t too creative, just blunt. And I don’t know if I want to devote any time to figure out when the watershed moment was.

I have gone off on a tangent; I was talking humidity and sweat. Quite possibly, I will meet with those two tomorrow because there are still lots of willow branches, and oh yes, the new chestnut limb – not to mention limbs on pine trees that need to be chopped off and roses that need to be cut back.

We need a good refreshing breeze to come through and dry out the air, but then again another branch might come down. You know, it just occurred to me, that willow could have come down with ice on it and that would have been fine fix to be in.

I dropped Alison off at the hospital and went  started to mow at Mother’s; I hoped to beat the rain. Well, I got part of it done, was sprinkled on for about 45 minutes and then experienced a further rise in humidity.

Oh, did I forget to mention that when I drove up in the car, I thought, “Gee, I don’t remember the willow being over there.” Of course, it had not been. This was a new really big limb – one from the chestnut tree. I hope the Smithy wasn’t standing under it. After digging a squirrel’s  out of one of the mower engines, I headed on home and arrived as the first sprinkles of an incoming storm began. It got very dark here in Kendallville and I can’t help but wonder if there is a new limb and/or tree down at Mother’s.

I will say this: my face must be really clean because perspiration that poured off me washed every pore clean – still, then I did wipe my face with my shirt tail that had grease on it.

Funny how things link together – all the sprinkles and storms and now I am watching Claude Rains in a 1947 movie.

I have people in my family who will take a piece of chicken, put it on a plate, come out and sit beside me watching some show on the porch TV and when I look over I will see a plate of BONES. Other people in my family do the same thing, minus the stuff following “put it on a plate”. I find plates of bones in the chicken.

It is beyond me how anyone can suck on a chicken bone, gnaw at it until there is not a shred of anything but bone left. My mother could eat a nicely-cooked chicken  piece like that, but even she was no match for some in a younger generation. One good thing, Cameron mentioned sucking the marrow out of it, so I am hoping he was making a reference to Thoreau. Please, let it me that.

I can eat chicken in tiny bits but it has to have no grease and be nice and fluffy. This is what some have called overdone; I call it fluffy. But if it had a bone in it, then it would be no go – fluffy or not.

Somewhere along the line, I lost the chicken-eating, finger-licking good gene. Personally, I think that is a positive step on the evolutionary path, but as I indicated, I keep that opinion fairly personal – only expressed with family.

Still, when rotisserie chickens are on sale, I buy them because it makes so many people here feel happy and their stuffed mouths are quiet. As for me, I just listen to the quiet and don’t look at the plates. Of course, when they start on the bone sucking thing, I have to give them the look or leave.

Last night, in the kitchen, Cameron and Summer were teasing me by pretending to chase me as if they were zombies with their awful greasy fingers. Cameron inadvertently touched a strand of my hair . . . and I went ballistic with panic. I HAVE CHICKEN GREASE ON MY HAIR!!!!!!! and running around type of ballistic. It was terrible. They much have gotten the idea I had gone off the deep end because they stopped . . . but they kept laughing.

And, do you know what? Alison remembered that my mother had her own rotisserie and, gee, we could just roast out own big chickens. Auuuuuggggghhhhh. Maye I can convince her Mother had taken it out in the yard to clean and it rusted during the winter and was crushed by the tree. Probably not.

I can honestly say I don’t know where it is . . . exactly. I imagine the heat we are having will further cloud my memory.

Frankly, I think they need a chicken-eating designated spot or I need a padded room. They would probably pipe in a continuous loop of recorded bone-sucking and finger-licking.

I looked and looked for this picture of Quentin and his Grandma Sarah standing in the west part of the yard in Scott together and I can’t find it. I have seen it recently so I am thinking of whamming my head against a brick wall. Fortunately, Mother once gave me a section of foam bricks to hang on the basement door.

This picture is not particularly amazing in terms of pictures: Quentin is wearing one of his flannel shirts with a tee shirt underneath. Mother is standing there beside him. There is a resemblance and a couple of weeks ago I exclaimed to Quentin, “You have a lot of your Grandma Sarah in you.” That is not bad at all, except now and then the eccentricities that drove me crazy about Mother look back at me from him. It’s not that that is bad either; actually, there is a humor to it.

But I can’t find that picture, so it is not seen here. Bummer.

I could write a lot, but he knows. So  . . .  Happy Birthday, Quentin.

We are facing three days of 90+ weather; that is hot for us, or at least me. I know, I am a wimp. Actually, the good thing about the higher temperatures is that this year I have been out sort of working in them at Mother’s. Oh, God, how I love iced tea. It has been a cleansing reminder for my body – sweat out the toxins, suck in the water and, of course, you don’t feel like eating much.

It would put hair on my chest – might as well be something there since I don’t have a bosom. I have renewed my respect for hats and when a cool front moves in with invigorating breezes I will  revel in it. Revel? Me? I am a dull reveler; I can’t seem to build up to a rollicking revel, probably a genetic trait from strait-laced ancestors. (Obviously I am not counting the great-great grandfather who took off for CALIFORNIA after his first wife died – my great-great grandmother – and didn’t take our part of the family to the beach!)

More fireworks last night – more time spent with one dog barking maniacally and the other quivering on top of me. More hamburgers, more hot dogs.

Tomorrow is Quentin’s birthday. We keep asking him what he wants and he keeps putting us off . . . so I guess we’ll go with the pink flamingo for the front yard.

(Quentin, this is Rose – Get a paper bag and breathe into it . . . Your mother is just kidding.)