Yes, here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, we haven’t mentioned the peanut butter recall because all our peanut butter has the Bear Cave Seal of Approval, having passed all safety measures. (They sample everything and not one bear has become ill – well, if you don’t count Little, who wound up with chickenpox after having been exposed to AmeliaJake and her shingles.

We did receive an email today from Der Bingle that he received from someone who received it and forwarded it to him. It has a link to products involved in the peanut butter/salmonella problem. So it would stay within easy reach, we have taken advantage of the site’s widget connection. See, it’s over there to the right about the upside down cow.

Remember Alien Poo? This is from Halloween when she kept an eye on who was coming up the walk. Well, yesterday she headed down to Fairborn with Der Bingle to check things out for us – you know, bring back info on the complex’s pool, exercise room, community area and the balcony off the living room. However, since it has been rumored that there are artifacts of UFO landings at Wright-Patt, we are wondering if she is going to check in on that situation.

She can sneak almost anywhere because she has mastered the Obi Wan Kanobi technique of putting thoughts into other people’s heads. Thoughts like: I do not see an odd Raggedy Ann. No small person is scurrying across the tarmac. No one in a blue dress is walking through the gate. We have no idea what thoughts she has put into our heads, but often we will have not the slightest idea what happened to the last piece of cake or pie . . . or why we changed the TV channel to a special on Roswell.

Tonight we will get out our special receiver and wait for her transmission.

UPDATE:

AP sent this picture of herself and Otter and Bing in front of the fire stove in the Bear Cave.

And this shot which is a little eerie.

I forgot to mention that Der Bingle packed up Cameron and Summer and took them to a matinee in Auburn yesterday to see Steve Martin in the new Pink Panther movie.  Just that morning I had read that the critics panned it, but we seldom listen to critics. Summer was quite impressed with the theater which is new and offers 8 screens and has “great chairs” and “butter-your-own” popcorn and giant Icees with free refills.

Oh, the movie. Yes, they liked it and apparently so did the other people in the theater. Der Bingle said there was outright guffawing. Older people, such as Der Bingle and I, use words like guffawing. We also use words like icebox and phrases such as fast time and slow time. Because for a long time in Indiana  we did not go on Daylight Savings Time, Quentin did not know what I meant last year when I referred to fast time. I had to tell him that’s what the oldtimers call it. He guffawed, but he stifled it to be polite.

There is no way I would take a picture of the ground surrounding the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse right now, unless I wanted to preserve the image of muck and surfaced trash. After all the snow and freezing and wind, now everything is marshy and all things that blew in on that wind  are exposed – wet and soggy and grungy looking. Oh, it’s bad.  And getting out to pick up all that wet stuff is going to take motivation. When it was very cold – so cold the Christmas ale tried to blow it’s cork –  we were not very careful about the bags of soda cans to be recycled . . . I may have run over one or two.  Dropped pieces of firewood stayed where they fell, and, oh, there is so much more.

Now Sydney is a walking ball of mud. Now you don’t need mittens outside – you need latex gloves.  What we need is a powerful drying wind . . . and maybe it would carry debris somewhere else. But then we would get other people’s debris. Well, maybe somebody dropped a $20 dollar bill. I could find it and dry it with my hairdryer and go out and get myself a treat for going out to pick up in the yard.  A reward, yes, a reward.

Or, maybe no one did. Or, gasp, maybe I did and my neighbors are going to be going out for the treat. Aughhh. See, I guess the shows there are times when your train of thought needs to pull into the depot and stop.

That would be what I am doing now.

Yes, we’re watching it here in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. In black and white. We didn’t know it was going to be on and, all of a sudden, here it is. We tuned in just at Peter Lorre was telling Rick about the Letters of Transit. My favorite line: The Germans wore grey; you wore blue. I just heard it.  Letters of Transit . . .  I want them.

The ecstasy . . . Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, she walks into mine. The agony . . . being reminded of Cameron watching The Simpsons’ interpretation of the movie, with Hitler coming out of the piano.

Hello, there, this is the time of Girl Scout Cookies. We had some ladies with their little Brownies commandeer a couple of tables here in the PBC&R this weekend and peddle several varieties of the GS treats. I am not new to the cookie business . . . I wish no one would read over my shoulder because then I wouldn’t have to deal with snide remarks referring to my cookie familiarity and my weight . . . but back to what I was saying before the guffaws started. Okay, I sold Girl Scout cookies when I was in scouting, and I sold them as a Brownie as well as a full-fledged GS. It was different then; I think we had maybe two kinds, sandwich and mint and we went door-to-door.

My first time out, I was a Brownie going with two big girl Girl Scouts. I don’t know what I thought my job would be – tagging along, I suppose – but I definitely remember how it turned out. The two GS walked me to the edge of a porch and told me to go to the door, ring the bell and look way up at the tall adult who answered and ask if he wanted to buy a box of cookies. Then they would come up with the order blanks and do the paperwork. Oh, yeah, they stressed I should grin. I was six and I think missing front teeth. And I wore saddle shoes.

They were right, of course, and when I got to be a Girl Scout (flying up, we called it), I would send the accompanying Brownie up to the door because – dontcha know – Brownies are cuter.

This is about blogs and CarePages and CaringBridge Pages. There are some blogs I read every now and then because they are nothing but whining and complaining. I figure, even though I am a master at both, I can pick up some new-fangled angles on technique or whatever. Never too old too learn and all that jazz.

I also have been introduced to some stories on the CarePages/CaringBridge sites that provide an avenue for the families of people with serious illness/injury to keep people updated. For instance, the daughter of a physician here in town has a six-year-old daughter who was diagnosed by him with a brain tumor last year.  In a couple of other cases, people have referred me to sites.  I guess I follow about three. When I go to the sites, I think to myself, now, AmeliaJake, remember when you are finished reading the update, you will go about your life but these people about whom you read are spending most every moment of their lives worrying about a loved one. You are not here to “make yourself feel lucky it’s not you.” And, actually, I have come to feel for these people in the back of my mind during many times in my days.

There are hundreds of these pages. There are tons of blogs filled with complaints about  mothers-in-laws and neighbors and snotty kids and whatnot. We’ve been talking about this at the PBC and we have reached a consensus that perhaps the constant complainers should be asked to just scan down a list of families reporting on CarePages and CaringBridge. Might give them a little perspective.

You see, before the Internet, we would read about the occasional family dealing with illness in a feature article in the Sunday edition of the paper. It would be a one day visit and thoughts were interpreted through the writer. Now, now with the Internet, the thoughts come across in the words of the parents and grandparents and you learn these people aren’t one-time topics or feature articles; these people are people who live every day . . . just like you. So, perhaps, maybe, there just might be one postive thing you could post about . . . because, the ironic thing is, they often do.

What are we going to do today in the PBC&R? I really don’t know. It’s SuperBowl day and lots of people will be live blogging trh commercials. Maybe I will live blog the PBC; maybe I will not. See, we are at a lost here today.

Sky’s bright blue and the temperature’s up to the 30″s – so now we just have an outdoor icebox and not a freezer. But guess what? If you take the $2.84 sale-priced Red Baron pizzas out of the boxes, you can get a lot in the freezer in the basement. Of course, you need a good memory to remember which is classic crust, stone-baked and garlic.  Oh, well, the pizzas are a “seasonal” offerring at the PBC&R – seasonal meaning on sale. We do keep some in reserve, though,  in case one of our stop-ins has the dreaded peanut allergy.

1 pm: Just turned the TV on and there is a movie about a bipolar man on a homemade racing bike. Do I really want to watch this movie?  Ack, all of a sudden clouds are drifting across the sky. Last week I watched a movie about a relatively young woman with Alzheimer’s. I felt bummed after that. Maybe I should see if I could find a documentary on contented cows of California.

1;23 pm: Oh, my, although the guide called it a homemade bike, it is actually a bike he is building for himself for best performance. It is a customized bike. And, all of a sudden, as I typed that, I took the idea of customizing my hair in my head. Color is what I am thinking. Hmmm. An exciting adventure, perhaps? But another thought pops into my brain: Think it over. Don’t be rash.

Hello, the guide was right: his would be a homemade bike since the other competitor’s bike was designed by a computer and cost about half a million. So how much can I afford for my hair color. Maybe I should go for a wig . . . or a hat.  Here’s a picture of a hat Der Bingle emailed me. We are all almost in shock.

See, we were in such shock, we obviously had no more events in our day . . . .