Way back when – when I was in my early 30’s and the 80’s were at their start – we lived in Palatine, Illionis and went to a lot of garage sales, that being the era of people still trotting things down from the attic and up from the cellar. Once we saw one listed in the paper as DISBANDING MOTHER’S HOME . . . and scavengers that we were, we went.

The whole house was open – you simply wandered around and got want you liked and paid a nominal sum at the door. I know I got a couple of good things, but I kept hearing the refrain disbanding mother’s home, disbanding mother’s home, disbanding mother’s home in the back of my mind.

It is there this morning  . . . maybe because I found a can of really large – huge, in fact –  ancient nuts and washers at the back of the top shelf in a little cabinet in the kitchen. Someday maybe there will be an ad: Disbanding Kooky Mother’s Home.

But, in the meantime, I think I’ll get them down and use them for paperweights here at the cafe and roadhouse – sometimes the breeze is fairly brisk through the screen door.

I have embraced who I am  – I had to get a ringer for my new phone . . . oh, I forgot to mention the Katana quit, didn’t I . . . . and after looking for something that was so me, I sighed and chose Back Home Again in Indiana.* Okay, quit laughing and stop rolling on the floor. How many times have I told people I have tried all my life to lose Indiana . . . and here I am.

Well, I guess I might as well add it to the jukebox over at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.

* performed by Canadian Brass . . . go figure.

Today is a work day, inside and out, though I don’t know what jobs I will be tackling. Well, painting the fence, I think and maybe the deck floor – the little one right outside the porch door to the back yard. It’s an old-fashioned deck, grey, dontcha know, and one I put together myself because I was tired of the mud.

I need to declutter this porch, get it down to the bare bone – my kind of bare bones . . . in other words the clutter is hidden away. I don’t know what else I will be doing, but I suspect it will be dirty stuff, so I am glad my shirt is already dirty.

Cameron has got me reading The Idiot; I think again. But the first time was so long ago, I just don’t remember. I am not a fan of Russian literature. I keep thinking, “Will you get on with it . . . ” I have no idea how much the factor of translation influences my opinion, but I suspect it is significant. Of course, I often confuse literature and writing, the latter being, in the end, the words, the words that first linked you to others and thoughts. I guess the literature is the story and the symbolism – and crap – I sure do hate symbolism. Why don’t these high level authors write their own Cliff Notes: this is what I meant in three sentences instead of 500 pages? Essay exams would be so much easier.

Ha! Maybe an honest one would say, oh, it was just a story and people are drawing conclusions or hey, I was free associating.

Got to go – here comes Frank for his morning cola and foldover.

Okay, if your bowl, plate, and/or glass is not returned to the kitchen by you – YOU wash it or I will throw it out even if you are a really regular patron, here. If I find you wander out of one of the approved dining areas of the Cafe and EAT, you will get a demerit . . . a big one and not on a just any board, on my grudge board –  and most people know how long demerits stay chalked there.

We feel we have been quite lenient over the passing decades and we not appreciate patrons who do not show basic respect.

Yes, we know one of the Roadhouse habitues has been classified on the autistic spectrum and functionally is not up to speed. We in no way see that as a reason to not live to standards of respectable civility and grammatical use. Communication and English are a gift and we will not show any disrespect for them. We also expect voices to be of a normal conversational level . . . and if you want to speak to a person in another area, go there – do not yell. Non-compliance with the above will result in demerits.

Carry on . . . for now.

The rain is coming down not too hard outside and the temperature is in the mid-70’s. It’s restful and I think maybe I will take this as a symbolic day: I think I am going to let the rain wash away the current rules and write myself some news ones based on my experiences. For instance, I think I will myself to employ the “I don’t want to” reason when people ask me to do favors. You see, the PBC & R is not some idyllic place where all the kids are perfect and everyone is always having a great time. We get sloppy with the peanut butter knife, splash a few drinks on the floor and we bicker.

Heck, Friday, our dog, sometimes leaves because everyone is in a loud agumentative confrontation. today I pulled into the parking area and met Friday standing in the rain. I went in and asked, “Hey, who was arguing about what so acrimoniously that the dog went out and stood in the rain.  Two young voices answered, “We don’t know; we were playing poker.”

Oh, God. I know those poker conversations . . . sometimes they have evolved into one chasing another with a broom. Cool, huh?

So this AmeliaJake is putting a little jackboot in her attitude.

Well, knock on wood, I fixed a G4 ibook – put in a new DC board. I had to say so – just had to. The first time I tried I was too timid and didn’t push the connector in securely, so I opened it back up and pushed and put it back together and it worked.

Belly up to the bar, folks, the foldovers are on the house.

Do you remember when we spoke of cows passing gas? If you don’t, check THIS POST. Well, the fellow in Georgia has send us another link. This would be THE LINK.

So Summer and I went to see Hancock with Will Smith tonight and we had a good time; it was an enjoyable movie. Some people have had trouble with continuity but I, smart little AmeliaJake, read about the plot twist in spoiler sites and knew what was happening and could just float along with the action.

Mowed the lawn today and was dripping perspiration, thirsty enough that when I drank Gator-Ade, some of it dribbled down my chin and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. Really classy. Actually, seriously, honestly  . . .  it is my own sort of class. Kind of like propping my feet up on a chair in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and rolling up my sleeves on warm days. I’m not poised and put together; I’m kind of awkward and duct taped, but I don’t think about it too much.

Well, gee, I sound prideful about this . . . guess I am.

Bing’s friend served me a foldover this morning on a nice Pfaltzgraff plate. He made it in modified California Bear Style: whole wheat bread with peanut butter on the entire slice and then folded over. True CBS is with honey added. He likes the physics of it better.

I never thought of putting the peanut butter all over the slice. I make my foldovers the way my mother made them for me ever since I can remember – well, you know I vary the bread. I guess we have gone all  this time without knowing what the other was doing. I have no idea how many variant foldovers I have eaten – or, if you look at it from his point of view, how many incorrect foldovers.

I wonder if I can get pictures of him in action . . .