Most of the Kindle books offer you a free sample, which lets you explore totally bland books without paying the $4.99 being asked. Why such authors set a price at $4.99, I have no idea, unless it is to get dedicated friends to buy the book and leave good reviews and just maybe entice someone else to cough up the $4.99. That might be criminal since the customer would then be tempted to bang his/her head against the wall out of frustration. I doubt the person would worry about causing stupidity, seeing that $5 has already been handed over for an ebook of incredible ghastly storytelling, based, I suppose, on six positive reviews. After all, any book worth its salt has the occasional reviewer who will write, “Sucks!” or “Blinded me.”

Now, I am not talking about those books that are not proofread, let alone not edited; I am not talking about those books in which the author believes the story should emerge from dialogue minus any narration; I am talking about something that is grammatically okay, but, Oh God, something that is akin to paint-by-numbers writing. Try to imagine it – it’s more stimulating than looking at these novels. I say novel, because the short, old-fashioned Churchillian word “book” is far too good for them.

Am I in a bad mood? No, I am not. I can’t carry a tune, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to sing by myself. Just because someone has no flair for words does not mean they shouldn’t write, but, shouldn’t they offer their efforts for “free” and with a warning?

Those words is that post title sum up the past few days. However, I pulled myself together and put on my walking shoes and went out into the 86% humidity – yes, I’m proud of myself, I won’t deny it. My clothes are sticking to me, my hair is dripping sweat and tepid tea tastes so refreshing. It takes a little while to want the iced stuff again. Few things are as pleasurable as getting the job done and, then pacing slowly around with a mouthful of water being sloshed from one cheek to the other before being swallowed, while wiping sweat from your face with your shirt. It just doesn’t get much better than that.

I should carry a ball so I can spike it when I get home. Ah, endorphins, got to love them.

The part of Indiana in which I live is fairly flat, not like the Great Miami River Valley or the Ohio River Valley which include both Dayton and Cincinnati where I have lived.  Those places have hills and winding roads; you go up and you come down – not like a mountain, more like up, down, up again, down again, a bit of a flat stretch then up at a slight but very perceptible grade . . . and back down.  Maybe you come to a creek area with no culvert and you go back; it is easy to get turned around. I experimented with a walking route in Fairborn in our apartment complex. I did this one repeated up and down thing for what looked like a fair stretch of the legs, but it only took 12 minutes, so I did it again – and again, adding detours into cul de sacs and sidewalks out to a main road and back.  That didn’t have me dripping with sweat because I did not push myself, so I walked up another way, almost lost my bearings, got back to my court, walked around it a couple of times and finally went in and drank iced tea on the balcony.

The problem with doing this is daydreaming and knowing the long, long incline on the north boundary of my path is going to have to be repeated. I need to have a psychologically acceptable route; this is not impossible, but with apartment complexes  blending together in a rolling hill area with woods, it is going to take planning. One thing, though: I believe once I get a feel for the area, if I get tired or hurt my foot, I’m pretty certain there is across country (read across grass) back to my starting point. Everything is not unlike a looping river; in one place, I figured I could lie down on the grass and roll down a hill to our building which by sidewalk was some distance away.

Of course, with well tended, manicured green areas, I might be picked up by the local security for grass smashing and derelict behavior. This is where the little old lady act comes in handy. What is disturbing is that I find I don’t have to act the part so much anymore . . .

Well, I’ve been to Fairborn and back – including sitting at a dead stop on I-75 after an accident in a construction zone on the way there, and heavy rain on the way back. Do you know people tend to drive very fast in a mob-like formation after a highway is re-0pened. I went with the flow? Do you know that after a series of accidents in a construction zone, the police are out in force on Monday mornings? But I was okay; I went slow and the summer no-snow GPS brought be back to this small town in Indiana over backroads that shortened the trip. However, when you put yourself in GPS hands, you often have the feeling of just stepping off a cliff and assuming there will be an Indiana Jones type invisible bridge beneath your feet.

Well, this is an impulsive bit of a mess. I got irritated the other day and proclaimed to none other than the person who can remember everything you said and does not hesitate to remind you of it . . . and often mock.

I said, “Lose weight? I’ll show you lose weight.” I went off and weighed myself and came back and blurted, “Twenty pounds off by my birthday.” And my face was all scrunched up in that really pissed off, determined look of death that I have been known to sport on occasion. This may turn out to be a real trial – either I eat very little or I eat crow.

I don’t know what the temperature is, but it is humidity. Fortunately, this was not one of my fast walks; this was a posture walk. That doesn’t necessarily mean it was more pleasant, because in a posture walk I pretend a BIG fishhook is going around my breast bone and a line angled upward is pulling me forward. Actually, there is no exterior pull, which is harder to imagine than the fishhook circling my sternum, believe it or not.

My Predator/Reaper hat I inherited from my husband, who is not my late husband, and so I guess I didn’t inherit it, I was given it . . . are you will me still?  . . . Well, that hat got soaked with sweat. I’m going to quit droning on and have some iced tea.

Ah, what a way to start a day, with this message in my email:

Bad luck can strike at any time, be prepared with burial insurance

Several years ago, when realtor.com became a fixture on the internet, I would hop around to various places and look at homes that were really inviting, and, inevitably, way too expensive. I took it in my head tonight to look at some homes that were a little more down home. I found this one with a terrific view, a non-so-good photo of one of the areas, an oddly large bathroom and a storage/garage area that is sort of in keeping with my organizational skills.

Maybe later I will look up cabins in Tennessee.

That dumpster in my driveway is losing its allure, its promise of a de-cluttered abode. It is still here today; it will be here tomorrow and then GONE. But, for these two days I need to be trash-focused, and not the kind you see in tabloids. No, this trash has layers of dust on it, spiderwebs hanging over it and sometimes unknown stuff clinging to it. And, after a little while of dealing with it, I also am accessorized with the above. Gosh, it’s just so much fun.

Well, we did get rid of the “foam-leaking sofa”, probably to Summer’s relief because she could not stand to hear me refer to it as “foam-leaking.” Some teenage thing, I suppose. I have even been IN THE DUMPSTER myself. It isn’t really homey in there, although I guess I could have rested on a bag of foam.

This morning starts a three day spurt of intense dumpster filling. Yesterday, while digging through some boxes of old stuff, I found this little puppy – and I am not using slang here.
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I published this quickly and I am going to ask Summer to make a longer video with perhaps a more energetic song for your viewing/listening pleasure. (Uh, having Summer choose a song may be a shaky decision here.) So far the puppy is unnamed and we are open to suggestions.