I have a false tooth – a spider bridge. It looks like it is described: It is a tooth with four prongs that attach it to adjoining teeth. It is little and I have to be careful to keep track of it, although it is almost always in my mouth since it fits snugly and isn’t a choking problem.

This morning I was brushing my teeth at the kitchen sink and set my tooth down on the counter, close to the edge. I figured that wasn’t safe so I moved it to the middle of the counter. I started brushing my teeth and then reached for my tooth to brush it. It was gone. Absolutely gone.

I looked and looked and to tell you the truth I don’t know how it happened, but apparently because it is very light-weight, it was touched by something and launched onto the floor. And maybe it was a two-step trip to the floor. I don’t know. I was picking up everything and looking, sticking my hand down the garbage disposal, worrying it had caught on my hand and somehow gone in the trash, scanning the floor over and over again and thinking of finding the magnet on a golf club type of thing to see if that would locate it.

I made deals with higher powers; finally, I saw it. Either it had totally blended in from the beginning or, as I said earlier, taken several hits and shoves.

But it is back in my mouth now – cleaned, of course, and I am wondering how binding those “only let me find my tooth” vows are.

I looked at the news this morning and saw that there was controversy over the ad Target aired mentioning a minority-owned business. Apart from the minority angle, I was sort of surprised that the company was named “Honey Pot” because in the back of my mind, this phrase had questionable connotations. Like instinct would tell me not to use it loosely, and without checking.

So I checked and, ironically, the Internet definition mentioned “target” although obviously not capitalized and not in reference to the business. And here is that definition:

A pot of honey. (figuratively) Something or someone similarly sweet or enticing, particularly: (US slang, dated) A romantic pet name; “honey”. (slang) A vulva or vagina. (espionage) A spy (typically attractive and female) who uses sex to trap and blackmail a target.

I kinda don’t think I would have chosen Honey Pot to be the name of a company featuring intimate feminine hygiene card. Well, on with the day . . .

This is true. I have just powered off my computer and restarted it, all the time hoping typing Joe Biden’s name had only frozen my computer and not burned out its guts.

Truly, that’s all I did; I typed that bozo’s name and nothing would respond to my touch. No cursor, no buttons, zilch. So I held down the power switch and saw black on the screen . . . and red in my head.

Well, at least I can look forward to being entertained by the Bidengaffer, who, by the way, mixed up his wife and sister at the podium last night.

No, not mine, not my life. My life is temporarily in the dumps as I find myself watching the WhitneyThore reality show? Why am I doing this? I have no idea. I actually raked some leaves today, went upstairs and gathered up two big bags of stuff to throw away and sort of vacuumed. I mean I actually moved today and was feeling like “Well, hey, lets just pretend youth is still here.”

And now I have turned on this crummy show and I am paying it some attention. And the worse news: there’s an announcement that “I am Jazz” is coming on next. Now if I want to find out anything about Jazz, I want graphic, education facts – not some reference to “bottom” surgery. Remember when that type of surgery meant hemorrhoids? Gosh darn it, I spelled that correctly and the computer keeps redlining it. Maybe it just doesn’t feel AmeliaJake ought to talk about piles. Oh, groan.

Let us hope this is a low point in my mindset and not the slide into a “Say Yes to the Dress” marathon.

Last week we had 3-4 straight days of snow, including a “firehose” Lake Michigan effect day. The lows got not like last winter, but down to 13 and it supposedly it felt colder. Now today, it is over 50 and I wore a wool sweater to the grocery. By the time I got home I was roasting. I realize this is a boring little bit of sharing, but I realized that being too warm is claustrophobic; I had to fight the urge to pull over and pull take my sweater off. Ah, that didn’t make things less boring.

I believe Krogers miscalculated the amount of premium tuna salad they would sell with Catholics giving up meat for Lent; there were about 10 containers of the stuff at half price. I bought two. That, with 35 calorie a slice bread, ain’t too bad.

I am writing about nothing, nothing. I know that; you do too.

I don’t have a busy schedule; I don’t go to many events; I don’t attend book signings or Let me Share my Experience talks. So, some might think me a pancake. But I believe I think about a lot of things, read a lot of things, research a lot of things and argue with myself about a lot of things. I like to think that I am defined by what is in me, not by the events around me – that I shape myself, rather than fads and phases and bandwagon movements shape me.

Well, I wish I’d used another expression than “shape me” because that reminded me of my plumpness. I don’t like to feed my awareness of plumpness. Oh, I should have warned about a bad, awful pun coming up. Sorry. I suppose plumpness does depend on what is in me, but what is in me comes from without. So this is a nonsense paragraph birthed by my disgust at my shape – that is, eating.

This is a show from 2017 about people with mental and physical disabilities. It was hard to watch because I felt so bad for those people who had no problems with cognitive matters but were paralyzed or contorted form Cerebral Palsy. And then I felt myself feeling scared about those people who had Down’s Syndrome because I started thinking about the difference between me and a genius. I must seem the R-word to them and it upsets me that I can’t understand some things. All these thoughts seemed wrong and I reached the point of a mini-panic of not wanting to think about this anymore.

So, no apologies, I have to find something else to think about, but I am having trouble shaking the unsettling feeling that the show elicited from me. I almost feel like running and running and running until brain hormones alter my mood. I feel I need the sense of running away from this.

Life is not always easy. It is supposed to be what you make of it, how you look at it, and all those things so worthy of post-it notes on your mirror. Yet, the ingredients are in your genes, in fate . . . and Heaven knows what.

Yes, I wasn’t here yesterday. I didn’t think it would be wise (or maybe I forgot). I had stated that we didn’t talk politics here and I’m not going to. BUT, yesterday, I was so pissed at the people who get on Facebook and talk politics in a low class, third-rate manner. I read through some comments on a post and as I scrolled, one person called another a “stupid bitch” and the other replied with a “Kiss my Ass.”

And that was only the start of it. Jeez. To sort of quote Bette Davis, This year is going to be a bumpy ride.