Well, I guess I ran as slowly as my internet and Sprint service following the wave of storms that came through on Sunday. I think I may also be running around in circles, feeling overwhelmed at the chores I have to do. I have to shake my head at my brain because while I was typing that last sentence, I actually thought it was probably better to run in circles than in a straight line because then you are not going to run into a brick wall. That my mind comes up with such things on its own could be scary, but I don’t consider it too scary relative to the things I suppose are formulating in the reaches of my brain that have not yet found an outlet. And maybe we should all pray that they don’t.

I bought wood glue yesterday because I need to fix a chair. Glue and AmeliaJake are dangerous partners. I don’t know maybe I will find my fingers glued to the home row on the keyboard – like this jkl;kfdsa jkl;asdffdsa;lkj. So if my next post is like that, it’s been nice knowing you.

I just deleted a paragraph because as I was typing the thought occurred that quite possibly my brain had gone missing in the night. So I am going to push “Save Draft” and try again later.

***

It isn’t that much later but I am bored. I am bored and my leg muscles ache, maybe because of age and maybe because of the weather and maybe because I wore ugg-type boots all day yesterday. My face doesn’t ache and I thought it might, since I have stepped up my facial exercise routine. Truthfully, it is not a routine; I do facial exercises when I think of it, no matter if I am in the kitchen with soap suds on my hands or in the car at a stoplight. I don’t just wait for stoplights to open my mouth and eyes wide and stick my tongue out but I usually don’t have a prompt to remember doing it because you’re not aware of being noticed the way you are when stopped at a light. Looking back, I think I have backed off the open mouth exercises at stop lights and gone to concentrating on moving select muscles in my face. It’s less noticeable.

I do think facial exercises are beneficial. People tell me I look younger than my 65 years. I am fairly certain genetic make- up has something to do with it as well.  My mother was often “carded” as a senior citizen when she asked for the discount and my paternal grandmother had unlined skin at 80.

***

Another interruption there, but I am back and I am, at this moment, opening my mouth and eyes really wide. I don’t think I’ll use PhotoBooth to document it, though.  You probably don’t want to see the famous face scrunch also.

Oh, I just realized I titled this post in a rain category and then deleted my first paragraph which was about getting my jeans wet on the front thighs. But they are dry now. There was probably a remark worthy of twitter: World, AJ’s pants are dry.

My mother had a Ronco Rotisserie and I found it stashed down in the furnace room. Now, this is something to do with cooking that I like; I just thought it would be fun to resurrect the rotisserie. I scrubbed it all up and fooled around getting the spit mechanism to come apart and watched a youtube video on cooking a chicken/turkey. And now it sits on the counter. Okay, it might be challenging to get a turkey correctly positioned and rotating, but that’s about the end of it. Actually, it might be nice to just sit and watch it go round; heaven knows I have sat and watched an empty aquarium bubble before.

If I cook anything in it, people will eat it and it will be gone and I will have to clean the rotisserie again. This is not my modus operandi. I’m more of a set the table person – nice tablecloth, stemmed glasses, heavy silverware, attractive plates. Of course, it has to be cleaned up also, but at least nobody eats it and poof, it is gone.

But there is a rub in my non-utilization of a cooking apparatus: the little thought that popped into my brain concerning more exotic poultry, say a Christmas goose or maybe a duck. That sounds like the stuff of which a party is made – Christmas carols and roasting goose . . . and then a run for the peanut butter.

Tonight I will get the alert that there is a text on my phone; it will be from Der Bingle and ask “Home?” Tonight I will text back: “Nursing home” and so he will call later. He will ask about my day and I will probably say “okay” or “fine” and go onto something else. I will be lying; today is/was a crummy day. But Der Bingle, it is only crummy by AJ standards so don’t worry. Best advice: don’t ask. That will keep me honest and we can just chat about whatever – perhaps planning our quick trip to Las Vegas which is company related. He goes to meetings and I scope out some Vegas sights that aren’t slot machines. (I also try to look like a Wholesome Midwest Female American Senior Citizen so the guys monitoring the casino floor cameras will take pity and maybe let me have a small win. I promise to shout out Yea! and This is a great place and beam wholesomely.)

The scoping out would be fairly straight forward except it is so easy to get lost in the maze. Last year I stumbled onto the Miracle Mile at Planet Hollywood and then had to really look to find my way back so Der Bingle could see it – painted ceilings and all.

I am considering GPS because when I programmed my address into my phone, it told me to walk 14 feet to the west. I am still thinking about that and what I can infer from it.

Now, I am ready to leave and wait for the alert of the text message. And, Der Bingle, if you are reading this, maybe you’ll want want to skip the question about the day. But I guess you would have been wised up to that in the first paragraph. A little short term memory deficit on my part there . . .

I should be “on a mission from anti-clutter” and I intended to adopt that boot camp lifestyle for a week or so. I wouldn’t say I am having second thoughts; it is more as if my thoughts were the only part of me that had any gumption. I am sitting, on a sofa. I have tried various pep talks and a Lou Holtz, I’m not.

I have benched myself, or more accurately, sofa-ed myself. It’s sad; a week ago I watched “Hoosiers” while working in the basement. Where IS my spunk?

I got some Chewnola bones for Shane as a treat and then I strolled over to the food section, passing the outskirts of the toy section on my way. I heard something; I hadn’t touched anything, anything at all. And then I looked over to my side:

Maybe Shane would prefer one of these guys over a Chewnola bone.

This morning. This morning just before school. This morning just before school, someone could not find her glasses and panicked – as in screaming at the world. You cannot get a panicked screamer to retrace her steps in her mind. Her mother found them after 45 minutes of searching in a room where someone had claimed she had not gone.

The living room sofa is still turned over, because we just have to calm ourselves. Lordy! I am waiting for reality show people to call and ask if we’d be interested in being the topic of a show.

My father was born on November 12, 1918 – the day after the First World War Armistice – and got his middle name Pershing from General Pershing, leader of the American Expedition Forces that war. He died in February, 2000. He has been dead for 13 years, going on 14. It does not seem possible, then again, it does not seem possible he would have been 95 today, but that’s what it comes down to – 95.

This November 12th, it is 23 degrees outside right now. I popped out into the back vestibule to grab a “wake-up” caffeine-infused diet cola and did notice it was “brisk.” I also noticed that I need to replace the insulation around the door that goes to the garage – it’s right by the door that goes to the vestibule. The cold air might have aided the caffeine, but the thought of fooling around with coiling rubber gasket-like rope and attaching it to a door made me decide I needed to fortify my spirit with some time under a warm afghan . . . just ’til I get my mind ready for the task, dontcha know. Although I could just ask a bunch of Raggedy Anns to stand one atop another right there by the crack where the door meets the jamb*.

No . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea and I probably should just delete that bit, but then, again, their reprisals might make the day interesting. Sort of like Cato and Clouseau.

I’m so proud of the fact I refused to lower myself to make a pun about being “in a jam” because of that idea. Oh, I guess I blew it.

So, okay I wasn’t talked to death Saturday and I made it through Sunday and today I found out I have no evidence of a urinary tract infection.

DOUBLE WOO-HOO

Everyone likes my new haircut and someone even told me I looked like Diane Keaton. I want to thank Donna of Scizzor Worx in Kendallville.

Better calm down before I Woo-Hoo myself to death.

I may not be here tomorrow. If someone can be talked to death, look for my obituary. It is so ironic, that I am writing this.