Category Archives: This and That at The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse

Thinking of mice and men

I thought I was sleepy; apparently, I am not. I have been lying down thinking about Of Mice and Men, thanks to my granddaughter’s English assignment. Of course, there has been talk of symbolism and foreshadowing has made an impression on her. More so than on me. I’m a lot older – I can deal with foreshadowing. We discussed it when she read Steinbeck’s The Pearl; her teacher says the wife woke up first at the very beginning because she would see the pitfalls involved with finding the pearl before her husband did; I tend to think it was not a specific thing or symbol – that in an Indian family in Mexico, a poor Indian family living in a hut, the wife, especially the mother of a young child, normally awakens first.

But never mind that; now we are in the mice book. She has been talking about themes and settled on loneliness. Personally, I think writing papers about the themes in literature is a foray into a loneliness trying not to be alone with a theme that is not “the accepted one”. Oh, please, please, let me be on the teacher-approved bandwagon.

Now, as I lay there thinking of George shooting Lenny, I wondered if Steinbeck wondered what would be the case if George had put Lenny out of his misery before he killed Curly’s wife. That is, was it evident Lenny would really mess up and stepping in before the fact would save a life?

Whoa, that would have had the whole class looking at me like a pariah. See, this is why I don’t like discussions of literature and what the author meant – they want you to think inside the book, inside accepted ideas, to never see the book as a box that maybe a thought might pop out of  into the outside’s underbelly. Have I got enough symbolistic phrasing in that sentence?

Well, I’m closing up now, latching the door. Maybe I’ll lie back down and foreshadow.

But, baby, it’s cold inside

I have a cold; I thought last evening I might possibly be a little sinus-y or newly allergy prone. But, no; it is a cold. It is Summer’s cold.  She gave it to Der Bingle as well and he went back to the Ohio Redoubt of the West Facing Cave at noon. We ichatted – a bit of video chat and, he wasn’t lying, he did have two shirts and a hooded sweatshirt on. I was under two comforters and an afghan.

It was a fuzzy, fuzzy out of kilter day, but tonight I am feeling more like “myself with symptoms”. And I have a cough syrup with codeine so perhaps tonight I will sleep, as opposed to last night’s painful throat, running nose, heavy chest and uncomfortable cough. Yes, Der Bingle, I will see your body ache and raise you a lip rubbed raw by the friction power of Kleenex. I must be truthful; at the start, I used Kleenex but I moved on to Great Northern toilet paper . . . the softly quilted type.

Now I am cuddled down with my pillow and aspirin and a WWII spy movie. Alas, it has James Mason in it and for some reason, I find him a villain no matter what the role.  I cannot imagine James Mason as a nice little boy any more than I can see him as a decent man. I know he’s acting, but, by gosh, it seems so easy for him – this deviltry stuff.

I have convinced my mother to see a doctor for a baseline check-up, her first in decades. The fact that she agreed has me concerned; Glenda, Ann and Susie – we will keep our fingers crossed. I am scheduling it next week in the afternoon. I don’t know if I want to have her be the first appointment in the afternoon or choose a later time when she will have to wait and, therefore, be in prime form. Of course, if she has to wait too long, she might walk out; then again I could pass out from the stress of sitting with her in the waiting room.

I always thought she was unnerving, sitting there in the passenger seat like a black and yellow crash dummy, whenever I drove . . . but compared to this, that may seem like a cakewalk.

Twitter is not fashion

Today Summer got some new tops for school and, believe me, the styles of the youth are different. Way different from what I would wear. I would look incredibly out of place, even if I were skinny and lanky. Oh, yeah, we’re not talking navy blue and khaki here. We’re not talking collars – nosireebob.

Twitter and tweets are youthful things too, but, hey you can try them without anyone staring at you – pointing and laughing and all that. So I signed up for twitter – not that I know what I am doing. But we will see . . .

PET scan potential

Well if you Googled PET scan in relation to serious medical concerns, this probably isn’t going to interest you; if you were thinking of the chips they put in pets’ necks that can be scanned to provide identification, you didn’t hit paydirt either.

What is going on here is that I started thinking about how it would be  interesting to crawl in a PET scan machine and think about all sorts of different things and see what corresponding areas lit up. I don’t know . . . maybe thinking about Twinkies. Somehow I suspect that would make someone say “Christmas tree” as in, “Boy, her pleasure to fat brain zone is lit up like a Christmas tree.”

People could get scrapbooks of their thoughts and brain pictures – sort of like horoscopes or auras or baby books or palm reading. You could flip through the pages and go, “Oh, look, here I am when they brought a cobra in the room.” Why, in some people’s  brains you might find new colors still unknown to man.

Then my brain made this little leap – and I would like to see what part lit up – when I got the idea of PET SCAN BRAIN ART. You know how people put pictures of their children on a staircase wall, or down a hallway. Well, maybe you could become famous in the abstract category by the way your thoughts illuminated.

And that now has me thinking of Picasso’s brain scan – and my mind boggled. Oh, hey, The Boggled Brain. Why, the field has no limits. Now if I can just figure out how to make money out of it.

************************* Just one more thought********************

Okay, consider PET scans of children whose parents want then placed in exclusive pre-schools. Applications including starburst math areas and language fireworks.

AmeliaJake is now shutting up for a while.

Or the arcades with do it yourself scans. Ack, stop me before I think again.

Many stories from the trip

It is Sunday morning and here I sit again in my little place here at the PBC&R Cafe. They didn’t exactly have to carry me out here, but I did pretty much make a bee-line to the spot, followed by mighty plop. We had our trip; Summer had her birthday; Grandpa made a special effort to arrange to spend half of the day at Kings Island with her; we parked really close; the park was not crowded; we stayed until closing; we got caught in a huge traffic construction jam and it took two hours for the 45 minute trip home to the Ohio Redoubt Apartment. Fortunately, the AF base and the Wright State University made it profitable for pizza places to be open and delivering after midnight; we retrieved Sydney from Mother’s; we had a cake with a frog picture on it.

Oh . . . and there is the tale of  “well, grandpa rode Diamondback and so grandma did and that led to the gma eventually hurling FIVE times on the white water canyon”  . . .

Later. I will get into details. With pictures.

Teetering

Did I spell that correctly? That teetering word. It’s not one that I write too often. Well, okay, I am not getting a dashed redline heads-up so it is probably right. Actually, it’s starting to look okay to me now.

See, that’s the start of my day; I feel as if I am teetering on the top of a peak and could lean and go any way. Not that by saying “peak” I am implying that all possibilities are downhill. No, no. Leaning a certain way might actually land me on the raft of good humor. You guffawed, didn’t you? Or snorted? How is it you get the feeling that is probably not the prevailing wind of my personality? Oh, yeah, experience.

I am starting to get a hint of the day’s direction and it is the path of Chicken Little. That’s probably too extreme. Maybe it’s the “I never birthed no babies, Miss Scarlett” frenzy coming on.

Of course, there is the remote possibility that this might be the first teeter on a journey of assuming the determined and commanding demeanor of General George S. Patton . . . It would be easier, though, if I had a tank.

The second of August

Blue . . . ACK, ACK. Der Bingle just put a Diet Coke in the cooler before leaving for the Ohio Redoubt after having loaded up with the cold ones that spent the night in ice . . . and it exploded. Right in his face. On his glasses.  We couldn’t type that fast so this isn’t really live blogging; it’s delay blogging and we did censor out one word.

As I was saying, blue skies are outside and the radar map shows the rain to the east. And now, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. Okay, I’ll be back later.

I sat, head down, in the Peanut Butter Cafe

Last night, having searched for most of the afternoon for the shut-off valve to the unisex bathroom on the first floor of the PBC&R, I threw caution to the wind and flipped the house shut-off main valve and started to change out the fill valve. When I reached underneath the tank to work with the locknut, the old, old pipe coming out of the floor, broke off.

Are you at this paragraph? It took me a while to get here. That sentence about the breaking triggered a recurrence of the stunned moment of realization I faced last night. I just can’t relive this moment by moment. My head down, I announced to lingering patrons what had happened and I called a plumber. Summer chimed in with “Good job, Grandma! How will my toad get water?” and then Sydney barked when the guy came.

I sat on a little step stool in the kitchen with Sydney beside me while he worked, sawing through ancient pipe and all that. Quentin called and I answered and he said, “Are you all right, Mom?” I told him what was going on and then had to hang up abruptly to answer plumbing questions.

Der Bingle called almost immediately after and I just said I’d call him back in a few minutes.  The plumber left shortly thereafter and I did call back . . . and told him. Then I called Quentin and got him up to date. He asked me if  this one of the things that we don’t tell anyone? That used to be just Grandma – Now, you know, we don’t need to mention this to Grandma – but, now, sometimes includes (cough, cough) his dad, Der Bingle. I told him it was okay, that I had already fessed up.

Oh, dear, do you suppose Der Bingle might wonder if there are other things he hasn’t been told? Well, no, no. Uh, Quentin and I have just had a few dry runs of being quiet about AmeliaJake antics. Yes, yes, that’s it: dry runs.

Anyway, the plumber did a quick fix for me and didn’t charge much at all, relatively speaking.

Talk about crazy . . .

It was at 4 am this morning that I had Sydney in the bathtub with ketchup and Dawn dishwashing detergent. We didn’t have any tomato paste in the house, nor stewed tomatoes . . . so it was ketchup . . . ketchup and the Dawn to combat the smell of skunk. I don’t think it has worked. I don’t know if time heals all wounds, but I am hoping it will eventually help with this summer’s skunking.

Sydney was startled around 11 last night and ran outside. Then, with a tremendous whiff of skunk, he came back in. The air around the door was a moving wall of skunk smell and I so hoped that Sydney had run the remnanst of an emission. Most everyone in the house agreed by, oh, 3 am that it had been the target.  So that is why I am now sitting here with a numbed nose and a wet dog.

I have done this before – with Little Ann. She got it right on the snout at Mother’s. That was at 2 am. I think she had about six baths. I didn’t know the tidbit about the Dawn detergent then and, indeed, although I wrote an article about the skunking of  Little Ann and included info from vets and kennels, I’m not at all certain that knowing it now is a help. That is, to say, I’m not so sure it really, really works. Maybe it is a psychological tactic to get people through these times. Oh, yeah, the dog doesn’t stink; I used Dawn.

But then, maybe there was a note about the Dawn being the original formula; could my having the blue color make a difference?

It is lonely at this hour in the morning, with dawn still not come and Dawn not working.

Oh, there is a bit more: Sydney ran in and jumped on a pile of Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse late-nighters – you know, the ones with the red hair and pillowly little bodies. Yes, those guys. Grover, you were lucky to have been in Ohio.