Stars and Sun from that epitome of cosmopolitan stores – Rural King.

The Moon and Stars – first time I saw it I thought, “Who would buy a funky firepit like that?” I had that same “who would buy” initial feeling about the little green car, as well, and we all know what happened to my heartstrings.

The second time I looked at the Moon and Stars, I got a sense of a compatriots gathered in ceremony . . . er, maybe Druids – not that we wanted to sacrifice anyone. This is not going well – my description. Let’s just say it grew on me and so Summer and I bought it and brought it home and put it together. Then we had a fire and it smoked. So we are refining out wood techniques, realizing that we are not aiming for one of our go all day in the winter fireplace fire, but a cheery little segment of the evening fire. We are gearing up to split our firewood into kindling and pieces a bit larger than kindling; in other woods, we are in the training wheels phase of firepitting.

Der Bingle wants a real picture of our exact firepit with some of the patrons of the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse sitting around it toasting foldovers. We will see if we can oblige because he says, “If it’s not on the cow, it hasn’t happened.”

I awoke to rain and much of the day has been steady rain, not too hard, not too much of just a sprinkle. Just steady. And gray. I sorted through all my “sorted through and categorized” stuff because it had become such a jumble and I no longer even had a hunch as to where to dig for a needed object. I did find three pairs of tweezers, which is good now that errant facial hairs are terrorizing me. Have to wait in a parking lot? Hey, pull out tweezers and pluck. Oops, there’s another one: pluck.

I have the camera cords all in one basket, each in a baggie; my next endeavor is to check all the instruction books for what goes with what.  I have batteries in the battery charger and the charged batteries in a wooden box on the windowsill. I watched The Madness of King George III while I divided cosmetic and medicines into little cubbies. I had an oil lamp burning too – on the windowsill, but not by the battery box, which, by the way, has a winter picture painted on the top.

Now, I sit all scrubbed and shampooed with my drying hair out behind me on the sofa back and my bare feet tucked up in a modified Indian position. My Minnetonkas sit on the floor just a little to my left . . . and I just finished putting all this moisturizer on my recently washed and plucked face.  I am trying to figure out – in some part of my brain – what the heck is going on in this movie that just started.

I am also thinking about all these younger women who are so concerned with fashion and style. Not that it is a waste of time, but that so many consult, well, consultants to see what their style is noteworthy. What is this “being in style” business anyway? I guess I know, but now I working on making my personal style better. I think this links back to my wondering about the way I look. For some reason, it has become important to me to look like me – although I did say I don’t really know how I see myself. Maybe it’s just the puzzle element of the situation that fascinates me, and maybe it’s a bit of  a challenge . . . and maybe it’s the egotistically oomph in my personality that wants to prove I can pull this off. At least a little bit.

And now I’m changing the channel; this movie has not found a place in the second-line-of-attention of my awareness state.

Okay, after fishing through a vacuum bag for an inadvertently sucked-up object, I opted to shower before heading out on some errands.  Noticing my camera had been left on the sink, I picked it up and saw two bear pendants were caught up in the strap. So, I snapped a picture and here it is.

Notice the shadow of the zoom lens on the counter top. I’m such a good photog . . .

THEN, while attempting to untangle the bears, I knocked my glasses into the sink . . .

where they got wet. As I put them down, I brushed against my watch

and it fell in the sink under the running water.

Grabbing for it, I sent my tooth – the one false one I have in my head – flying onto the floor

in a big blur.

This got me so irritated with myself, I forgot my vow not to squeeze

the toothpaste in the middle.

And when I went to get my shoes and found only one,

I decided to stop living in living color.

I am watching The Fugitive – well, sort of watching it – so I will not forget to tune in to see the season finale of Breaking Bad. Der Bingle told me one of the promos showed someone being zipped up in a body bag; just now, another promo quoted a reviewer as saying the last few minutes left him doubled up in pain. So Breaking Bad seems to be about to break worse . . . and then I will have to wait until next season to find out what the writers are going to do now that a terminally ill cancer patient is the star of what some are calling “the best show on TV.”

Actually, I have had this really weird thought that perhaps some people with terminal cancer tuned in to watch last year when they thought it was going to be a self-contained, limited episode show. Now, look, Walt has been really, really successful in chemo – so successful he can have an operation to remove the cancer. Somehow this bothers me; it’s like the show didn’t keep its bargain. I feel guilty watching the second season, and I’ll feel guilty next year as I watch. But, wait, maybe a meteorite will fall on me and I won’t be here to watch myself. Auuuuugggggghhhh. What a thought. I guess, though, I wouldn’t have a valid complaint because the premise of the show never was about a meteorite victim stumbling through a few episodes and then kicking the bucket. And that metaphor is so screwed up I am not even going to play it back in my mind.

Time to have Part Two of the hair coloring adventure. I think the first time resulted in a little too much reddish reflection in the sunlight.  Although I don’t know what my options are, I am not going back to the grayish beanie sitting on the head look. My fear is that I will  get “hopefully enthused” tomorrow as I sit in the stylish chair and come home chagrined.

Yesterday, I hit up Redbox for the Benjamin Button movie and was putting it into the machine when Cameron showed up, telling me his plans for homework. He sat down for a bit . . . and who knew the movie was going to be a little over two and a half hours! So he goes on his way and I didn’t ask about the Plan B for homework. Soon Summer shows up and complains that we didn’t invite her to watch: “You’re watching a movie and I’m sitting here by myself watching Spanish Cheerleaders!” Spanish cheerleaders?

There are some things I don’t ask questions about; it is easier that way.

It is chilly and rainy today after a few days of warmth. On Monday I went out in the sun and sprayed dandelions; I have gone to war with them. I moved along the yard, toting my green canister and bending down low to attack each little offender. I figured I would monitor and follow up with necessary missions . . . but it has been raining. I am thwarted. (It is not that I don’t appreciate the little balls of sun – it is just that the greens are so depressing to look at when the flower is gone.) I had to break into the paragraph of death to explain why I am speaking this way, taking this action.). Of course, pleading ugly greens doesn’t do it. So what does? Something . . . am I bowing to social pressure? Or am I taking my iconoclast-ness undercover? Ah, that AmeliaJake – a mystery.

April is a good part over, but this morning it is here – stepping out into the back vestibule, I was met with warm, gentle, moist air. Not one thing harsh about it. When I was 30 – and younger, and some older – I would have been aware of it in the back of my mind. But I would not have felt it like a warm bath. Not that I don’t have worries, but I noticed noticing it. I think it is an age thing.

Oh, yes, I forgot about the Trinity Methodist Rummage Sale yesterday until about four in the afternoon. Today is bag day, but judging from the slim pickings I found at four, I doubt that I will go. I did spend a dollar and donated another one, and came away with these four things:

A book I already have, but one I can stuff in the glove compartment for emergency reading; a mallet that screamed “I’ve been waiting here for you”; a flat thing with a handle and this muffin thing for Mother.

I am particularly pleased with the mallet. Can you see? The head is held on with a rusty nail bent to serve as a cotter pin. How did this treasure go unclaimed? Oh, yes, I guess it is because it is sooooo AmeliaJake. That might scare some people.

Of course we aren’t a vegan eatery or hang-out or whatever you want to call the PBC&R, but we do know a fellow who is green and is not Kermit. Now he is thinking of working around the place , making it jolly, dontcha know. This Green Giant is a reincarnation of the the one that my mother sent away for when my first son was quite little. When she went out to the mailbox, she found a transparent bag on which was written, “Here’s your everloving Green Giant.” She said she wondered what the postman had thought. We never found out.

Time went by and the everloving GG got a little threadbare, so I sort of cloned him – a bit of seam cell research. I am no longer the person  who sat there making a pattern and cutting out leaves for his little Tarzan suit and his hat. I don’t know if I have changed or just grown tired, but the idea of making one does not appeal. Perhaps that is because I have already made one and see no need to do it again. That would mean I haven’t changed that much since I usually enjoy only the first figuring out process and not mass production.

I once made a Raggedy Andy – Jake – because the first one had a material fatigue problem and his head was ripped 90% off. It was impressive. The original donated his shiny black eyes and his heart to the project. I mean he literally donated his heart; I cut out the  “I love you” heart and stitched it on the new one.

I have made more than one “raggedy” – some pieced together in a Frankensteinish process and others fitted with new legs and arms. To this day, I can still be surprised while rummaging around in some box by a red and white stockinged leg, or an arm . . . an unfinished wig, salvaged eyes.

I have no real way to end this bit of rambling, so I think I’ll just sit here and chat about old times with his nibs . . .

Today, for the first time this year, I parked facing the west because of the brightness of the sun.  And, from time to time, the glare on the big flat windows of  noseless school buses  travelling east on the highway to the north would cause me to blink and avert my eyes.  The air outside was soft and with the sun behind me, the colors of spring were brighter. Sydney and I stayed a long time. Soon enough, we will be seeking shady spots, ones on rises so we can catch the breeze of morning. Soon enough we will have to share our fairgrounds with Bluegrass festivals, and 4-H and little leaguers and the fair and people out for a stroll. We will compensate by going earlier and earlier. Fortunately, I like the early dawns with the day lying fresh before you – not in the way gung-ho, productive people do – more in the personal quirk sort of way.

Now, I am going to look up some rules of punctuation, not because I intend to heed them, but I am curious about the technicalities regarding the inside/outside of quotation marks. Sometimes what is right looks so wrong and  you just have to bite the bullet and do it, even though you know some folks are thinking, “Poor dear, she doesn’t understand that point . . . “