This afternoon I was in my nook at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse with the fire going in the little firestove when Summer came out and plopped down beside me; and because she had been watching Ice Cold Killers & other murder shows on the Investigative Channel in the living room,  I told her to go ahead and turn the TV on out here. She said, “Good. Really Bad Men is on next. This little TV hadn’t been on in ages, but, hey, for a murder and violence marathon continuing over from New Year’s Day, why not?

So we worked out way through about three hours of gruesome crimes. At one point she left for a short bit during which a looooong commercial/solicitation for the SPCA came on. It was about Betty, a dog who was hit by a car and not taken to a vet and still tried to nurse her two pups as she lay dying. It covered officers finding Betty, taking her to the hospital, discovering she had a broken vertebra, as well as broken legs and was dehydrated. It went on and on and ended with a guy saying he hoped Betty made it. Then came the appeal for viewers’ support. At the end, Summer returned to find me almost a basket case and didn’t really understand why.

Then, further into our viewing pleasure – and believe me, after watching Betty’s story, murder was not bad –  the channel started to repeat it and I jumped up and said I was outta here. I came back to find Summer about in tears, watching through her fingers and then giving Shane big hugs. About this time the murder shows were winding down or we were getting tired of them and Summer’s mother came out and the two of them got me to watch What About Bob? out here. Three of us lined up on the sofa. I suggested maybe the BIG TV in the big room would be more comfortable for them but somehow that idea didn’t carry the day.

So, we put in the DVD and it starts playing in black and white with no sound. Summer and I looked at each other and thought maybe we didn’t remember the film starting that way and then going to color. After a while, we figured out it had never done that and something must be awry with the connection. I held Summer’s plate of popcorn chicken while she fiddled with the cords and absentmindedly threw Shane a piece which bounced off his head. The connection-fix became lengthy and Shane implored me for more bites and pretty soon it was half gone.

Finally, we got the movie going and Summer discovered her chicken had decreased and her mother had fallen asleep (probably medicine for a broken shoulder), but we kept on watching – a grandma, a Summer, Shane with his constant attempts to get us to throw a Wubba and a sleeping body. The latter didn’t bother us too much since we’d watched all the murder stuff; we just leaned her over the end of the sofa.

Now, at the very end of the movie, Summer let Shane out and pushed the door closed, her mother woke up and asked, “I slept through the whole movie?” and we eventually  headed into the kitchen. Then I thought, “SHANE!” and opened the door. He came in and Summer’s mother exclaimed about his cold fur. Summer apologized to him  and then stood up and I looked at her and said, “Betty.” It took her a moment and then she collapsed to her knees and  sprawled on the floor, moaning.

It was a Bambi moment.

Got to go. Shane wants out again.

I do not have a cold but I have COLD right outside the door and the coat rack is full here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. It is 11 degrees, but since I am a Northern Indiana girl I did not realize this when I stepped into the vestibule – without my jeans on. Yes, in the dark of the early morning I grabbed a diet cola wearing only a long shirt and my underpants. (Underpants, not panties – like I said, because not only am I a Northern Indiana girl, I am a rural Northern Indiana girl.)

Anyway, grabbing the drink and then standing there assessing the supply of soda, water and sparkling grape juice, I did think that there was a bite in the air.  Sitting here with those bare legs under a blanket, I am feeling the tingle that warmth brings to cold and so I looked and saw the “11”.  For some folks, I suppose that would be and “!!”.  Of course, we have been much colder up here between Lake Michigan and Lake Erie, but this is the first time this season it has been more than nippy.

We have had some days though with rain in the 30’s and a strong wind that were just nasty as far as outdoor comfort is concerned. The cold in the Cincinnati/Ohio River Valley was worse, I think – a wet cold that crawled up the cuffs of sleeves as if they were wicks. Dry cold is like dry heat – just plain better.

I didn’t look to see what the high is going to be; I’ll have to because my “guess-o-meter” has not yet been calibrated for this winter.  I’ll need to be ready to judge when the soda needs a sleeping bag thrown over it or actually brought into the main house. As for this morning, the diet cola wasn’t even slushy. I am not really missing the diesel, though, as cold sets in  – watching the glow light wasn’t that festive . . . and then there was the time I backed out of the garage with the block heater still plugged in. That was not cool.

I went to bed last night thinking that I did not really like odd-numbered years for some gut-level reason. I suppose I don’t put in much time thinking about this since roughly 50% of my life will be spent in odd-numbered years and wishing away half your life is not smart – especially since I sleep away a third of it.

I am taking a long time to say that I grimaced at the thought of 2013 (emphasized by the traditionally unlucky “13” ) and then thought, “Oh, rats, I really can’t hurry this year along because I will turn 65 in it and, wow, that is a milestone tripping spot on my way to the more comforting 2014.”

This morning I took a deep breath, opened my laptop and looked at an Internet news site. I saw a picture of Joe Biden and his grin and since AmeliaJake can’t stand that man, shuddered and decided to look elsewhere.

I have been reading a blog named Rechelle Unplugged; Rechelle is a very intelligent woman and she has recently moved from her dream house. She announced it a few weeks ago and then, yesterday, spoke in more detail about the move. She wrote she decided to put her house on sale in June, thinking it would take a year or so to sell, but she did not say why she decided to do that.

Quite frankly, Rechelle has within the past couple of years become an atheist  – an out-spoken one. She has done this in rural Kansas. She has also authored Pie Near Woman, a satire of  the Sooner Ree Drummond’s Pioneer Woman site, which many would have preferred to be later than sooner and, actually, never. There are folks, though, who are PW’s fans and can’t take Rechelle’s site as satire.

This – the atheism and the satire site –  might (cough) not have been the best PR for Rechelle in her rural Kansas town and, honestly, it crossed my mind that her husband’s career might have been affected, not to mention the social interactions within the community for her.

I was curious and thought about that ‘why’ but did not know how I wanted to word my inquiry. Then, having bailed from the news site, I got the bright idea that perhaps someone else had asked it and went to the comment section to look.

Yes,  Wandering Chopsticks had done just that. I clicked on that site on a whim and found it is a really good blog. At first glance, I thought it was all about food, but it far more than that and I read several posts. The lady who writes it says as a child she would check out volumes of the encyclopedia from the library just to, well, I guess, learn about whatever. Finding her site, I feel as if I too have accessed a source of things I did not know and she is an articulate guide.

Of course, this is all a vague description because I have just found this site and because she is precise in stating what one can and cannot do in reference to her site. It is all common-sense – courtesy and permission types of stuff; I want to be careful not to cite anything in particular until I have my crediting ducks in order. In short, I would say, if you think I have some good sense, you would probably find it worth checking into on your own.

So, this odd-numbered year, which is further marked by triskaidekaphobic possibilities, has not started out badly for me. Of course, I will knock on wood and cross my fingers and, feel happy to be in 2013 and that turning 65 is better than not.

I have been going around picking up special ornaments and putting them in a box I will mark SPECIAL ORNAMENTS. I have even taken pictures of each layer as the box fills so that I will be able to jog my memory. Yes, I do feel crazy, but I am not concerned about it. I am using a small box so I can keep it tucked away in an accessible corner. I may have to use two boxes, which means I just might have to alter my plans and write SPECIAL ORNAMENTS #1 and SPECIAL ORNAMENTS #2.

You know, not caring about being crazy is not a bad feeling – kind of liberating. However, I now find it scary to think, “What if I am not crazy?”  There are times I find myself defeating myself . . . and it happens so easily.

But, enough of me, the charming and scintillating AmeliaJake; let’s think about you. Yes, YOU. I’m doing it – the thinking about you part; I’ve been doing it for about five minutes since I typed that capitalized “you”. I probably should have left a blank expanse to indicate I was here, thinking, but not typing. Otherwise, it seems as if it is nothing but lip service. or, to be accurate, finger service. Oh, I didn’t think that out – the substitution of “finger” for “lip”  – and I should have because it has a rather coarse ring to it.

Obviously, I am no longer thinking of you because  I have been typing along mindlessly and only thinking when I wandered into a faux pax and considered using the delete key. I though about that and am re-thinking it now.

See, that space was me thinking. And, suddenly, it occurs to me that there are very few blank spaces in my writing. Either I do not think or I think on my feet, or, to be accurate, think with my fingers. And, then . . . again, suddenly, but apparently not suddenly enough, it occurs to me that I should just not type.

No, I am not intoxicated

Begun on Saturday, the 29th

I am sitting here resting after some dreaded houseworky stuff, drinking some iced tea and thinking about taking a shower.  I’ll be heading over to the nursing home today for a little while with the intent of getting home before it gets dark; we’re having some snow.

It’s quiet here right now at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and I’m thinking AND RIGHT HERE I was interrupted and although I had good intentions, I did not get back. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, I took the opportunity to run away from what I was thinking.

I had my eyes tested today and selected new frames. I always knew that as I aged my eyes would need stronger prescriptions, but I failed to realize that the frames would be changing not just because of trends and taste – BUT BECAUSE CATS EYE FRAMES ARE MORE UPLIFTING VISUALLY. Now that would be uplifting from the point of view of someone looking at you, not that of you looking through the lenses.

Talk about eyeglass frames making a statement. How about this one: I’m old and I’m not mature enough to deal with it. I did decide that very thin wire frames tend to be just a few more lines on a mature face, while plastic is a distraction.

Actually, maybe I should just rig up a jowl sling to hang from the frames.

I’m refusing to pay $200-$300+ for frames just because they have a designer label; I’ve researched it and I am going to try bargain frames. The lenses are another matter and for them I’m shelling out for transitional capability, non-glare, anti-reflective, progressive bifocals out of really tough, scratch-resistant stuff.

Oh, yeah, I’m a life-long glasses wearer, so I’ll probably clean them once a year. We hardened glasses-wearers can look through just about everything. If I’m going to be honest, I suppose I’ll have to mention the cleaning that occurs when you wipe off the condensation from your breath in winter. ‘Course, you usually wind up with a little scarf lint.

In the morning, there was untangling and figuring out on the dining room table after the WiiU – or however it is spelled – was opened. Summer was the hero, figuring out how to swap out TV’s and cords and getting everything to work without a word to her grandpa or me of possible Christmas problems. Since Colin had been waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for this gift, hitches would have been bad.

Shane decided to calmly wait it out under the table – pj legs courtesy of Summer.

I was the only one left at the table following a post-dinner scramble and sat there taking in what I could see from my seat:
A goose hanging in front of me.

Santa sitting in the middle of the table.

Over my shoulder and to the side, Summer’s candy cane tree with the turkey we didn’t have the heart to take down.

My great-grandparents watching from the far living room wall.

A last minute mussed-up Raggedy Ann/Andy wreath.

Then there is Shane on the porch, nestled in clutter and lying on Santa Wubba.

So what was I doing on Christmas Day? Well, I wasn’t doing nifty Mother-things, such as making cookies with icing applied with a paintbrush, making elaborate, multi-stepped desserts and salads; but I was in the kitchen. Yes, I was in the kitchen with a cold turkey and a big roaster and with Der Bingle, who helped tuck the first one into the second.

It was a bit messy – all that turkey fat and juice – and so I actually wore an apron. But I kept the Christmas Spirit up on a little corner of it, although the message was more, shall we shall, determined.

Der Bingle’s work involves drones – and, given my personality lately – his family-life includes one as well. No need to go there; I’ll probably snap or ease out of it. So I have this apron, which I think is pretty nice; I know at Christmas, Peace on Earth is a major theme, and taking the bad in the world seriously and working to keep us safe is a responsible undertaking.

Rudolph flies in those skies people work to protect and so I added him to the apron; Der Bingle noticed his legs were a bit tangled, but hey, you can’t fault someone for getting caught up in their work. Still, I straightened them out for his close-up.

Had the trots, but am not dead.