I’m not going to link to the post below, but I’m not going to take it down. I mean, really, it wouldn’t be right for me go, “Uh, nevermind,” Anyway, whenever I need a slap in the face, I can just read it and cringe.

So, on with the day . . . and those that follow.

I cried in the doctor’s office – not sobs, but bouts of tears. All about the possibility of consequences from high sugar. All because of a label. I’d walked around this before – this not being fit and letting people down – and it seemed I’d dodged the bullet. But the thoughts about failing to do the wise and smart and responsible thing about my weight had triggered memories of other not so responsibly-acting times, other letdowns. I kind of pushed those other thoughts back into a locked place. Then, today, when he said he thought the bullet had hit after all, that news caused my feelings about all the past times to burst that locked door wide open.

Ironically, this bullet I can deal with. It’s the behavior choices of before that popped out and are standing their gound that have me feeling so guilty, which translates, I think, into so, so sorry  for myself. The “Woe is me; why couldn’t I have been a better person?” annoying whining syndrome.

Now, I don’t want sympathy at all; it’s just right now I don’t want to have people actually, say, “Well, yes, you’ve got that right, AmeliaJake. Threw away your potential with laziness and an abrasive personality and just made your parents so sad.”

Der Bingle will make me face up to it and not use any platitudes. I think I need a couple of days, though, and that’s why I’m probably not going to the Ohio Redoubt this weekend; I’ll wait until Wednesday and drive out with him to Iowa for his nephew’s wedding. I should be ready then for the reminders that the hotel has a pool and exercise room; I can be braced for any objective and truthful remarks about my traits toward easy anger and grudge-holding and downright nastiness and trouble-making; I’ll be able to tolerate ‘water under the bridge’ and ‘no use crying over spilled milk’  remarks.

BUT RIGHT NOW I WANT TO WALLOW IN A MOST UNATTRACTIVE MUD HOLE OF SELF-PITY AND EMBARRASSMENT.

Oh, and the bit about slapping someone and them saying, “Thanks, I needed that” . . . well, wait a bit and maybe I’ll snap out of it.

God, these self-realization moments suck.

Sorry, that ACK is all I could manage as I looked at the temperature now – 57 – and then saw the predicted high of 90. It is pleasant outside, pleasant and cool. BUT IT’S NOT GOING TO STAY THAT WAY.!!!!!  No reason for the caps or the red, unless it is my inner klaxon reminding me not to trust the siren call of the cool early morn. That’s sounds so poetic, but I’ll bet as the temperature unmercifully climbs, I will spouting doggerel. 

But, heck, it’s only 90; it’s not like it’s going to be 101, which is predicted for TOMORROW.

Tomorrow is probably what has me on edge – I have my appointment with the parathyroid guy and in the back of my mind, I can here him saying, “Well, AmeliaJake, it looks like we’re going to have to remove your neck.” Rats, I’m so short already.

Finally, my shoes are off and so are my socks and my feet are resting next to each other on a soft, fluffy comforter. I couldn’t do it earlier because I had to water the tomatoes plants on the moundlet, and to do that, I have to move the hose three times. It is done now and I am about done in, soon to be tucked in.

I made myself wait to remove shoes and socks because I knew, just knew, that once they were off I would manage to just forget to go out and shut off the water. Such a little thing and such a big relief. Not that my shoes were uncomfortable; they were just there – and I wanted my feet to feel the cool softness of the evening.

Oh, by the way, I took a picture of the top of my head to assess the greyness factor. It seemed so logical, but when I mentioned it, people seemed surprised. Imagine that. I guess my peg is a rather unusual shape, which is why I carry my hole with me. (I don’t understand what I mean by that too well, either – so don’t feel bad.)

I pulled my hair in a topknot after I washed it to allow the roots to dry in a position of rehabilitation, whatever that means . . . and I forgot about it. So I’ll have crazy hair tomorrow.

Ahem, some might find that quite fitting. (I can HEAR YOU, little Sophie.)

Weather.com’s thunderstorms icon is sitting on their webpage with a p.m. alert under it. But we have seen this 40% prediction before . . . and have seen no rain or lightning nor heard any thunder. I feel like a hypocrite, however, after all my years of complaining about Indiana days that have dawned so bright and sunny and uplifting only to change to gloomy rain clouds. It’s like Northern Indiana weather and the Cubs have the same sort of curse.

I am being too much of a Goldilocks; our weather is never going to be “just right” – not a chance. I need to accept this.

Thanks to the Internet’s scope, I have really come to see some people have a lot of devastating “not just rights” in their lives – more like “really wrongs”. The horrible aspect is when these situations are not twists of fate.

Here’s one:

I click on a link to a story about a young woman who has a daughter who must live in a hospital setting; the little girl – now five – has never been home.

The woman and her husband live in New York City; her husband is a lawyer who loves photography, running marathons, biking, expensive gadgets and travelling. She is a hairdresser for high profile clients. The husband’s brother is a very successful musician/songwriter in Utah who has preformed with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir; and his father taught at the Wharton School of Business while he and his siblings were growing up.

I revisited her blog on a whim and found out the husband has announced he is outta here – for photo gigs, soirees, biking, running and Alaskan vacations and, yeah, corporate law. She is having to sell things to supplement her income.

Now that just ain’t right. I think it’s a betrayal. No more having to visit a daughter in the hospital because his wife wants to. He is outta here for all the beautiful people stuff.

Well, that’s his business . . . and maybe his dad taught him that – “Business is business”, doncha know. Nothing personal, dontcha know. Maybe his brother will write a song about it.

Stomping trash means climbing up on a ladder and stepping on top of the trash bags in the bin.(First place and opened pizza box across the top.) That climbing part puts you closer to the sun and there you go, melting away. One of our trash bins has lost a wheel and so I must call and ask for a new one. I noticed it last week, but forgot to call then, so someone – not me – will find themselves fighting the bin down the driveway.

Amazingly, I did not come in the house when I saw the missing wheel and shout, “Hey, the wheel’s missing from a trash bin!” No one knows I had all that time to call. No one except Rose and, of course, she’s too nice to tell. This reminds me of the time I forgot to mention that if the motor scooter dies, you should always check to make certain the spark plug hasn’t vibrated loose. I seem to hold up well to some bits of guilt.

Anyway, yesterday it was 96 and I didn’t feel this hot. Today, at 90, I do; perhaps it is because I am older.

We are in a drought, moderate as of today, but tomorrow the weatherman says it will move up a step in severity. My grass is brown – but buckhorns are dependable to grow no matter what and that is what they have done. I’m not mowing them.

I am going to sit right here and drink iced tea.

Oh, by the way, I have a high calcium level which led to a test of my parathyroid hormone. It is 140 and should be 70. Usually this indicates a benign tumor on the gland, requiring surgery. Der Bingle asked, “So . . . you are going to pay someone to slit your throat?” Say, this seems to link back to the grisly Amazon booklist mentioned right below. Maybe it’s a paranormal event. Hmmmm, wonder what my paranormal hormone level is.

Oh, great, Amazon’s Kindle division just sent me an email about “grisly reads for summer”. I guess the little monitoring computer program has flagged me as a person who might enter someone’s house and wonder if they have some body part in their refrigerator. I have to admit I just finished a book about the plague breaking out in England, but it dealt with one family quarantined in their house when their son became sick – and while internet, cell phone service, regular phone service and then electricity failed.

And maybe I have read a few murder mysteries . . . Still I don’t go in for the Saw movie type stuff. Uh, I did read about a serial killer last week. And when Alison put a big cauliflower in a pot of water, I remarked it looked as if she were cooking Green Giant’s head.

Perhaps I should download a bunch of free books about torrid romances, sweet romances, ill-fated romances, historical romances and other categories in that overall ilk. It says something about me that I would be more upset having those books on my record than the “axe split his head in half” kind.

I guess I’ll think about that . . . and maybe I should go check my refrigerator.

Rose and Pernilla stayed for some sprucing up of their hairdow; Rose, of course, has been the victim of overwork and overstress hair syndrome and Pernilla apparently found some “while she was sleeping” resistance to her more stringent behavior rules for the denizens of the Ohio Redoubt. One loop of her hair stretches a good nine inches from her head. We have been advised not to show a picture of that . . . and we are taking the advice.

The group here has decided they no longer want to remain in the shadows, only mentioned as regulars at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. They say they have opinions. Oh, this might get embarrassing for this old innkeeper, but they will not be denied.

I haven’t decided with whom we should start – maybe German Jake who lost an arm in the war and has his little checkered sleeve pinned up. (I have found that these folks do not seem to age as quickly as do Der Bingle and I and are quick and agile and lively and full of stories – and future plans.) Oh, that would be the First World War – he was a flyer, dontcha know. He’s still looking for the little floppy-eared American flydog who riddled his tri-plane with bullets. Just a little reunion . . .