“There was enough dynamite there to blow up this house and the two houses on either side of it.” -Bomb Squad guy. My house was one of those “either side” houses.

Yesterday morning, after winning a knock-down, drag-out fight with WordPress, I went outside to get my vee-hickle and go forage for food somewhere. As I drove out of the driveway, I noticed a police car parked at the end of the block. I can count on one hand the number of times someone has had to call the police to our street in the last 22 years, so it is always a little odd to see a police car. What was even odder was that the cops were just kind of lounging around by the back of the car. I couldn’t figure it out. Lunch maybe?

I drove across town to Whole Foods and totally forgot about the police. But when I got back, they were still there. This was getting to be really strange. I fooled around with my hoses and sprinklers for a little bit, hoping they would do something that would give me a clue about why they were there. Finally, I went inside.

A little bit later, I looked outside again and there was another city police car, a state police car, and a big armoured truck with “Sterling Heights Bomb Squad” written on the side. At that, I decided I was done being shy. The state cop was closest, so I asked him what was going on and he said, “There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just picking something up. You’re safe Ma’am.”

Picking something up? Say what? I couldn’t think what else to ask, so I just went back inside. As it turned out, our next door neighbor, who lost her husband in March, had discovered some dynamite and other explosives in her basement. She asked another neighbor about how to dispose of it and he took one look and said, “You really need to get the police.” So she called and the bomb squad came out. They were suitably impressed with the stash and later that afternoon, I saw them in Vet’s Park having a field day blowing up various bits and pieces of dynamite or whatever burning dynamite, which is, I’m told, one way to get rid of it. Boys will be boys and most of the boys I know like to blow things up. Chris was no exception and I’m sure he’s having a good laugh over there on the other side somewhere.

I am okay and the Landfill is still intact, darn it.

Okay, I absolutely *must* write post number 4 for today. This is just too surreal.

There are several police cars sitting out in front on my quiet little backwater of a street as well as a big truck labeled “Bomb Squad.” I have been assured that they are “just picking something up” and that I am “safe.”

That is all.

The other day I think I told somebody I missed throwing buckets of water down the toilet in the ratty old Houghton Lake cabin. This morning we woke up to huge thunderstorms and then the lucky-shucky went out and did not come back again and, as we were faced with the possibility of actually having to throw buckets of water down the toilet, I began having second thoughts about that statement. On top of that, the old hand pump is long gone, which means that we would be faced with Grandroobly’s definition of running water: “You run down to the lake with a bucket, fill it up, and run back up.”

We had planned to scrounge breakfast at the cabin this morning but the idea of trying to feed twelve people and two dogs in a kitchen with no running water or lucky-shucky was a little daunting, so we all headed off in various directions to obtain a restaurant breakfast. And use a bathroom with a flush toilet. The Twinz of Terror and Chevy and I headed up to Ron’s. A couple of the others aren’t crazy about Ron’s, so they elected to go to Coyle’s. We should’ve gone to Coyle’s.

When we got to Ron’s, it was closed because the lucky-shucky was off. We could’ve done the intelligent thing and turned around and headed over to Coyle’s but instead, we made the mistake of continuing on up to that restaurant by the Cut River. I have eaten breakfast there something like twice before and both of those times, I came out of there saying I would never, ever eat there again, even if the lucky-shucky was off in every other restaurant in the universe. It isn’t that the food isn’t any good or that the waitresses aren’t friendly. But that place has got to be the most excruciatingly slow restaurant on the face of the planet.

We went there anyway. When we got there, there were only a few customers and for a few minutes I felt a little bit of optimism creep into my otherwise apprehensive mood. But then it took forever to get seated and forever for the waitress to get around to taking our order. And then all kinds of people started coming in and something like five or six groups who were seated well after us got their food while we sat there waiting.

At first it was okay. I wasn’t really hungry and there was no need to be in a rush. After all, it was raining cats and dogs and there was no lucky-shucky or running water back at the ranch. But then I started to get a little bit hungrier and I had probably had a smidge more coffee than I needed (the one thing they were quick about was filling up coffee cups) and somebody in there had a small child who was not a particularly happy camper and it all started adding up until I began getting that unwelcome little feeling that I needed to start crawling out of my skin. And then I started to get really hungry and I was watching people who came in after us happily eating their food and paying and getting up and leaving.

*Finally* our food came and it was okay but then we were finished and it was taking absolutely forever to get the check, even though they still kept coming by to fill up our coffee cups and we kept telling them we were finished and needed the “ticket.” To get outta there, fer chrissake. And then it got to feel like we were in a full-tilt-boogie twilight zone somewhere. Tourist trap maybe? I gave the GG some cash and bolted for the door. I walked over to the Cut River and hung around there for what seemed like forever. The others were *still* inside the restaurant.

I can’t exactly remember how the heck we finally got out of that place and home but I am NEVER going to that place to eat breakfast EVER AGAIN! Even if the lucky-shucky is off in every other restaurant in the universe. I meant it the last time I said it and I *really* mean it this time. Do NOT try to make me go there again! A-men!

Froooogggy, that is just about the strangest Mother’s Day poem ever written.

grok grok grok. EVERY DAY is Mother’s Day, you old bag. Click here for the audio version. If you dare.

<keereistgimmeabreakalready>I was walking across the N. Maple/Miller intersection and, of all things, I heard a loud electronic wolf whistle. There were no other pedestrians around and my first thought was that it had something to do with the GG being ridiculous. Except that, as weird as he can be, he is too wrapped up in data and spreadsheets and computers and laboratory instruments to be bothered to obtain an electronic wolf whistle and use it to go out and harass women. I think. Anyway, I ignored it, thinking somebody had just activated it by accident. But then, after I got across the street, I heard it again. I did not even *want* to look at whatever ugly, perverted old man was eye-balling the likes of me. Or maybe some little boys were just getting their jollies by toying with an old bag. Whatever. I do not know who it was. I just kept on walking. Guys, I do not know what is going on lately but can we talk? I am 52 years old. I have had two children. I am not cute. I am looking for a life, not a boyfriend. grok grok grok. Yeah, and she doesn’t cook or clean and last week she tried to use me as a Kleenex. grok grok. Froggy! Into your laundry basket! Now!</keereistgimmeabreakalready>

<snot>Somehow or other, I managed to survive hanging around horspittles and the like all winter without picking up any diseases. I have not had a cold since the fall of 2003. The only disease I have had since then was an absolutely deadly gastrointestinal virus that knocked me flat for a few days before the New Year. This week, I have a cold. It’s just a silly little cold. I feel great and I am gallivanting around just about like usual, walking six miles a day and infecting everyone I come in contact with. And that’s okay, I doubt that the uscans at the Stadium Post Office or Westgate Kroger are vulnerable to my little virus 😉 But I am blowing my nose a lot and I need something to blow it on. As usual, I do not have any Kleenex. I don’t usually buy Kleenex because I don’t usually need it. I am not above using toilet paper in a pinch but, even in a disaster zone like my kitchen, a roll of TP would be a little tacky. As everyone should know, a puffalump mouse makes a nice handkerchief and there is a very nice mousey of that sort peeking out of a YAG bag over there by the door. But I suppose I would get in trouble if I used her. Hmmm, what can I use to blow my nose… grok grok grok. Oh, no you don’t. grok grok. Do NOT even THINK about sliming ME! grok frook. I am already green. grok grok. Get off yer you-know-what and go buy some blasted Kleenex! grokgrokgrokGROK!!!!</snot>

“So, how’s your arthritis?” Say what???? The questioner was a friend and neighbor that I haven’t seen for a while and the questionee was, well, ME! I ran into her in the woods behind my house at the end of my 3-or-thereabouts-mile afternoon walk. Of course, I replied with a surprised, “*What* arthritis?” She was appropriately embarrassed but went on to tell me that she and some other neighbors frequently discuss what a good walker I am for someone who has rheumatoid arthritis. JHMK. This whole conversation absolutely totally utterly cracked me up. I think it is hilarious that there are people out there who think I have rheumatoid arthritis and are amazed by my walking capabilities! People! I do NOT have ANY kind of arthritis. I do not have aches or pains. ANYWHERE! I avoid tylenol and ibuprofen et al like the plague. I do not NEED any of that crap! My joints do not hurt. We talked about lots of other stuff too and it was fun and I needed it because the only other living beings I interacted with yesterday were felines. They are nice, but. Anyway, maybe I should start wearing a sign on my back saying, “I don’t have arthritis. I’m just addicted to walking.” I just do not know how these rumors get started!

“Stadium Blvd. construction begins mid-March,” says the sign just before the turn-off to my favorite uscan at the Westgate Kroger. Actually, I know what they’re gonna do and “excavation” would be a better word but it just proves that not only am I back on the planet Ann Arbor but somehow winter has ended. Or so thinks the city, er, planet, in its infinitely superior wisdom. grok GROK! Hey, if we are on a (grok grok) planet now, (grook grok grok) you will have to take (grok grok) the buoy 22 shuttle (grok) to get to the Dexter Pub. grok grok grok frok frok? Yeah, right, Froog.