It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

As I returned to the mothership today and “The good life” – I am thinking about my walking partner’s comment from yesterday. We used the local mall to gain our exercise as it was a tad chilly outside. As we walked and admired pocketbooks, “Pristina,” told me she had coined a new phrase. “Sub-purse.”

A sub-purse is a little purse inside the “mother purse.” She has quite a few of these gems, tailored to her needs, of course! Work, play, dining, recreation. She moves things around and makes it work. I can’t even keep my one little sub-purse zipped shut, so most times everything is rolling around the depths of my handbag.

I think my new term will be “satellite purse,” because the contents of mine seem to orbit throughout the mothership, on the floor of the car, and in the closet bin where I throw my beautiful bag. Apparently I can only handle one bag at a time.

Jumping on (gingerly stepping on) the elliptical machine at the Rec Center, I made my way for an eighth of a mile before my workout partner noticed I was walking backwards on the machine. Was I doing that intentionally? It didn’t occur to me to go any way other than safely, which apparently was backwards. (Much like when I walked uphill pre-hip replacement – backwards alleviated the pain.)

When water walking I always go against the current, backwards for most people. And those endorphins that are supposed to engulf you after exercise? Nada. I come home and immediately want to fall into bed – as I did yesterday. I used to run at night in college, right before bed. Slept great. When I did yoga, I had to brush my teeth before starting, so that I could drag myself into bed and fall asleep. And who doesn’t read a magazine backwards, by the way?

I don’t know where the endorphins are, but I do know I’ve always done things a bit backwards. No need to add your comments to that one.

When considering a renovation, demolition is the most appealing aspect of the job. This came to light as I was chatting with a fellow demolition expert, “Piane,” regarding the fact that approved destruction of something is rather cathartic.

This meandering reminded me of the moment I could no longer tolerate the playhouse in our backyard. Built for the children, it was not a safe structure anymore, nor a needed one. My spouse was out of town. This two-story monster called to me, even though I had recently had hip replacement surgery. My daughter supported the efforts, and we began sawing and deconstruction on our own.

I was on the upper deck, sawing off the roof, when part of it fell on me and the new hip. My assistant was in the house, and I laid there, laughing at my stupidity, unable to move because I was afraid I would injure myself, yelling for the aforementioned assistant. My daughter runs out and up the steps, lifts the roof off and throws it over the edge. We got most of the playhouse demolished before the man of the house arrived home. He finished the job, probably to save himself the pain of watching us chop at the 8x8s with an axe.

I’m thinking of ripping off our weather-beaten, screws-protruding deck on the next out-of-town-trip for my husband – just so he can come to the rescue and finish the job. It worked once before?

Yes, we could start one. Apparently most people have the same affliction with missing socks. As a matter of fact, I just did the laundry yesterday and lost two socks. I know they started out as a pair? So, we have the opportunity for a new business, albeit one that will not offer any financial gain.

While wondering where the missing socks went, I was able to finally remember to take the pea soup out of my car from my Thursday morning. The soup traveled with me all day Thursday, waiting for the evening meal at the school where I worked. I forgot it in the car. Didn’t eat it, arrived home at 8:45 pm, went to bed. Got up Friday and went to the gym. Came home, went out for coffee, finally saw it in the back. Thankfully, it was still cold here in Colorado, so I figured it was fine.

If I can’t remember the pea soup, I’m bound to keep losing socks.

There is one sure way to make time stand still, and I have had the opportunity to languish longer than I would have liked all week long.

It begins with a dog. Next, add snow and freezing temperatures, or below 0 for fun. Throw in some wind while you’re at it. Now, take your prized canine out in the evening to “do his business.” Do not yell, curse, or use an outside voice while he sniffs every inch of available space within his reach. Walk him around, enjoying the chatter of your teeth. Shovel a new powder room for everyone’s enjoyment. Never mind that he will return to the first and regular place of business. Be patient as you enjoy the howling wind. Time might stand still for a slightly shorter bout if you can remain calm.

By the looks of the weather forecast, time will be stationary yet again this next week.

In class last night a reference was made to a parent who says, “Don’t make me stop this car!” Idle threats?

Not in my family! My father would stop the car en route to our grandparents. We would be exercising sibling rivalry or brother-torture, and I guess it could get to the breaking point. The car would stop on a two-lane road, out the three of us in the back would climb, and my dad would take off. Modern day child abuse for sure! While we grumbled walking the 100 feet or less, feeling like it was at least two miles, we would become united in our efforts to be mad at dad, thus becoming closer-knit. What a wonderful strategy, which I employed twice in my own child-rearing.

Of course, there was an additional bonus which occurred to me last night. My siblings used to get motion sickness, one on each side of me. A good ambling in the fresh air could have been a preventative measure?

After doing double duty on shoveling and plowing in the same day – thank you, oh Wild Northwestern Wind – I found this ancient desert adage quite apt. I will keep it in mind as I prepare to shovel yet again this evening. (I do appreciate the value of every drop as I thankfully am not dragging hoses to trees!)

Apparently I was not the only person on a roll in the game of matching solo socks. My Pinterest friend, “Pois,” shared her father’s email to her after a recent trip he took. She granted me permission to share it, with a word of caution. “Please proofread before sending.” I share in the delight of unmatched socks and eRrors in writing.

I couldn’t ditch the un-mated socks from my wardrobe, so I made new combos. Nobody sees my socks in my boots, so I guess it really doesn’t matter if they match?

Approximately 25 years ago, my daughter had a cute little teal and blue outfit – one of those trendy-looking tops and bottoms with the pant legs different colors. I happened to have socks for her that matched in both teal and blue – so I put one of each on her whenever she wore that outfit. It was precious! Of course, be careful what you initiate.

She frequently went to pre-school with mismatched socks because she thought that was what she was supposed to do. The preschool teacher pulled me aside one day when my daughter had also put about ten different plastic barrettes all over her head with the mismatched socks. I was ready to take some ribbing for her wacky appearance. (She also brushed her own unruly, curly blonde hair. It was a wild look!)

“I think it’s great you let your daughter dress herself.” I have never forgotten that teacher and her kind words of encouragement. That’s what my mismatched socks will remind me of today.

Going through my sock bin I discovered ten singles without a mate. I was able to create two pair out of the stragglers, thus leaving me with six unhappy singles. Recalling where I kept my previous “sock drawer,” now a bedroom “junk drawer,” I found four more lone wolves. Back to ten. I patched together two pair out of the miscellany and brought my world back to six unhappy campers.

Where in the world can six socks be? I really don’t have that many to take care of, so they have to be living somewhere, or clinging to someone else’s shirts or underwear. Maybe they are in the summer clothes section of the closet? Oh wait. I don’t have a summer clothes section. I guess they could be in the rag box, thrown there when I thought they were solos before I found their mates which I ended up keeping hoping for a reunion?

Ah, sweet mysteries of life! Guess who is cleaning her closet this week?