It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

Actually, I only buy a really good pair of walking shoes once every two years. By “good,” I mean shoes which support my arch, do not rub against my instep, can do a good eight hours on the pavement, and are “cute.” These shoes are a rare commodity. I had them once, years ago, and I am forever trying to relive that purchase.

Thus, I go backwards in my assessment. The pair I purchased today is first and foremost “cute,” and they do the other necessary requirements as a secondary benefit. But really, they do not rub against my stupid instep, and the arch support is amazing! I hope walking in them for eight hours a day justifies the substantial amount of dollars I doled out. They really are cute!

Shoes are weird. My feet are weird. Wondrous is when the twain shall meet.

Did you receive the memo?

It was a carefree, roaming-through-the-day kind of mood that grabbed my soul. My costume was suited to the self-assigned “gypsy day.” The skirt I wore was a gauzy hand-me-down from my daughter, accented by a hand-me-down peasant blouse from my sister. I wore nine strands of bangles, dangly earrings, and my Birkenstocks. (I didn’t have any cool boots to wear for a true fashion statement.) Unfortunately, when I realized I had chosen “gypsy” as a theme, I couldn’t get Cher’s politically incorrect song, “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves,” out of my head. I had to bake a pie to remedy that situation.

Be careful what you wear lest it inspire an ear worm, or prompt you to heat your kitchen on a 98 degree day!

The spider was big and ugly, and humanely trapping it and releasing it outside was not in the cards. I “whapped” it with my shoe. I am not an insect enthusiast. Trapping mice or releasing confined-in-the-window-well snakes, no problem. Bugs – ugh!

When I was a kid I was sitting under a tree in the backyard and something was bugging me. I stuck my finger up my pant leg and started pulling out a string that was annoying the calf of my leg. It was a worm! An incredibly long earthworm. At least it wasn’t a spider!

As a purse-carrying teen, I decided to get over my sincere dislike of bugs, arachnids most importantly. I bought some plastic spiders and put one in my purse, just to get accustomed to seeing it. I was hoping I would not scream when I opened my purse. It didn’t work. Startled me every time. I got so tired of being startled that I gave up that experiment.

Now, my grandmother could eliminate a June bug with her bare hands. I can still hear that scarab beetle being squished. Only years later did it occur to me that perhaps she was trying to help me become less fearful of something so small and harmless as an insect. (She probably really was just that tough!) However, once you’ve had a bug up your pants, it’s difficult to look lovingly at them, no matter how inconsequential they may seem.

It’s coming. The news is focusing on football. Our pro baseball team is doing so poorly that we look to football for our victory hopes! It all reminds me of my own football career.

Junior year in college my flag football team was comprised of some truly athletic people. And me. However, we did manage to win first place in our highly competitive “division.” It’s the only trophy I ever earned, and I proudly displayed the six-inch tall plastic acknowledgement.

Senior year of my career, I managed to sprain my ankle and require crutches after one game. The problem was, it was a game played just days before our choir bus was to leave for our participation in Saint Pope John Paul II’s Mass in Iowa. Of course, I got to go with my choir, but I couldn’t stand where they were. Instead, I got to go to the front of the huge crowd and sit on the ground where the other crippled or injured people were. At the end of Mass, the Pope went around to a few stations to bless us, and he stopped a mere ten feet in front of me! I have never seen another face radiate such love and kindness as did Saint Pope John Paul II’s.

That was the best game of football I ever played!

I know, I know. Nothing published last night because I was entertaining. Really, the entire day was unremarkable until the testosterone brigade returned. But it was too late by the time they returned from the motorcycle trip to provide anything worth noting. And I had to cook! I was kind of pooped

However, last night and tonight’s entertainment has given me interesting ice-breaker questions for guests. I offer them free of charge.

1. Have you ever had a weapon pointed at you?
2. Have you ever been arrested?
3. What’s your best ghost story?

Once everyone is “warmed up,” you can ask the other questions.

1. What’s your favorite color?
2. What’s your zodiacal sign?
3. Are you free Saturday night?

Once again……….free of charge

Watching the news with the Little League World Series and the 12-year old young lady named, “Maddy,” I was reminded of my early softball career.

In elementary school, I learned the game of “touch-up” softball. (I think that’s what we called it?) It was always initiated after lunch. Proper digestion was not encouraged, as the first people out to the grass field after lunch “touched home plate,” and thus got to be pitcher, catcher, and the basemen in that order. Dawdling diners were in the outfield. I never minded the outfield with the dandelions providing entertainment. When I was the pitcher, I got the wind knocked out of me once and I was forever a skittish pitcher anyway.

In high school, I endeavored to play girls softball on the “town team.” I had an old mitt, probably from my great uncle Leo’s stash. I can still picture the moment in the outfield when the pop fly came to me. I caught it! The mitt did not. The stitching broke and the ball went straight through to the ground. I was mortified. I had no glove to finish the game.

I promptly took up tennis which did not require catching anything, and running was contained to a court.

“…a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” That Robert Browning line from a poem came to mind as I was listening to my friend, (secret agent name, “Barbara”) chat about her upcoming family shindig. Her exact quote, “I’m using the dining room as a staging area….”

My sister is using her dining room as a staging area for back-to-college wares. My dining room is currently a staging area for a soirée I’m hosting Saturday evening. The annual taxes get staged and sorted on the dining room table. Pre-trip packing occurs on the table. LEGO creations used to be constructed on the dining room table. I see why many new homes ditched the dining room, but I ask, “Then where is the staging area?”

Perhaps the question could be, “…a person’s dining room should have dinners galore, or what’s a table for?” And wouldn’t that be exceeding a grasp?

It’s only August – but the allure of a Christmas craft snagged my imagination back in March. Since I couldn’t paint the music room, I opted for this amazing activity that has been sitting on my craft table for five months. Unfortunately for the readership, I cannot divulge what this stupendous creation is, because some of the readership may become “craft victims.” Of course, that depends on the highly anticipated astonishing outcome.

Let me note that there were no final directions, but using my long-standing rapport with Pinterest, I was able to muddle through. However, the dilemma I now face is that I have glued silver glitter to my hand, and formally attached it with acrylic spray. I managed to get most of it off the kitchen floor, but I’m guessing it will be like the confetti we tossed 15 years ago on New Year’s Eve, and it will keep popping up whenever I vacuum or sweep.

Sometimes Pinterest just creates problems.

Energized and ready to brave the day, I was excited to begin painting! The olive green “music” room just needed a facelift. It is a wonderful blend of mismatched furniture, with a white baby grand as the headliner. Two chairs from my spouse’s grandmother are in there, along with a church pew and a table I crafted from old yardsticks. There is a guitar, lyre, mandolin and banjolin decorating the floor. Perhaps a new color could help fuse the awkward elements better? And though it’s difficult to admit, I am a little tired of the green. (Gasp!)

As I stood viewing the room yet again, I realized why I stopped myself from this venture the last time I had this idea. I am limited in color choice by the carpet. The carpet has to go. The carpet can’t go until the dog dies. The dog can’t die for many years, because he is the last dog.

Sometimes a vicious cycle is a welcome guest.