It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

Because it was on the “wear once again” pile, my best white blouse was in operation during the serving of baby food carrots. Puréed carrots have quite a lot of color as I was reminded.

Since my morning is now dedicated to stain obliteration, I shall endeavor to remove a few more in terms of dirty windows and carpet mishaps. I’m sure my guests won’t notice a thing but it seems the polite thing to do in terms of keeping up with the dust, pollen, and food crumbs. Sigh.

One of the best gifts my parents gave me for Christmas was the Presto Salad Shooter, probably advertised and sold by Ronco! That thing is so old and so darn useful – it still slices and dices my potatoes perfectly. I know for a fact it’s given me over 35 years of use.

I’m hard-pressed to think of any other practical and handy tool that has lasted that long around here. Oh – maybe the plunge router my father-in-law gave me as a wedding gift? That is another “vintage” claim to fame.

My children will be so fortunate to inherit such lovely devices, won’t they?

Speaking of vacations of yore and travel in the summer, a question came to mind. “What do we do with old maps?”

Once upon a time I was considering wallpapering my basement with them in the guest room. Maps would be a nice travel theme there as I already have maps framed from ocean adventures. Another idea was to use them as wrapping paper, encouraging travel to the gift recipient. Perhaps just pulling them out occasionally and reminiscing or exploring? Heaven knows I could pull out the thousands of photos cataloged in scrapbooks along with them!

Map reading was actually a skill we were taught in school. On road trips we would pick up the free map at the rest stops. It was probably to give the parents a sanity break, but it was always entertaining when Dad would ask us how far something was and we had to figure it out. I doubt he really cared but it was a good teachable moment.

Oh, maybe a road trip is in my future? A GPS-less, map-riddled journey. Maybe in a foreign country for fun? Now that would be an adventure!

(With a nod to “Pindy” and her wisdom, and my father for not calling me out when I nearly sawed off my finger.)

Bumps and bruises, fevers, sprains
Broken bones and other pains,
Listening to parents’ chatter,
Deciphering, “What’s the matter?”
Raising kids is always fraught
With wondering, “What have they got?”

We all arrive in later years with stories often shared,
Of injuries and scars attained when living as we dared.

Who remembers non-events? Regular, same-old days?
Mishaps mark our memories in oh so many ways!

I count the years and mark the time by “When I got this scar…”
A history lesson on display of my life thus far.

We continue on this journey as it takes some of its tolls,
But we can share our stories! And thus we share our souls.

We had driving vacations when I was a kid. We traveled to far away destinations – like Colorado.

It was inevitable at some point that my father, hauling his four little olive plants through a summer heat wave with no air-conditioning in the car, would have to pull over and force us to walk half a mile before he’d pick us up. We’d been bickering and driving him nuts. (Of course, my baby sister was probably immune from this torturous form of parenting. She was good at causing a rift without drawing attention to herself, too.)

Oh, it wasn’t all that bad. I actually made a comic strip on one trip. I detailed the car sickness, the games, the fighting, the teasing and such. Stick people drawings, but a written history of the excursions. We made the best of it and were rewarded with a swimming pool at every hotel we graced. (Back then they were NOT heated pools either!)

It would be fun to have a video of one of those trips, just to see how we all fared in a car, sleeping on the back window or floor. To relive the meals at big restaurants, also a treat as our little town only had a bar and cafe. And of course, to see the freedom we enjoyed as we ran amok at the YMCA of the Rockies, parents assuming we were just fine when we made it home for dinner.

I am declaring my parents saints.

Imagine our surprise when we learned we have been motoring around for the past year and a half with expired tags on our RV! The greater surprise to me was that law enforcement hadn’t even noticed.

Once something expires, outside of refrigerated items, the process to reinstate is just like that for a new purchase. What a hassle this “appearing in person” business it. Thankfully my other half is taking on the job of legalizing us again.

I guess we are doing a public service? We’re just helping keep others employed in the motor vehicle department.

Once you toss the sentimental item, you are ready to continue the purge!

The cabinets in the garage are in dire need of reformation. They’re in the garage, for heaven’s sake, no one really pays attention to them until you can no longer stuff your stuff in them. It’s time to initiate “spring cleaning disaster” mode.

One thing is certain – it will be very satisfying when completed.

It’s an odd thing. There’s not much about which I’m sentimental – until it comes to tossing old paint clothes. Apparently I have an unusual attachment.

It’s a little history lesson wearing them, recalling past painting jobs, the feeling of starting fresh with a new room, the wonder of how I can be so incredibly messy. I’m kind of proud of those shirts and shorts, or in the winter, the long-sleeved tees and sweats that are pivotal for my ensembles. I would wear them in public if it were a painting emergency. At least everyone would assume I was being productive! Hmm.

Alas, a time for everything though. I tossed a shirt which memory fails to recollect when I might ever have worn it in mint condition? It’s gone as I currently launder the old stand-bys. They faithfully await the next adventure.

With over forty years of experience painting interiors and exteriors of homes – mine, my sisters and parents, friends – I have learned a thing or two and seen a thing or two.

The evolution of the paintbrush, the roller, the paint itself, the techniques for perfect lines, has all sifted through my well-practiced hands. I have painted with a fine three-bristled art brush to achieve some of my results. Detail is my “specialty.” Thus, I think I know it all.

What a lovely and delightful joy it was to discover I didn’t. Walking off the area of a room rather than measuring carefully with a tape, I estimated that one gallon should really do the trick – if the paint did as promised, which I never ever rely on. I don’t care what they say, it always takes more than the one coat offer to achieve perfection. Mid-painting I panicked and almost ordered another gallon. Prudence took over and I calmed down, trusting the paint expert at Home Depot. I had paint left over!

It truly covered in one coat, didn’t drip (nary a spot on the carpet!) and felt luxurious in its application. Of course I used the best brush and roller with the best paint, a given in the wonderful world of wall transformation.

The nursery looks beautiful. I am humbled and expect to apply this exquisite knowledge to my next project – once my neck, shoulders and arms recover.

Seeing the ads makes me consider a new sport for the games – and it can be winter or summer. Diaper changing.

Picture two infants in need of a change. You have to keep them sequestered, change the squiggling and twisting bodies one at a time as they are strapped in on the changing table, leave no gap in the diaper, and snap those tiny onesie snaps properly, aligning them so as not to have to redo them. Of course it is a timed event, judged on the perfection of the task.

It’s the only possibility I’d have of attending the Olympics.