It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

That will be the first available interview either in-person or on Zoom that the U.S. government can give me for my global entry renewal application. Of course, I could travel to Michigan to interview in person. There was a slot available earlier at that location.

The government has graciously given applicants additional time on their status due to this backlog, so basically, you get to pay for a year you don’t get to use, but you won’t get stopped at the border just yet. You have a grace period to get in trouble with the law should you so choose.

This task came on the heels of renewing insurance for next year, which for some reason, the lovely Colorado healthcare exchange screws up annually. It takes an in-person phone call, my husband’s voice because they cannot for any reason, get MY name on their records as a contact for MY insurance.

Now to take my car in for its recall on a part which hasn’t been an issue for 112,000 miles plus, but apparently could possibly be. At that age, couldn’t anything be a possible issue?

Bureaucracy at its finest.

The only magnet allowed to grace my refrigerator now holds a work of art by my granddaughter. It is a colorful rendition of her obvious ability to put ink to paper with a thoughtful and masterful technique.

As I pass by this addition to the kitchen, I am amused at the way we adults encourage the arts at such a young age. “Oh, you are a great artist!” “What a pretty song you are singing!” “”Tell me more about your picture.” “You’re such a great pianist!” “That’s a fun song.”

By the time college comes around and the words, “I’m going to major in art history,” “I’m majoring in vocal music,” “I’m going for interpretive dance as a career,” are spewed, parents begin the back-peddle to find a happy alternative that will be more lucrative, or at least, “pay the bills.”

Of course we should always encourage each other and celebrate accomplishments whether they make it to the fridge or not. Enjoying the earthly journey to our destination is as important as pinning it down. And right now, the Tuesday morning earth is covered in snow and I’ve got to get going to test the icy roads. I shall endeavor to enjoy the ride!

Football. Does it seem like players are getting injured more easily these days? The football of yore seemed more warrior-like. Now our players get to have little dances of jubilation when they do their jobs. Sacked the QB, tackled the receiver, made a touchdown? It’s your job. We don’t need a pose to honor it. By the way, I don’t care if San Francisco wins. I just like looking at Jimmy Garoppolo.

Coughing. If you’re in public and you cough repeatedly, you risk being labeled a criminally-intent-virus transmitting person. Looks of admonition and stares of, “How could you be out in public with that cough?” There is no more “common” cold.

Carpet. Do you get what you really like? No. You do not get white carpet, you get a dirt-tone version of what you like. You know that you will not keep it as clean as you think. You also know there will be inevitable wine (red) mishaps a white carpet will remember. You can have the white carpet in your dreams.

It was an interesting weekend. Let’s leave it at that.

Leave it to me to find a carpet showroom that has been open a week, with my cohort in tow and us being the third customers to cross the threshold.

Who knew my friend and I would be held hostage by the owner, eager to relay his successful sales story? To be fair, he was out retrieving cream for his coffee when we arrived. His lovely sales associate, new to the job, was eager to help us. “Pristina” was patient and kind, and when the owner arrived, we both exclaimed, “Did you bring enough coffee for us?”

He had a Keurig, made each of us our choice of roasted blend, offered cream, and was quite lovely. It just took a long time to get out from under the history of carpet and the business. At least I’m finally looking for the replacement options in the pet-and-child loved flooring of our home. That friendly business experience has spurred me forward.

To infinity and beyond!

Last night I took on the sewing of a new cushion cover for my kitchen bench. I thought I’d go all fancy and use piping to edge it neatly.

I spent the first two hours cutting, pinning, and sewing piping. I spent the third hour ripping it all apart. Then, I was so mad I decided to try it again!!!! I even googled tips and tricks and couldn’t figure out what I’m doing wrong. After failed attempt number two, I had to quit due to the lowered night time temperature in the house and in the interest of my sanity.

The bright side? I had the opportunity to lie awake considering options and reworking the project in my head for hours. I “arose” to the challenge this morning, determined to make this stupid thing work.

Third time’s a charm.

I am the best at dragging my feet when it comes to changing out a long-held and loved piece of furniture for a newer model.

And how does this musing come about? My beautiful daughter was sitting on the sofa last night gazing at my decor, trying to understand the wonder of it all.

My coffee table is a handy piano bench, acquired in my youth by my father when I first moved out of the house. One side table is a “major award” silver platter atop a garage-sale find tripod. A second table is hand-crafted by my father-in-law, and the last acquisition is a terrible piece from the 50’s which belongs in a museum. (That would actually be the round side table I felt the need to abscond from the parents for my granddaughter’s toy chest. I just like it.) My family room is really family remnants. We won’t touch the sofa conversation, as I’ve been ruminating about that for years.

We all know that remnants are what hold us together.

I don’t anticipate a big change in the near future.

November 8th – and I slept with the window open!

Not only did I steal a moment of a cool, crisp night pre-winter, but I heard the coyote party, something that’s been missing for the last couple of years. It probably means we will have rabbits proliferating the ‘hood by Christmas, but their cries and screams are somehow comforting.

The sun dawns on a new day, free of political ads. That that of my time is too large to excuse!

Remember the joy of the cereal box? It had immense possibility the moment it arrived on your morning table, that rare morning when your mother did not make you eat a hot breakfast with protein.

Oh, I’m sure you remember the Bobby Sherman record I wrote about, cutting it off the back of the box and playing it? Making words out of the Alpha-Bits cereal as you consumed it? We weren’t staring at a tablet, phone, or even television. All we had was some cardboard for morning entertainment.

Well look what popped up in our pantry? This isn’t even a name brand cereal! It was just a heart-warming moment, and a puzzle for my moment of happiness.

My aunt’s funeral was beautiful, touching, reverent, fitting. Following every Mass and graveside service in the village is the luncheon served in the school gymnasium by the ladies’ Altar Society.

My mom’s funeral was the first to reinstate the luncheon during covid, a proud tribute to her ability to bring people together. What’s so interesting and probably shocking to anyone who has never witnessed the meal, is the swiftness in restoring the gym to its former glory.

The priest prays over the meal and family, we form two lines, at least one hundred or more go through the self-serve tables. People eat, catch up with others, pay tribute to the family, and begin to leave approximately 60 minutes later. And then – out come the carts – and the family of the deceased begins stacking chairs and tables! It is speedy, efficient, and well-orchestrated. The gym is now ready for school activities. It has been this way for decades.

There is no sense in changing what works!

If your cute little dog had to choose, which treat would he pick?

We returned from our family get-together and changed into less formal attire. That is when I noticed the torn Reese’s Cup papers on my guest bed. Two chocolate treats for a little eight pound dog. Hm.

I neglected to inform my brother of the evidence last night, figuring I would divulge that knowledge if the dog died. This morning the remnants of a third chocolate cup were found, so I spilled the beans. That’s when we learned the little thief had jumped on the counter many times, choosing the butter dish on the last foray.

Stick of butter or chocolate? The wiser choice was made. And who could fault this cutie?

Oh…and a friendly reminder….