I’m a one trick pony! Always have been, always will be. My
husband used to call me ‘One Track Jean’ because when I get involved in
something---anything---I dive head first into the project and don’t come up for
food or water until I’m light headed and satisfied that I’ve figured out how to
make whatever I’m attempting to do, work. Needless to say, I’m old and I still
haven’t learned how to pace myself.
Since I’ve started downsizing I’ve lost eight pounds---a
combination of moving more, and forgetting to eat. But I know myself inside and out
and know that come the end of summer when I have the basement and garage completely
emptied out and it’s time to start a new goal, I’ll suffer a few weeks of
burn-out. Hopefully, those few weeks won’t stretch out into months because come
winter I fully intend to go through all the closets and cupboards and keep Goodwill
happy with my weekly stops on the way to the grocery store. From inside the
house I’ve already dropped off five barely used kitchen appliances. Someone
should start a business where you get to borrow an appliance to try out before
you buy it. Like that Panini maker I just had to have and only used five times before
I lost interest in it. The receipt said I paid $44 for that appliance. I should
teach a course titled How to Waste Money. Downsizing your life lets you know if
you’ve gotten your master’s degree in wasteful spending and I think I’ve earned
two of them.
My Gathering Girls group did something a little different on Monday. We normally do lunch in our neighborhood or near one of the movie
theaters but this week we went to a lake side, country inn that has been around
forever. I’d never been there---wrong boondocks for me---but the other ladies
were excited about returning to one of their favorite places from back in the days when we
were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. (Has that expression taking on a sexual over-tone in recent years or is it just me?) Either way, they don’t open until 4:00 in the afternoon so
we had an early dinner and it was a good thing I left early because I got so
lost I considered calling someone in the group and telling them I couldn’t get
there from where I was at. I was going up and down a highway looking for my
missed turn but I was too far north to find it. My head wasn’t in the game when
I left the house and that’s not a good thing at my age or any other, for that
matter.
We don’t usually drink at our lunches but when one of the
ladies ordered wine five us followed her lead and ordered alcohol, too. I
ordered a Painted Turtle, Blueberry Bliss Hard Cider. It came in a glass so tall I
told the other girls if I drank it all we’d have to stay a long time so I’d be safe to drive home. I ended up asking for an empty glass and sharing 2-3 inches of my cider with
a woman who was celebrating a good report from her cancer team. But half a
glass in on an empty stomach and I was feeling great---a little buzzed, a little happy that I
finally found the place. And a lot happy that I had someone besides the dog to
talk with. We ended up ordering dessert, too, and all of us was in danger of
having a cardiac arrest when our bills came. I’m not used to spending $30 on a
sandwich, one drink and three marble sized scoops of gelato. Oh, and truffle laced French fries---they were great, but not as great as they cost. Another woman was
charged $12 for a Kahlua and cream and she was digging deep in her purse. “I
should have asked how much it cost,” she said. You can tell we’re all big
drinkers can’t you, she writes with a smile on her lips. It was worth it though;
we all laughed a lot at silly stuff and joked about having hot dogs the next
time.
My basement is emptying out. The three pieces of furniture I
had down there will be gone by the time your read this and they were what I was worried the most about because
all the other stuff down there, I could bring up myself in a pinch. My great-niece took a turn-of-the-century oak buffet---the kind with the hidden
drawer---that I refinished with 6-7 layers of hand-rubbed tung oil. I got
really good at tung oil finishes back in the '70s. My dad taught me how to use pumice in between
the layers of tung oil and the results were wonderfully as smooth as glass. It was
meditative to refinish furniture that way and I probably did eight pieces before
I ran out of room in the house to do anymore.
I can’t think of refinishing furniture without thinking of
my mom, though. The few years before she died she had a goal of
refinishing a piece of furniture for each of her two kids and three grandkids. But she
didn’t live long enough to get them all done, got them all striped of their
paint but that was all. One piece meant for my youngest niece my sister-in-law ended
up with and she put a god-awful, almost black stain on it that completely
covered up the grain. To this day it makes me sick to look at it, knowing how hard my mom worked to get at the nature wood. But I’m
learning---or I should say I’m trying to learn---that you can’t put strings on
things you give away. You shouldn't say, “You can’t paint this” or “you can’t sell
this for five years” or “if you give this away, try to keep it in the family.”
Those are all no-no’s in the downsizing world. I’ve already said the first, but
have since taken it back. A gift, is a gift is a gift, she writes without a smile on her lips… ©
