When life gets you down.
Get out your brush.
Or else go to the hardware store and buy a new brush because you failed to clean out the last one from your last state of the doldrums. You know how it is. Those bristles never really run clear no matter how long you run them under water. And after a month or a summer or a year of painting, it is more desirable to just toss the mother out.
So, go and buy that new brush.
And a new roller.
And paint.
Because every decade calls for a new look.
A change.
Pick a color that will mend your heart.
And soothe your soul.
Of course painting a wall can't really mend your heart.
That is ridiculous.
Everyone knows shopping is the cure.
I shop for paint.
And with each painted room comes a new rug or perhaps bright new kitchen towels.
My garbage disposal just got replaced this morning.
You see, you cannot have whitewashed walls and a leak under your sink.
They do not go together.
And neither do plumbers and dogs.
That is why I kept Hunter here with me in my office with the door shut.
Hunter however disagreed.
He is fond of plumbers.
And he let me know that he planned to get to the bottom of the situation out in that kitchen for a very long and piercing half hour.
I couldn't take it.
Finally, I called Sven who was in the living room watching Good Morning America.
"Hello," he answers.
But he couldn't hear me.
"Sven!" I yelled, with barking behind me.
"You are breaking up," he says.
And the call was dropped.
So, I sent him a text.
Anyway, in order to begin the adventure, one must pull out one's vacuum, fill a bucket with soapy water and locate a step ladder.
One must put on a tattered t-shirt and one's holiest jeans.
Be sure to ask Google or Alexa or whatever spy system you have in your home, to crank up the volume.
Because once that first can of worms, I mean paint is pried opened, your journey will begin. And you do not want your own thoughts stuck in your head.
You want to fill that head of yours with music to stir your paint by.
To cut in with.
And to roll away your tears.
Lose yourself in someone else's lyrics, like Neil Young or John Prine or the Avett Brothers.
It doesn't really matter.
Just keep moving along with brush in hand.
And when everything is said and done, which could be a long, long, time, because there are always issues. And there are spills. And there are high places that you cannot possibly get to, so you will have to bat your eyes at your husband real nice. And you will run out of paint, so you will have to take a shower in order to go to the hardware store. And that feels really good. And then the sun is shining on your way there. And then you spot that runner of a rug that would look real pretty in your hallway, if you ever get that far. So, you figure that the next time you have to pick up more paint, you will grab that runner too. If you have any money in your account.
One thing leads to another.
And another.
Cursing will be involved.
Especially when your favorite bird clock crashes to the floor on the other side of the wall that you are rolling paint on as hard as possible because you need every last drop to count. And when that bird clock falls it takes two pictures down with it.
Unexpected shattering glass and rolling batteries can scare the bejesus out of you.
You are going to scream.
But that's okay.
And so is my bird clock. Now I can set it without removing the cover.
By the time you decide you are all done painting.
You might just be past your sorrow.
Or ready to face it.
But even if you are not. Your place will look really nice.
You will wish you could show it off to your mom.
She would be so impressed.
Because everything you ever did made her beam.
But she's gone.