Having selective memory is very much a good news/bad news sort of attribute.

It allowed me to give birth to a second child. It lets me look forward to Christmas every year. And it gets one room of my house painted every 6 to 10 years. Some things take longer to forget than others.

First, let me remind my gentle readers that I loathe painting. I don’t have the patience or the fine motor skills for the tedious, endless task of masking. I don’t have the upper body strength to wield a roller for eight hours without ending up resembling the first cousin of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I just make a big mess, no matter how hard I try.

I end up with paint flung all over the ladder, the clothes I am wearing, my hair and anything I was foolish enough not to cover up. I cannot paint a straight line, either. It doesn’t matter that I put down masking tape. It doesn’t matter that they have those little square paint thingees. I always wobble around and miss a spot or paint too far in.

In spite of all this, last weekend, I once again found myself painting my guest room — alone. My husband had his own legitimate list of things that really needed to be done. My son cleverly left the state for college and my daughter has just managed to remain absent at the right times. When I decide to tackle a project like that, I want it done within the hour. My family benefits from that attitude.

After I tore up the once-lovely, now stinky, stained rug in the guest room and took it to the dump, it seemed foolish not to paint that room while it was empty and there would at least be a minimum of things I could fling paint on. Projects have a really tiresome way of piggybacking like that, don’t they? How could I have forgotten my last painting marathon, which included the cathedral ceilings in the living room?

This is a small room, I thought to myself. How hard could it be? The very fact that I innocently posed that question is a glowing example of that spotty memory.

So off I went to the home remodeling store. I came back with rollers, spackle, masking tape and all the accoutrements one needs for this madness, along with one gallon of paint. The good news was that I remembered what color I wanted. The bad news was I forgot that you couldn’t even paint a bathroom with one gallon. I got almost one coat on before I ran out. I spent my lunch hour picking up that second gallon the next day. I used most of that just to edge the ceiling and floorboards. I will be buying a third gallon sometime tomorrow.

I spent an hour just unscrewing all the light switch and outlet covers and filling in nail holes. Now I can only find half the screws. I have acoustical ceiling popcorn in my hair. I have paint under my fingernails. No, it doesn’t look like a French manicure, as I hoped it might.

I anxiously await the minute the whole job is finished and dry. I plan to just go in there and sit and stare at my perfect, clean, off-white walls. They will have no furniture marks, no spider webs, no dog scratches or hair balls and no nail holes.

I should be putting the furniture back in, but I really don’t want anyone or anything in there for awhile. We’ll see how well my selective memory continues to work.