I am a magical mess of a woman with a  faith that would fill the Grand Canyon.  I was raised in a devoutly Christian family who believed with all their hearts.  It was a very joyful faith and I learned at a very young age to love The Lord.  But, still out of this wonderful upbringing there grew a magical mess.

Sometimes I envision Jesus sitting next to His Father having a chat.  I am almost sure He occasionally smacks His head with His palm and asks, “Father, You made her magical but did You have to let the mess in?”

At which point God answers, “Not up to Me, that’s purely up to her.  You see, I gave her free will and, yes, she usually just makes a mess of that.”  (So true, I do make a mess of life.)

As the day goes on Jesus looks at God and says, “Did You see that, did You see what happened to her now?”

“Of course I did, I see everything.  And don’t worry, if she can’t get herself out of this mess, I will send help.”

Thank goodness He knows I need all the help I can get.  And this brings us to my guardian angel.  I call him Kevin and I do not envy him this job.  He’s trying to pick up the pieces of a woman in chaos.

After jumping out of that plane, I image a conversation between Kevin and God going something like this:

Kevin – “She jumped out of a plane . . . a plane for pity’s sake.”

God – “Yes, I know.  I also know you went with her.”

Kevin – “Of course I did, but a plane?  Is she just trying to push my buttons?”

God – “No, she just doesn’t think of all the consequences.”

Kevin – “Okay, so what’s she going to do next?”

God – “You know I can’t disclose that information.  She has freedom of choice and yes, that makes your time with her very interesting.”

Kevin – “Not even a little hint?  May a clue so I can prepare?”

God – “You know that’s not how this works.  Because she trusts Me, you have to trust Me and I’ll take care of everything.”

Kevin – “Okay.  Oh, look, she’s going boating.  Great.  Now water will be involved.”

God – “She’s a good swimmer, so hopefully she won’t be much work.”

Kevin – “What are the chances of that?”

God – “Again, I can’t tell you.  But, I can say this will not be the end of her adventures.”

Kevin – “She calls herself Magical Mess.  I have deduced that’s a pretty accurate title.”

God – “Look at it this way, she’s basically harmless.”

Kevin – “Is her red hair a factor in this mayhem?”

God – (with a twinkle in His eye) – “Yes, I must have a little whimsy somewhere.”

 

Shopping is one of my hobbies and it brings a smile to my inner being.  I don’t necessarily need to buy something every time; window shopping also brings a smile.  (On a good day, I even like to grocery shop as the possibilities for meals are endless.)

There are a couple of favorite venues I like to stop by and visit and one of them is Washington Square.  In the middle of the mall sits my Triangle of Happiness:  The Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma and Nordstrom.  Oh, what joys I’ve found gliding from one to another, always dreaming of treasures to be found.

The Pottery Barn is full of home décor, trinkets, tableware and bedding.  My Favorites are the demo tables set with that seasons choice giving me ideas upon ideas.  I view the table as my little stage set.  If I had my life to do over again, I would choose stage design as my profession; creating worlds to share with an audience.   Since I didn’t make this choice 40 years ago, I now use my table as my mini stage.  Williams Sonoma also plays a part in this as I can envision beautiful pots, pans and cooking ware dotting my landscape.

Then we come to the queen  of the triangle, Nordstrom.  I’ve loved this place since I first started shopping there at the tender age of eighteen.  Whenever I walk into the store I am assailed with smells, sights and senses that delight me.  From the perfume section to the accessories right through to the shoes (OH, the shoes!!!), I am filled with a calm yet excited glow that doesn’t stop until I sadly exit.

I enjoy and frequent small, privately owned shops and try to support the small business owner as best I can; but Nordstrom will always have my heart.  I tried weaning myself off this desire by cutting up my credit card, but what do I find?  They offer a special Nordstrom debit card.  Brilliant.

Once upon a time, in trying to curb my enthusiasm for my  mecca, the husband had the bright idea of freezing my credit card in a butter tub of ice.  The theory being that I would have to come home to thaw it out, giving me time to think and contemplate my intended purchase.  This was supposed to take care of my impulse buying syndrome.  I agreed to this experiment and thought no more about it.

One day, while at Washington Square, I traversed my Triangle of Happiness and found myself in the shoe department at, you guessed it, Nordstrom.  One moment I was window shopping, just looking, dare I say dreaming and the next moment I had my shoes off and a clerk fitting me with six different choices.

I arrived home with those six pairs of shoes in two beautiful Nordstrom bags hoping I had beaten the husband to the driveway.  Alas, I had not.  He took one look at those brimming bags, went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer compartment, looked at the butter tub still intact and then looked over at me with confusion.  Well, it seems you don’t actually need your Nordstrom’s card when shopping.  All you need is your driver’s license and away you go.  To his credit, the husband said nothing . . . just wandered away, shaking his head in defeat.

As I get older I find myself less frequently in the triangle.  More thought is given to purchases and I even take the checking account’s feelings to heart.  But, every now and then, I hear the siren call of Nordstrom, Nordstrom, Nordstrom.  It’s a sweet, sweet sound and I find it hard to ignore.  It is now my treat not my every week obsession.  I find that only makes it more glorious.

So, to The Triangle of Happiness, long may you exist.  My loyalty knows no bounds.

Last October I tried what I like to call frugal October.  No spending other than  that which was necessary.  While not perfect, I did cool my heels on pushing the button that says “buy”.  It worked well, except it ended with October.  Then there was Christmas and we won’t even speak about that avalanch of boxes.

The month of April was a flurry of deliveries both night and day to my front door.  Everything from Amazon to Stitch-Fix,  some from over seas.  The items ranged from food storage containers to clothes to a beautiful gold and turquoise ring.  Yes, I fell of the no-shopping wagon.

Then came May.  I completed Meager May successfully.  No boxes came to the door other than cleaning solutions.  It’s June now and I still plan on corralling my need to buy.

But watch out for July.  I must be honest with myself; I have a list of things to purchase and it’s going to be awesome.  Have I learned anything?  I can contain myself for a month or two, but, like Kilauea, at some point my inner shopper has to erupt.

The muse just scolded me, (although very gently), for not proof reading my blog enough.  I seem to have misspellings every now and then, (well, a lot actually).  Frankly by the third reading and checking for errors I’m pretty sick of the entry.  Plus now I’m just winging it.

You see, I create this magical mess by first composing in LibreOffice Writer.  I reread and correct after that.  I print it out and read/correct it again.  Then I post to the blog and reread it and re correct.  You would think by this time it would be picture perfect.  But, no…..  Somewhere between printing and posting I have again acquired typos, grammatical mistakes and either too much punctuation or not enough.

So, I have reconciled myself to this and now consider it part of the Magical Mess charm.  Sorry if this bothers some of you English majors but it’s not called “mess” for nothing.  I am what I am, (there’s a classic form of tautology) and am continually trying to improve.

Here’s to the future and maybe, just maybe, a clean pure document.  (It would make the muse so happy.)  Don’t count on it, though; just be surprised by it.

In my quest to look slimmer and not so jiggly I recently purchased the Spanx version of a girdle.  Modern fashion has discovered spandex and it’s virtually everywhere.  The model I chose is actually a “panty” that reaches up to my bra line.  It’s purpose is to slim and trim and contain the jiggles in the torso area.  Alright, I’ll give this a go.

Now, it is easier said than done to get this thing up to the proper place.  Shades of the Miracle Suit come to mind, minus being wet.  I pull and tug and finally get it in place and lo and behold it’s a miracle.  Smoothness is achieved and my clothes slip on without a hitch or tug.

I am excited as I have a function to go to and want to look my best.  Just as I’m thinking this will solve so many of life’s problems, I open the car door and sit down.  The “panty” stretches with me and doesn’t bind or pinch , but . . . that wonderful band at the top is starting to slip down to my waist creating a strong, thick, rubber-band like constriction that is slicing me in two.  All I want to do is dig at it and get it away from my body but I am strapped in a car, going 65 down the highway and that doesn’t seem to be an option.

At my destination I slip into the powder room and place it back into position.  I exit and find my table and again, when I sit down, it rolls downward.  Back into the powder room and this time I tuck it under my bra.  This does the trick as it is now fastened securely under the strap.  All is fine and well until I realize I have much less room for stretching.  I am now firmed ensconced in a tube of Lycra that isn’t going to bend easily.

So, I stand for the rest of the event only sitting down to drive home; at which time the panty becomes loosened from its position underneath the bra strap and snaps down in a violent manner to rest at my waist.  I now have a tourniquet on.

When will I ever learn that spandex is not my friend and playing with it can cause physical distress, even pain.  I wish I had the body I had at twenty but, alas, I am not firm and trim.  Perhaps I should give up and let it all hang loose.  But no, I won’t give up.  I will continue looking for that perfect slimmer.  Yes, I’m an optimist.  Yes, I’m going to die trying.  No, I don’t want to be buried in one . . .thank you very much.

When I started composing this blog I was writing for me.  As I wrote more and more I found I was writing for the best friend, the husband and the muse.  I would start as if sending them a private letter.  These entries were my babies, each one very special and born of memories and laughter.  I knew they would be safe with  my chosen few.

But, as time has marched on, I found I wanted a bigger stage for them.  I made the decision to invite my Facebook peeps to the magicalmess.org.  This makes me nervous, nauseous and slightly intoxicated.  I really don’t know if my children are ready to leave home, but today I pushed them out the door and into the open.

I know not whether they will succeed or fall flat on their faces.  But, at least I’m giving them a chance.  The muse felt they needed a bigger stage.  He hasn’t been wrong yet, but what are the odds he’ll remain that way.  Okay, just showed a little insecurity.

So, I’m asking you all to take care of my kids and their fragile ego.  They mean well and only want to amuse you for a little while.

The boating experience is not one I grew up with for in my family we were more likely to attend a cultural experience and try out new restaurants than venture out on the water in a floating device.  Bu, upon marrying the husband, who grew up boating, I learned my experiences would broaden and change.

I should have guessed this was my future as our first date ended on a boat.  He took me for a moonlit cruise down the Columbia and that is where I first fell in love . . . with him, not the boat.  Fast forward ten years and I found myself married, mother to a three-year old and aboard a 38 foot cabin cruiser in the northwestern part of Washington.  I know nothing about boating and everything about being sick.

The husband’s plan was to head out of Port Angeles, cross the Straits of Juan de Fuca and end up in Victoria harbor.  That was the plan.  I didn’t know that inside of the plan there was a chance of me tumbling around the boat while on four-foot swells and getting more nauseous by the minute.  I was also slightly humiliated because my mother and three-year old son showed no signs of the malady.  They just happily enjoyed the view and the bobbing of the boat.  I loathe roller coasters but at least they go in one direction at a time.  This was an everyundulating, topsy-turvy movement that never ceased.

After multiple visits to the head, I pleaded with the husband to make it stop and he dutifully pulled into Friday Harbor to allow my stomach the change to stop retching.  I cleaned my self up and tried to figure out a way to handle the short trip to Victoria.  I realized he couldn’t control the sea so I had to figure out how to control me. Not easy when you’re the magical mess.  Through much prayer and counseling by the husband, my mom and even my son, I garnered enough courage to set course again.  Only through The Lord was I able to get through it.

On arriving at the harbor in Victoria, the husband had the nerve to say, “I don’t understand why that was such an ordeal.  They were only four-foot swells and that’s nothing compared to the high seas.”  It was at that point I realized I would never go on the high seas because I would die a horrible, pukey death that would live on in family lore forever.  Decades later they would speak in horror of the magical mess who lost her whimsy and turned into the most disgusting pile of goo in the history of the family.

The middle part of this voyage occurred without incident and we had a great time exploring Victoria.   It wasn’t until the very end of the journey that again I proved my boating experience was nil.

We crossed back over the Straits but the seas were calm this time.  I started to like the feeling of the gentle swells.  As we neared the docking portion of the trip, the husband noted he might be too close to the other boat.  He thought it would be a good idea for me to climb onto the side of our boat, take a boat hook and push off the other boat in order to not crash into it.  I had become slightly cocky with my boating experience and unwisely agreed.

Out I climbed, grabbing onto the rails with one hand and clutching the boat hook with the other.  As he inched closer and closer to the slip, I extended my arm to push against the other boat.  Just a gentle push should do it, he informed me.  Well, that’s great in theory but turns out this little manoeuver did not go well.  As I pushed off the neighboring boat with one hand, my grip loosened with the other and, on leaning forward, I lost my balance.  Over I went into the harbor, fully dressed and surprisingly calm.

Upon surfacing the husband called down, “What are you doing down there?”  Really?  Seriously?  Are you kidding me?  I answered, “I’m just checking the hull.”  There was a moment of silence before he asked if I as okay.  I now had to figure out how to pull myself up onto the swim platform which was one foot above me.  I had very little upper body strength, was floating in dirty dock water and I was between two very large boats.  I finally decided the best course of action would be to grab onto the swim platform with my hands and feet and try to creep the rest of my body up.  There I swayed like a sloth hanging onto a tree.  This was the most pitiful display of strength ever carried out.  I hung, grunted, pulled and swung and through no ability of my own I landed on the swim platform in complete disarray.

I acknowledged to the husband I was okay and on the boat.  As I entered the cabin my mom and son were surprised to see I had been “swimming.”  I was giving a brief explanation of my current state of affairs when I realized what could have happened to me.  I could have been torn up by the props, crushed between two boats or sank to the bottom.  I broke into a crying jag that lasted through my hot shower and putting myself together again.

By this time the husband had docked the boat all by himself.  A fact he has mentioned to me over the past 28 years.

You would think this would end my boating experience, but no, it was only the start.  For the next sixteen years I would participate in this ritual over and over, getting better not by leaps and bounds but by tiny, tiny steps.  I will never be known as a great sailor, not even an adequate one, but I did learn to enjoy the freedom and beauty of the sport.

By the way, whenever we speak of my first voyage, the Straits of Juan de Fuca are referred to as the Straits of Juan de Puca.

 

When I turned fifty years of age I decided to mark this occasion by doing something completely out of character.  For me that meant jumping out of a plane.  My reasoning was I had an in-born fear of heights; had played it pretty safe my entire life; and needed to make a statement to myself I was not old and washed up.

In sharing this plan with family and friends, I received high fives and encouragement.  This just strengthened my desire to experience the thrill of parachuting.  Little did I know the truth of the whole matter.

As life unfolded, it took the entire year to get up the nerve to accomplish my goal.  A very short time before I turned fifty-one I managed to swallow my anxiety and foreboding and made the reservation.

After informing my son of my plans, he and three of his close personal friends made the decision to join me.  That is how I came to be in a plane, strapped to an instructor, facing my boys and his friends, scared out of my wits and too prideful to back out.

The day was picture perfect, gorgeous, sunny and mild.  No wind.  We started out at the jump site getting on-ground instructions, fitted with our harness and counseled to empty our bladders before going up.  Best piece of advice ever because when I neared the time of the jump I really wanted to pee my pants.

We then were ushered out to the twin prop plane fitted with benches going length-wise instead of seats.  There were twelve of us on board, fourteen including the pilot and co-pilot.  As I took my place on the bench next to my instructor, he told me that at any time, if I wanted to back out all I had to say was, “NO” and we would move to the back of the plane.

Okay, that sounded reasonable.  But, as I looked over at my son and his three cohorts, I thought about how humiliating it would be to watch them jump out and having to stay behind.  I could, after all, do this.  I was a 50-year-old Magical Mess of a woman and I could do anything.  (I mentally assumed the stance of Wonder Woman with feet apart and arms akimbo.)  On to the skies.

As we were taking off the instructors each started to harness themselves to our backs, loosely at first.  They kept reiterating we were able to back out at any time.  I was instructed that when we reached altitude my guy would tighten our harnesses together and would then inch forward on the bench to await our turn.  At the end of the bench we would both get up, pivot toward the door and step off, all in one smooth motion.

I watched five other sets of jumpers take the leap, all the while inching closer and closer; all the while filling with more dread, fear, nausea, you name it.  Inch by inch by inch I moved until I was next in line.  Cold feet, jitters, sweating profusely and tremors of fear overtook me and I seriously thought about backing out.  I could visualize myself hurtling toward earth and the chute never opening.  I could see what my family would see; a small speck in the sky at first, then larger, then larger and finally SPLAT.  But, hubris took over and I went forward.  It was now my turn and my jumping buddy and I stood up, swiveled and stepped out.  There it was, nothing but air, wind and a void.  There is nothing like that feeling of the first step.  With eyes closed I plummeted in a free fall towards earth, praying I would live to tell the tale. By the way, I was again happy I had emptied out all of my bodily fluids because if not, they would have uncontrollably come exploding out of me at this point,

The free fall lasted 45 seconds; 45 seconds of the most horrifying moments I had ever experienced.  If that harness hadn’t been firmly clamped on, I would have had the pants scarred off me.  My eyes were still closed when my instructor whispered in my ear that the photographer, who was filming this entire stunt, wanted me to open them.  (Oh sure, let’s get my look of complete surrender to death on video for posterity.)  I dutifully peeked only to witness the earth coming up at a fast rate of speed.

At the end of the free fall he asked me if I would like to pull the parachute cord.  Are you kidding me?   I had a death grip on my harness and couldn’t let go.  I physically couldn’t.  My hands were welded to the straps.  I declined and he tugged at the rip cord and immediately we were yanked up with a jerk.  What I experienced next was perhaps the most exquisitely painful wedgie in the history of the world.  That harness flew up to parts unknowns, firmly planting itself and remaining throughout the rest of the fall.   I silently hoped I wouldn’t have to have a surgical procedure to extricate it out of my lady parts.

Seven minutes of gliding peacefully down, down toward earth.  I could see the farmland stretched out under me.  There in the distance was the small airport we departed from.  It was an awe-inspiring sensation, (except for that harness in my nether regions.)

As we approached the field, my flying pal told me to just put out my legs, as if I was going to sit down, which I did.  He landed me so expertly I hardly felt a thing.  Again, except for the two straps tucked in so firmly it felt like they had made a home and would never leave.  On touching the ground the pressure of the harness let up and I was able to appreciate what I just gone through.  I made it down alive.  I accomplished something amazing and lived.  I was happy I did it and quite sure I would never do it again.

And so ended my parachuting career.  As I endeavored to get that harness out of my private parts without gaining attention, I was greeted by my small crowd of friends.  The feeling of accomplishment was overwhelming and joyous.  What a great day to be alive.  Never again shall I experience that feeling of stepping off into nothing but air and falling through the atmosphere.  I conquered one of my fears, if only for a moment, and came out on the other side.  I still have a fear of heights but I am confident I’m not old and washed up.  And, once upon a time this Magical Mess flew through the wild blue yonder.

 

I have to finally admit I am having an affair with Amazon and PayPal.  Yes, it’s a threesome.  Sometimes my husband is even in the room, unaware of the tryst.  The relationship goes from hot and heavy to barely acknowledging each other.  Not because of anything they have said or done but that darn bank account tries to get in on the relationship.

Lately, though, I do believe we need to break up due to excessive co-habitation.  So, for now, PayPal and I are over.  I’m still snuggling with Amazon, but really, without PayPal the excitement is gone.  Maybe someday we’ll all meet up again . . . perhaps go away for the weekend with some catalogs.  BUT, until then . . . farewell.   Know that I’ll always care.  (Please don’t forget me or my account number.)

(My 6, almost 7, year old grandson and I were riding in the car one day and this came up.)

ITTY BITTY:  Nana, why are you fat?

ME:  Excuse me?

ITTY BITTY:  Why are you fat?

ME:  That’s not the kind of question you should ask a lady.

ITTY BITTY:  But, you’re Nana not some lady.

ME:  (giving up).  Okay, I’m fat because I eat too much of the wrong foods.

ITTY BITTY:  Like what?

ME:  Chocolate cake.

ITTY BITTY:  What should you eat?

ME:  Celery.

ITTY BITTY:  Why?

ME:  There are these things called calories and some foods have too many calories and some have very little.  Calories make you have energy, but too many make you fat.

ITTY BITTY:  Huh?

ME:  (I could get into a whole scientific rant but am not up to it.)  Chocolate cake has a lot of calories, but celery has very few.  I eat more chocolate cake than celery and that’s why I’m fat.

ITTY BITTY:  Well, what are you going to do about that?

ME:  I guess I’m going to have to eat more celery than chocolate cake.

ITTY BITTY:  Well, that’s sad.  (Wise beyond his years.)