New Years Eve, that magical moment in time when streamers are thrown, resolutions are made, a toast is given and kissing ensues. Bright lights, dancing, celebrations galore. At our house the husband and I greeted the new year by staying up til midnight with only one eye open, pecking each other on the lips and rolling over to sleep. Yes, we took it as a victory that we stayed up that long. By 12:01 all was quiet except for some gentle snoring. It doesn’t take us long to get to the REM stage.

We used to revel and party for the upcoming years arrival. Then we had our son and things changed, life changed. Now our son is grown and gone and it’s just us. The new year is welcomed but the party atmosphere has shrunk to an occasional dinner party or, as in this year’s event, sometimes met with just our jammies on and the TV.

New Years comes no matter what mode we usher it in, so why not be comfortable. Life is ever changing and so is the style of our celebrations. All hail the occasional party, but also say yes to just snuggling up with The One and exchanging a lingering kiss.

Tis customary to announce to all who can hear one’s New Year’s resolutions. I see this as a two-fold tactic. The first that comes to mind is stating a resolution out loud gives it more gravitas. Perhaps we are hoping that if enough people know about them, we somehow feel they will hold us responsible.

This is an interesting thought for as surely as you fail at the noble yet impossible resolutions you set, they are just as likely to drop the ball also. So, does stating this publicly really get you any where? It hasn’t yet but a girl can dream.

The second component to the public confession of resolutions is pure, unadulterated hubris … vanity at it’s finest. We set ourselves up to appear so saintly, so pure as to even think of things we shall become that it never occurs to us to ponder where we are coming from and how long it took us to get in the mess we are in.

Really, New Year’s Resolutions are basically confessions of a previous life that needs to be re-done. If we are indeed so damaged that we need to rectify bad habits, why are we proclaiming this to all we know?

And yet, every year most of the population sets out possible and impossible tasks to change in the coming year.

Common ones are dieting, getting more exercise, stop smoking, lighten up on drinking, and so on and so on. I, myself, have set out to take life a little slower and enjoy the ride. I think I can accomplish this one, although life with Itty Bitty and the Boss Baby is a roller coaster of activities. But, I’m learning I don’t have to fill every hour of every day to prove something to someone who doesn’t really exist. Sometimes just being alone with one’s own thoughts is enough.

So to all of those who set themselves up for positive change this next year, I raise my glass. To those of you who choose to skip this tradition, I understand. And to those of you who surely will fail by the end of January, I empathize. We should probably form a club.

My favorite resolution is one my work mate mentioned – and I quote,  “I’m not making any resolutions this year. No one likes a skinny, sober bitch.” Priceless and probably pertains to half the population out there.

HOLIDAY BAKING AND CANDY MAKING

Two dozen years ago or so my cousin did the wisest thing. She decided something in her Christmas preparations had to go. It came down to writing those infamous Christmas letters or baking cookies. In keeping with our family, she chose the baking experience. I took that decision as my own and gave up the Christmas cards immediately. I do enjoy getting them but I really can’t give up the baking.

As the years went by my baking included cookies of every kind; quick breads; yeast breads, candy, and the family favorite Chex Mix. I didn’t work much out side of the home during that time and gave myself over to endless days with my Kitchen Aid mixer. We became very close and I still find myself fondling it as I pass by.

Nine years ago I started back to work full time and my baking became few and far between. I missed those days of yore when the neighborhood kids would lurk outside my kitchen waiting for a reject cookie that didn’t quite turn out.

So this year I was determined to relive the experience. I got my recipes together, bought all the supplies, made lists upon lists of what to do and when to do it. I spread flour on cutting boards which went everywhere including up my nose. I mixed in that mixer til the motor was smoking. I creamed butter and sugar together; chopped nuts and chocolate into small, bite-sized pieces. I greased bread pans; got out my candy thermometer and spread sprinkles around the kitchen.

I baked 6 dozen cookies, made 12 loaves of bread, a batch of fudge and enough Chex Mix to feed the masses. I would like to tell you I cleaned as I went, but we all know that didn’t happen. The sink was full along with the counters. The dishwasher was humming, the oven heating and mixer gyrating. It was all coming together.

Baked goods cooled on racks, and candy was cut into pieces. I made individual boxes with goodies galore for friends and family.

As I looked around I smiled contentedly, happy with the outcome. I coughed, and blinked and it was at this point I realized this was all but a dream. None of it happened and there I was napping on the sofa with all of it yet to accomplish. And I was exhausted because, basically I had worked my entire nap.

The question now remains, will I actually do this in real time? Will I bake and mix and stir and make my kitchen a war zone? Or, instead, do I taking a relaxing bath, with a facial mask, scrub my skin til it’s polished, lather on the body cream, put my feet in fluffy, warm socks and read a good book. Stay tuned for the answer in the next post.

It’s that time of year when houses are strewn with lights, pine boughs grace door ways and kitsch of all kinds go up in every room of the house, including the loo. (I find the British word for it easier to justify. I don’t like John as that is disrespectful to Johns world-wide. I also don’t think bathroom is a complete descriptor as the room contains way more than just a bath. Restroom is just wrong because I don’t do one restful thing in there. Powder room is nice, but not for men. So loo it is.)

Wow, I really digressed that time. Back to holiday decor. Every year I try something new, either with previously used decorations arranged differently, or with a whole new collection necessitating new planning. This year I went with new stuff. All sparkly and amass with glitter. One can never have too much glitter. Unless it’s on you, then that’s a problem.

I’m veering further off my topic. Now I have body glitter in my head. Or on my head, or….oh never mind.

I love putting up the Christmas decorations. Even the ones I’ve put up every year for the past two decades because my son made them in grade school and how can I throw them away even though they don’t go with the new theme but he might notice if they aren’t up so there they go grabbing a spot on the tree for ever and ever.  Amen.  And that my friends, is my version of a holiday run-on sentence.

So, it appears I’m just rambling and running and not really getting anywhere with this blog. I really want to write about Christmas decor but seriously, I can’t seem to focus. Maybe it’s the bright lights, the tinsel, the shiny ornaments. Maybe it has to do with my to-do list that is never, ever, never going to get done because I put too much on it in the hopes I would turn magically into Martha Stewart, (who by the way has a staff of hundreds,) and create for the first time a Perfect Christmas, worthy of a magazine. And every year around the 24^th I realize that’s not gonna happen.

Oh, Martha with your glossy magazine and your bravado in all things. You make us strive for perfection and suffer spiraling disappointments, all at the same time. The best friend and I have tried many different things mentioned in your magazine as being easy. The trouble is they are “Martha easy” not every day person easy. There is a phrase being used that says, “You’ve been Martha’ed.” Meaning you’ve been fooled into thinking these things will run smoothly and come out perfect and again, that’s not gonna happen.

The holidays are the worst for being Martha’ed. We all want that magical, mystical atmosphere that appears elves were busy working in our homes and gardens. Martha has elves, most of us do not.

Okay, I’m going to try to get over my Martha rant. It’s not easy. I bet she really irritated her fellow prisoners with her crafts.

Back to my décor. I think I have completed creating my home’s magical glow. All I can hope for now is a visit from Santa. Hopefully he will bring me a massage which I really need after climbing on chairs, swinging from the gutters and wrestling the tree into submission.

And everyone who knows me understands that this will be repeated year after year after year. Because I live in a fantasy world where there is the possibility of elves and magic. And where there is always hope, Christmas hope.

As you may remember, I have two grandchildren and they have both hit their half marks in age. Itty Bitty is seven and a half and the Boss Baby is two and a half. Both very different yet loving children.

I went to see them last weekend and when I asked them what was on their Wish List, this is what I got…

The Boss Baby is obsessed with mummies. And yes, he knows the difference between a mummy and his mommy. He was watching a cartoon with his big brother where a mummy was the main character and ever since then he wants one.

Being the Nana that I am I want to please, so I got on Amazon and searched for mummies. I didn’t quite know what I was looking for, but really, Amazon usually has an answer to all my gifting needs. It was surprising the amount of mummy items that came up on my screen. Every thing from the decorative mummy (I don’t know if I should be fascinated or scared by someone who decorates with mummies,) the full size mummy, (what would one do with that?) and the toy mummy, (who knew there was a need for toy mummies.)

Finally I hit on a stuffed mummy and placed my order. Check, the Boss Baby was taken care of.

Now Itty Bitty was another matter. Upon inquiring as to his interests, he voiced his fascination with medieval torture devices………yep, you read that correctly. I nodded knowingly and excused myself to go speak with his parents. They assured me they had quizzed him over and over as to whether this involved liking the pain inflicted on the victim or just the devices themselves.

Itty Bitty was a bit upset that they would think he would enjoy the torture itself. No, it was just the mechanics in which he was in awe. My heart started to slow down and my blood pressure cascaded to a normal level. My grandson was not some future sadistic creature looking for small animals to torture before proceeding onto humans.

I went back into the room to learn more of his thought process. Somewhere, and I don’t know where but now a days it could be a multitude of sources, he heard of the time of the black plague. He told me how during that time, one side would lob a dead, decaying, plague filled body over the walls of the other side hoping to not only infect the enemy but dispose of the carcass at the same time. I could hardly swallow at this story but what really got me was his last sentence, and I quote, “That was really smart.”

How does a nana respond to that? No malicious intent was meant on his part and when you think about it, it was a dandy way of killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.

What am I do to with this fascinating, eclectic, inquisitive child? And what do I get him for Christmas? Back to Amazon where they offer up interesting items such as many, many books on the subject, a coffee mug that says, “Time to drink coffee, refuel and collect medieval torture devices” (What???), a few posters depicting said devices, and my personal favorite, a bra. Now Amazon knows a woman well when they list a bra under torture devices.

But, none of these were appropriate for Itty Bitty. Do I choose to ignore this latest interest? Yes, I do. Instead I’m getting him a large mylar shark with remote control that can cruise around the dome home, a “hover soccer ball,” and a playhouse shaped like a trailer complete with canopy. If he turns it into a fortress and starts lobbing stuffed toys over the “wall”, that’s not on me.

Dear Gordon Ramsey,

After seeing your clever U-Tube post on how to roast a turkey, I decided this year to follow your advice to the letter. I’ve seen you on Hulu with your “at-home” show where you make some of the most lovely family meals. I was hooked and ready to become a student of all things Gordon.

What follows is my experience in this quest and the outcome of Thomas Turkey. I hope it enlightens you to new thoughts on the subject. One is never too big for his britches to learn how wrong your advice can go.

It started out two days before the big turkey day. Brining was on the calendar and the husband and I planned this out. You said to brine in a one cup salt, one cup sugar solution with bits and pieces of herbs and spices thrown in. Check. A two day brine was suggested. Check. In went the bird in a bucket that has been designated as the “brining bucket” for four years now. On went the lid and hopefully Tom turkey was comfortable. I know I wouldn’t be but then I like Hawaii weather.

As I re-watched your turkey program you counseled taking Tom out of the oven to rest the same amount of time he had been in the oven to roast. What??? So, Gordon, does this mean I get to have a turkey just hanging out on my kitchen counter for three and a half hours? Not doing anything but resting? I wanted to lie down on the counter and rest but no, not in the cards for this Magical Mess. And by the way, doesn’t this plan fly in the face of everything we’ve ever learned about contaminated fowl? Is tainted turkey different in the UK? My twenty pound turkey needed three and a half hours to roast. Does three and a half hours on my counter top sound like a good hygienic idea to you?

I’ll tell you, Gordy, I had to shorten that time to two hours … and at that I was worried. I prayed that my party favors wouldn’t include e-coli with a side of diarrhea. I did have a back up plan, though. Had the above symptoms transpired I was going to send you the emergency room bills.

As per your tutelage, I stuffed it with lemons and onions and sage and thyme. I made a compound butter and reached in between the skin and meat and placed a buttery layer there. I massaged the remaining butter into all parts of the turkey so lovingly I should have been paid and tipped for the experience. In he went, all 20+ pounds of him to bathe in butter and herbs and roast to a golden brown.

This next miscalculation I take full ownership of as I was neglectful and was a terrible turkey sitter. In years past I have placed an oven-proof thermometer in the thigh area and checked it every so often. Last year that little gadget gave up the ghost and I tossed it. My goof came when I didn’t immediately replace it and in the ensuing year, forgot all about it.

When I placed the turkey in the oven I promised myself I would check him every hour or so. As I so often break promises to myself, I did so again and that proved to be fatal.  Well, for Tom, at least.

My new oven doesn’t ding when something is done, it plays a little tune. So, at 12:30pm the oven song went off and I opened the door to check, for the first time, the temp. There he sat with a thigh temp of 195 degrees. Don’t get me wrong he looked beautiful, all golden and glossy from all that butter. I lugged the roasting pan over to the counter and at last had a good all-over look.

Poor, poor Tom turkey had splayed out with lemons and onions spewing out of him, juices dripping, looking like he’d stayed too long in the sun. My fault, Gordon, for not checking earlier. I’ll own that but oh boy. As I transferred him to his two hour resting site, I could hardly keep him in the vessel. Tom had no shape left to him, so he slipped into a large, lumpy puddle of turkey. It was like watching molten lava slowly pool. Only his legs were still standing as I gently covered him with tin foil and a heavy towel to try to keep him moist. At that moment I felt like I had put him to rest permanently. I prayed I wasn’t going to have to dump him in the trash compactor. Yeah, I had enough sides to get by but the star of the show needed to made a grand appearance.

Two hours later it was time. The family gathered, the rest of the meal was displayed and the husband took hold of the electric knife. Over cooked Tom was going on stage, for good or ill. Fortunately the husband has the ability to carve up a bird and make it look like a professional presentation. No one realized that minutes before that poor fowl looked like an inebriated mess.

Gordon, you did me wrong. Yes, I helped along the way what with not monitoring his temperature, but really Gordon, that’s way too long to have a turkey lazing about on top of the counter. He turned out in the end, the dark meat was delicious. The white meat was dry but with enough gravy it turned out. But that whole idea of cooling his breasts was idiotic. I know I wouldn’t enjoy it, would you?

After dinner the husband carved the rest of him up and he now resides in a turkey broth bath tub in the fridge in the hopes that will juice him up. Lesson learned, Gordon. Obviously you Brits can’t handle a good old American turkey. Long live our Thanksgiving and my quest for the perfect turkey.

In conclusion, I still have a fondness for your family cooking show, but I believe you should stay within your scope. Don’t mess with American classics.

Sincerely, your disillusioned viewer,

The Magical Mess.

With one week ‘til Thanksgiving I am reminded of blessings, family and gatherings of times past. With each of these individual warm thoughts, I also remember the turkey incidents.

Turkey, that wonderful bird served nation wide on the third Thursday of every year. Turkey, the main dish that is oh so moist, tender and filling, or … dry, cold and hacked to death after carving. Then there are the years where it’s somewhere in between.

In our house the bird is given great consideration … each and every year! One would think we’d have it down by now, considering we’ve been cooking one for over 35 years. But, no, about a week before every Thanksgiving the husband and I have a discussion about how we’re going to address the turkey.

There is the ‘stuffing in or out of the bird’ discussion; the ‘breast up or down’ argument; ‘if not stuffing then what should we put in it’ conversation. On and on it goes, year after year. And each year we try a little something new.

Twenty-five years ago or so, we decided not to stuff the bird. My thought process was I didn’t have to stick my hand in that wet, cold cavity. Plus, I like my stuffing with a little crust on it. The husband had no problem with this, so an empty turkey went into the oven.

The next year we again agreed on this method but thought we should put something inside the cavity and that started a whole new discussion which became heated at times. Lemons, apples, celery, onion, pepper corns, rosemary, salt, garlic or any combination of the above. Recipes were consulted and thought was given to the taste of the gravy, (an important feature of Thanksgiving for the husband, who wants it on everything). We finally lit on celery, onion, pepper corns, and salt. Nothing to radical or high end about that decision but it did make excellent gravy.

Several years later came the brining question. Having kept up with the Food Channel, the husband set his mind on this procedure and went about gathering the necessary items. He sent me to Home Depot for an orange bucket with lid; to the store for a large quantity of salt, bay leaves, and pepper corns. We made copious amounts of ice. He then set about unwrapping the bird, cleaning it and patting it dry. I mentioned I didn’t think this last step was necessary as it was going to be plunged into a bucket of brine, but, my advice was not accepted. In fact, I was told to go away.

Upon hearing this I was torn between being hurt that I wasn’t wanted and joy that I wasn’t needed. I went with joy and proceeded to watch a Lifetime movie.

He finally got that turkey in the bucket full of brine and set up out in the garage for the night in the orange bucket with the lip snapped in place. The next morning we woke early to get Tom in the oven. He schlepped in the bucket, placed it on the counter and looked at me expectantly.

“What”, I asked.

“Well, aren’t you going to take it out and get it in the oven” he asked?

“You mean it’s now up to me to take over”?

“Yes”, he answered.

It was then I knew I was back in charge and ready to create a bird of exquisite beauty.

“Alright, then get out of my kitchen”, said I and he trotted away to go watch a game.

It wasn’t but 10 minutes later he popped back into the kitchen. I had rinsed the brine off and was starting to put aromatics in the cavity and truss it when he piped up with,

“What did you put in there?”

And so it started, the commentary, the questioning and suggestions. Being in charge was far too brief.

Then came the year we contemplated breast side up or down. These were the topics that stretched our minds. But back to the turkey breast. Having roasted it for years with the breast up, we decided to flip that bird upside down. The Food Network theory was the juices will all run downhill making the breast tender and moist. Okay.

What used to come out of the oven all tanned, golden and plump, probably a D cup, now came out golden and flat. Plus the legs were going the wrong way. When I flipped him over, it looked as if he’d had a breast reduction. Or was lying down. Either way, those breasts were flat as a size A. They were juicy alright, but visually there was a lot to be desired. Lets just say he would not grace any magazine cover. In subsequent years our turkey never laid on his front again.

I tried it in a bag once. That was a mess, trying to get the bag extricated from the turkey and drippings with out slopping it on the floor. And yes, I did get it all over the floor…and then slipped in it and fell on my bum…and then got up and dropped the turkey on the floor and spent the next ½ hour cleaning myself, the turkey and the floor. I served on time and with a whole bird to present. No one ever knew not even the husband.

A few years ago the husband became convinced the white meat and the dark meat would never get done together, no matter the method. That opinion brought me to Whole Foods. I trotted up to the butcher and asked if I could buy the breasts and legs/thighs separately. I was told they didn’t have that in the cooler but they would be happy to split apart a turkey for me. I went home with that bird in four pieces.

Arriving home I unpacked the groceries and pondered that four-piece bird. Somehow I felt it wouldn’t be enough. And now that I was aware I could get it in pieces, what would be the harm in getting two more legs? Or another breast? Whole Foods was a bit far to make a short trip but New Seasons was near. They had always taken very good care of me so out I went in search of turkey parts.

I now had to have multiple roasting pans to cover all of our turkey needs. Plus brining was even more complicated due to the mass size of it all. In went the dark meat in one pan. The proper time elapsed and in went the two breasts in two different pans.

People were starting to gather and the appetizers were quickly consumed. I took out the breasts to rest before carving but forgot the dark meat altogether. I mean, I forgot it totally til the end of the meal. It was at this point I realized I made turkey jerky because what came out of the oven after all the guests left was a mere shadow of it’s former self. Now the parts were only good for making stock.

It still is a puzzle to me why nobody said anything about the missing dark meat. Granted the white meat was delicious but you would think someone, (the husband) would comment on no legs or thighs. Curious. Were they being gracious? Was the husband aware I was so tired and even a hint of questioning would put me over the edge? I will never know.

I’m sure this year will be the same discussion, pondering and planning. The turkey will remain the star of the show. The only thing I need to do on my own is get a new bucket. You see, I used the old one for gardening last summer, even though it said in large black print, “TURKEY BUCKET.” Don’t tell the husband.

ODE TO FRED

I’d like to introduce you to the late, great Fred who was a short, rotund kind of guy with tinges of goofiness. He was devoted to me and I to him. He passed away last August and it has taken me this long to be able to write his obit.

His background was hazy but he came into my life about five years ago and we fell in love immediately. He claimed to be a Chihuahua but I suspect there was more to him that met the eye. Physically his feet and head were the smallest part. His neck was bigger than his head which meant he had to wear a harness for walking as a collar and leash would just slip off. I alternately called him a honey-baked ham or a butterball turkey due to his torso shape. Yes, a diet was always in the future but it was hard when you’re short, compact and hate running.

If Fred were a human he would’ve been Fred Mertz. The best friend called him that routinely. He would’ve worn his pants halfway up to his chest and been considered grumpy with a side of loving.

Almost every day when I came home he would make this unusual sound…he honked like a goose 3 times and then hacked and spit like an old man. It was always 3 honks and a hack. The vet told me this happened when he got excited. Little dogs sometimes suffer from a smaller than usual esophagus, thus the honking and hacking. I just think it was just his bizarre way of telling me he was glad I was finally home.

At night I threw him onto the bed and he situated himself at my feet. More often than not, he burrowed beneath the covers and would slam himself up against my legs. There he would snooze away the night, happily dreaming.

Walking Fred was a challenge in itself. If I thought this was going to give me aerobic exercise I quickly found out that was wrong. Fred moseyed more than walked with many stops to “mark his territory.” Sniffing was also big on the agenda. So much so that a normal walk took twice as long so we didn’t get very far. I used to have a Greyhound and a Samoyed and walking them together was a marathon. Both are bred to be ahead of the herd and it came to a point I could not take them out together. I feared they would dislocate one of my shoulders and then were would I be? Walking with Fred was like night and day.

Fred’s temperament was unlike the typical Chihuahua. He hardly ever barked, (although there was a fair bit of snoring), he was not aggressive (didn’t have the “small dog syndrome”). Basically he was a friend to all; other dogs, cats, people (especially kids).

Contrary to his shape, he was a picky eater. Vegetables – no; most fruit – no; all carbs – YES. But when it came to crumbs he was the living equivalent of a Roomba. Just leave the table after dinner and you would hear snorting and snuffling as he ferreted out each and every crumb. He roamed around and through the legs so as not to miss a morsel. Perhaps this was why he loved children so much. With each child there came a world of crumbs.

He was far from dumb and sometimes you could see the wheels turning as he figured out his next plot in manipulating his family. As he gazed over the room he was constantly assessing who would be the best victim. I have to say, 9 times out of 10 it was me. I was his mom, caretaker and servant and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Rest in peace, Fred. You were adored, treasured and spoiled until the very end.

THE MUSINGS AND MEANDERINGS OF A HOT MESS MAGICAL CREATURE

Yes, that’s the title I originally gave my blog. And yes, it still applies to my writings.

I thought I would revisit this title as I haven’t mentioned it since my first post way back in … hmmm, when was that exactly. Seems like alternately yesterday and a life time ago.

I do muse within these paragraphs but what I find myself writing more of is meanderings. I start with a thought, a bubble of an idea, and really get going when suddenly, through no thought out process, I veer. I roam away from the central idea onto a new path that was only discovered by a phrase, memory or word of the past idea. It’s like a cat’s cradle of my mind…made out of that string that is too short to use. (See one of my previous blogs).

In one sentence I’m making a point and the next I’ve traveled down another lane entirely. That’s when the piece gets hijacked into another thread altogether. Sometimes this works, sometimes I am left holding a bag with holes in it. There are times, though, when I keep it all together and can tell a story.

As the writer I know I’ve strayed with no idea how to get back. But I sometimes wonder about the reader. Do you all think I’m mad, raving bonkers; or maybe I have the early stages of dementia or adult ADD. Or do you consider the Hot Mess of the title really does apply, in all it’s messiness.

Consider this, have you ever gone down a grocery aisle searching for that item, oh, say, a can of soup, on your well thought out list only to find yourself instead looking at the Maraschino cherries? That’s how my brain works. It jumps from one thing to another in rapid succession. Plus I love Maraschino cherries. I’ve trained myself to light on one subject for long periods of time but I really have to concentrate. While I’m writing I just let my mind flow like dandelions in the wind.

I write every day but only half of it gets published. The other half are pieces of thoughts. Sometimes when I go back to finish these ramblings I can’t figure out where I was going. I feel like I’ve never broached this subject before and how in the world did it get in my blog folder.

I take a certain amount of joy out of this scattered process. In the healthcare profession one should be orderly, sane and consistent. It makes life easier. But, alone with my little keyboard, I get to soar with no flight plan. It’s wonderful, it’s nerve racking, it’s fun. I love this process, my own little mess of a world. I love that I can share it with my peeps. I love that perhaps my mind is supposed to be like this. I love that my mind works at all. (The husband loves it too, but in an exasperated way. Sometimes he looks at me and asks, “Where are you going with this?” And I can honestly say, “I don’t know.”)

As we all near the season of Thanksgiving I think about what I’m thankful for. Besides the obvious, faith, friends, loved ones …I’m grateful my mind still can come around to the point; I’m happy that my fingers can still fly over the keys; I sing the Lord’s praises that I am that magical mess of a creature that writes to you all.

I’m grateful for all of it, the hot mess, the magic and yes, and the disorder. So, today or tomorrow or next week, take time to be grateful, not just for the usual cast of characters on everybody’s list, but for the unique, totally “you” things that make up your existence.

And yes, I realize I just jumped from a blog about chaos to thanksgiving. There you have it, hot mess or magic it all comes together in the end.

Once in a while life throws you a curve ball. As befits it’s name, this ball of life does not follow a straight path. In fact, it’s trajectory twists, turns and sometimes spirals out of control. As you try to keep up with it’s fast travel, you find yourself far away from home, sometimes wondering how you got there and other times knowing quite well how this came to be.

The magical mess found herself on just such a trip. It all started with different perspectives, opposite directives and finally an impasse. That lead to a parting of the ways for a time. But I’m glad to report, I’m home again.

An impasse doesn’t have to mean something permanent. In fact it can be used as a spring board to figuring out life’s most important parts. I have indeed figured out my life’s most important parts and they revolve around love, loyalty and time. These round out my existence.

This magical mess has faults aplenty but none of them include disloyalty. I love intensely and am loyal beyond measure. That’s why my close circle is so small. It takes a lot out of me to feel these large emotions and I don’t give them out willy nilly.

This all brings me back to being home. Home is not just a structure, a plot of land, or a room. No, it’s a heart, a soul, a being that you are meant to inhabit all the days of your life. I luckily found that 40 years ago and, even though not perfect, I still fit snugly and find rest with one soul in the universe. Thank heavens, we found each other. I am home again with peace, joy and time enough to love, even more than before.