I have been going around picking up special ornaments and putting them in a box I will mark SPECIAL ORNAMENTS. I have even taken pictures of each layer as the box fills so that I will be able to jog my memory. Yes, I do feel crazy, but I am not concerned about it. I am using a small box so I can keep it tucked away in an accessible corner. I may have to use two boxes, which means I just might have to alter my plans and write SPECIAL ORNAMENTS #1 and SPECIAL ORNAMENTS #2.

You know, not caring about being crazy is not a bad feeling – kind of liberating. However, I now find it scary to think, “What if I am not crazy?”  There are times I find myself defeating myself . . . and it happens so easily.

But, enough of me, the charming and scintillating AmeliaJake; let’s think about you. Yes, YOU. I’m doing it – the thinking about you part; I’ve been doing it for about five minutes since I typed that capitalized “you”. I probably should have left a blank expanse to indicate I was here, thinking, but not typing. Otherwise, it seems as if it is nothing but lip service. or, to be accurate, finger service. Oh, I didn’t think that out – the substitution of “finger” for “lip”  – and I should have because it has a rather coarse ring to it.

Obviously, I am no longer thinking of you because  I have been typing along mindlessly and only thinking when I wandered into a faux pax and considered using the delete key. I though about that and am re-thinking it now.

See, that space was me thinking. And, suddenly, it occurs to me that there are very few blank spaces in my writing. Either I do not think or I think on my feet, or, to be accurate, think with my fingers. And, then . . . again, suddenly, but apparently not suddenly enough, it occurs to me that I should just not type.

No, I am not intoxicated

Begun on Saturday, the 29th

I am sitting here resting after some dreaded houseworky stuff, drinking some iced tea and thinking about taking a shower.  I’ll be heading over to the nursing home today for a little while with the intent of getting home before it gets dark; we’re having some snow.

It’s quiet here right now at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and I’m thinking AND RIGHT HERE I was interrupted and although I had good intentions, I did not get back. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, I took the opportunity to run away from what I was thinking.

I had my eyes tested today and selected new frames. I always knew that as I aged my eyes would need stronger prescriptions, but I failed to realize that the frames would be changing not just because of trends and taste – BUT BECAUSE CATS EYE FRAMES ARE MORE UPLIFTING VISUALLY. Now that would be uplifting from the point of view of someone looking at you, not that of you looking through the lenses.

Talk about eyeglass frames making a statement. How about this one: I’m old and I’m not mature enough to deal with it. I did decide that very thin wire frames tend to be just a few more lines on a mature face, while plastic is a distraction.

Actually, maybe I should just rig up a jowl sling to hang from the frames.

I’m refusing to pay $200-$300+ for frames just because they have a designer label; I’ve researched it and I am going to try bargain frames. The lenses are another matter and for them I’m shelling out for transitional capability, non-glare, anti-reflective, progressive bifocals out of really tough, scratch-resistant stuff.

Oh, yeah, I’m a life-long glasses wearer, so I’ll probably clean them once a year. We hardened glasses-wearers can look through just about everything. If I’m going to be honest, I suppose I’ll have to mention the cleaning that occurs when you wipe off the condensation from your breath in winter. ‘Course, you usually wind up with a little scarf lint.

In the morning, there was untangling and figuring out on the dining room table after the WiiU – or however it is spelled – was opened. Summer was the hero, figuring out how to swap out TV’s and cords and getting everything to work without a word to her grandpa or me of possible Christmas problems. Since Colin had been waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for this gift, hitches would have been bad.

Shane decided to calmly wait it out under the table – pj legs courtesy of Summer.

I was the only one left at the table following a post-dinner scramble and sat there taking in what I could see from my seat:
A goose hanging in front of me.

Santa sitting in the middle of the table.

Over my shoulder and to the side, Summer’s candy cane tree with the turkey we didn’t have the heart to take down.

My great-grandparents watching from the far living room wall.

A last minute mussed-up Raggedy Ann/Andy wreath.

Then there is Shane on the porch, nestled in clutter and lying on Santa Wubba.

So what was I doing on Christmas Day? Well, I wasn’t doing nifty Mother-things, such as making cookies with icing applied with a paintbrush, making elaborate, multi-stepped desserts and salads; but I was in the kitchen. Yes, I was in the kitchen with a cold turkey and a big roaster and with Der Bingle, who helped tuck the first one into the second.

It was a bit messy – all that turkey fat and juice – and so I actually wore an apron. But I kept the Christmas Spirit up on a little corner of it, although the message was more, shall we shall, determined.

Der Bingle’s work involves drones – and, given my personality lately – his family-life includes one as well. No need to go there; I’ll probably snap or ease out of it. So I have this apron, which I think is pretty nice; I know at Christmas, Peace on Earth is a major theme, and taking the bad in the world seriously and working to keep us safe is a responsible undertaking.

Rudolph flies in those skies people work to protect and so I added him to the apron; Der Bingle noticed his legs were a bit tangled, but hey, you can’t fault someone for getting caught up in their work. Still, I straightened them out for his close-up.

Had the trots, but am not dead.

Six in the morning:
GRANDMA! I NEED YOU!
Summer announces, “I felt sick and ran to the bathroom and didn’t make it and slipped in the vomit and then . . .(something, something, something) . . . in my pants.”
Okay . . . if this is is going to be the Ghost of Three Days before Christmas, is he going to knock on my door as well? Actually, I was awake before the call came – thinking that I didn’t feel quite right. Please, please, please, let it have been the early morning drearies. I made it through the massive clean-up and starting of the washer, so I hope that’s a good sign.

If you don’t hear anything more from us here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, donations of laundry detergent and dry toast will be appreciated. Just leave them by the door.

A lot of stories come to me through people I don’t know sharing things and a quite a few folks have told me I am good at putting these memories and feelings into words. I have found it very rewarding. But, grin, there is also another dimension to this emotions/writing thing – I tend to see stories in lots of things. Now that’s not bad – and I always try to be honest.

For instance, look at this tarnished and old Christmas decoration:

Okay, I can see in my head my grandmother hanging it up in a special spot and tucking it away in tissue paper every year. I can close my eyes and be in her presence, hear her voice and smell pine and woodsmoke and cookies baking. BUT, look at the back:

Yes, I think I picked this up at a rummage sale – maybe on bag day. Oh, well, I have enjoyed it and maybe in 50 years Summer will remember her grandma finding it special.
And as to my grandma, well, I think had this old Santa been around in her time, she would have cherished it also.

Nice/Naughty O’Meter, reindeer, bears, lop-sided trees and helping the genes at the “look better” counter.