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The subject of bowls with lids and hoarding has been on my front burner lately. I wonder if the reality of my having more than the bare necessity of bowls makes me a serial bowl keeper? A maniac who has an unresolved craving for Mother love and security? What is the person who owns an apartment complex? A psychotic who craves Mother’s pantry and Dad’s tool chest?

All these myriad thought webs congeal in my synapses as I face down another corner nest. Take that, you dirty scumbag box of canning jars! And be gone, little cupboard that once appeared to have a use but now, that use has done a Houdini and left the building. So out she goes, little cupboard to the Goodwill and while we are at it, a plastic tubby filled with once loved paperbacks.

I continue to board garden and art books and yes, cook books, anthologies and a stray dog and cute cat portfolio. Can’t go a day without that Prozac. I know, I know. There is dust on those books. Tell tale sign that somebody hasn’t picked them up and opened them in the life cycle of several feral bunnies. So….. don’t consider me perfect.

Consider me to be the eccentric uncle or aunt if you prefer to see me in your mind that way, the one who gobbles apple pie but won’t touch a beet to save her life cause it might give her cancer. Life flies by fast enough. I intend to hang onto my Hall china tea pot and my Bavarian plate, not caring a whit that neither matches the other. Some days its wasp wings and the next set of hours, ladybug wings. Sweet cider or sour grapes. Just enjoy the ride and for sure keep the funeral clothes for somebody else. I’m not in the mood for dark clothes while this roller coaster’s engine still purrs.