Hallelujah! The Christmas cookies are baked and decorated.

No more cookie dough under my fi ngernails, only a trace of red food coloring on the kitchen floor, and for the second day, the kitchen sink is full of once sticky, and now crusty, mixing bowls.

Fa-la-la. I don’t care.

I just want to sit on the couch and write a few Christmas cards. So what if they don’t get them in time. It’s the thought that counts.

Besides, I did get a card off to bestie Gloria in Tecumseh. I included a pair of cheap and gaudy fuzzy reindeer earrings with a note: I double dog dare you to wear these out in public.

No word from Glo yet, although I haven’t checked FB today.

Fa-la-la. I bought them for me, but didn’t have the nerve to wear them.

There are still bottles of icings and sprinkles on half of the kitchen table midst rolls of parchment and wax paper, and an array of cookie cutters. Stacks of cookie sheets on the rolled back table cloth make it a fun maze for the cats who are allowed back up there now that the cookies are safely in containers.

It will be easy to clear the table tomorrow. Or someday.

Fa-la-la. The cookies are baked. So what if the kids only like to eat the cookie dough.

The half-price eight-foot tree I just had to have this year is up, decorated, and it’s beautiful with its white lights and all red decorations, except for one green one that fell off a new and too-small Christmas sweater I need to return. The new tree probably saved me an ER run since I didn’t have to climb up the attic ladder to get the old, old tree.

Fa-la-la. The kids will have fun getting that old tree down from the attic some day.

There are no presents under the tree although there are bags and boxes of small items for the 19 stockings, and a couple of Dirty Santa gifts. Oh yes, and the usual Christmas ornaments for the eight grandkids and two greats. Oh no! I forgot to send the New York City kids their ornaments. Maybe they’ll forgive me since I did mail them a card and check last week.

Fa-la-la! Now to find those Christmas stockings.

Midst everything else on the hearth are a couple of bread baskets that I use for Christmastime muffins and biscuits (to go with the sausage gravy). Both cats have their own beds but the gray kitty, Pretty Baby, has taken up residence in the bread basket when she’s not sleeping near me at night.

Fa-la-lah-h-h! Fear not. That cat doesn’t shed too much, and I always use freshly-ironed cloth napkins in the basket before I put the food in it.

PS to Santa: You know I don’t have an iron. I was just kidding, but I do get the wrinkles out in the dryer before I use them, or at least I shake them out.

PSS: Please don’t bring me an iron. I really do have one, but don’t know where it is.

PSSS: OK. It’s in the hallway cabinets somewhere, but you know how hard it is to find anything in there.

Fa-la-la and Christmas smiles to all the elves!