Hurry Up!

Oh, Lord, y'all.
It's been another one of those forty-eight (or is it a hundred-and-forty-eight?) hours of blast-offs and rough landings.
And right now Mr. Moon is saying, "Come on!"
He is out of O's (the only cereals he'll eat are ones with O's in them) and he wants to go to town and get breakfast and then go shopping for Owen's birthday and come back and weed the garden and then go hunting.

Okay. Fine.

But I'm sorry- I have to do this. I have to sit here, fingers flying, and say, "Hello! Good morning! I'm alive, are you?"

So that's me. He's pacing now. I have to go put on a bra.
But here's some pictures.
The Opera House last night from my position under the lights:

It was a GREAT final performance. A sold-out crowd, a standing ovation.

Here's Jack and Brittany and the dog who won the contest for having his picture used in the play. His name is Jakey. Or Jakie. Whatever. He is a good sport and look at how beautiful Brittany is, how handsome Jack is:

"I'm going outside for just a few minutes," Mr. Moon has just announced in his warning voice.
He doesn't understand the blog thing. And he spent the last two nights at the Opera House, helping serve and tending bar which was so sweet. So. I have to go put on my bra. I am going to town to shop for my grandson's first birthday.

The hurricane lilies are blooming. Have you ever seen anything like this?

Okay. That's a rat's ass picture. I'll do better later.

Later. I'll get the laundry done and the kitchen cleaned up and the garden weeded and some blogs read and some words down and tomorrow I return to grandmother-hood full-time and well, life just keeps spinning on and on and on and meanwhile, I have so much in my head and my mind and my heart that I can't get to sleep at night, I can't keep up with it all.

That's Ms. Moon on a Sunday morning at the Church of the Batshit Crazy.

All is well.

Where's my bra?
Gotta go.
Love you.
Mean it.