No harm, no foul today and so, in that way, it was a good day. Owen ate spaghetti and bananas for lunch and tried to use a fork and the dogs got a lot of the benefit of that experiment.
It's a good day in that it's so beautiful here too. The green is immense and intense and there is always at least one red cardinal on the feeder, as if Hollywood had planned this whole thing out and filmed it in Technicolor just for me. The pecans are losing their leaves, they hit the ground with a rusty sound and there's a tiny breeze, swishing things around.
Yeah. Gorgeous. Everything is good.
And I could just cry.
I think I'm tired. I'm not getting to sleep at night until one-thirty or two. This is not enough sleep for me. And then I take a nap some days and that only makes the problem worse. I sit down to write and I think who cares? and besides that, what the fuck? I should be cleaning out the hen house.
Plus. There is always a plus, isn't there? Plus, it's all the same stuff over and over. I wash and fold and put away the same clothes, napkins, place mats, tablecloths, towels, over and over and over again. Again and again and again. Make the bed, same. Put things away, get them out. Cook. I swear to you- I am dying here trying to figure out what in hell to make for supper anymore. Who cares?
I am burnt the fuck out.
Probably just because I'm tired. I know this is life and god dammit- I at least get to do the same things over and over in a place I love for people I love and I HAVE people I love and god, do they have any idea how much I love them?
And still- I bitch.
I know that I am not special and that I, like everyone else, has to do what it takes to keep a life running. A house, a family, a home.
Before enlightenment- tote water, chop wood.
After enlightenment- tote water, chop wood.
Not that I'm enlightened. I'm just saying that whether you are or not, you're gonna be toting some damn water, chopping some damn wood.
And usually, it's fine. In fact, all that laundry and meal-making and garden-and-chicken-tending is what gives my life its meaning.
(Do I need to get a life?)
But right now, for some reason, I keep thinking about Monday night when I put on all that sparkly eye-shadow and Mr. Moon and I sat at the bar of a real restaurant and the cute tattooed guy brought us menus and then the delicious foods we ordered and nice cold beverages and the whole evening could have just been that. Oh. The glory of being waited on. The incredible luxury of it. Of someone asking, "What would you like?" And not in a metaphorical way.
Of bringing me a glass of ice water, unbidden, with a slice of lemon in it!
Oh well. Tote that barge, bale that hay, or whatever the saying is. If I want the chickens not to have to sleep up to their thighs in poop, I better go clean out the nesting boxes. If I want pansies all winter, I better go plant them. If I want supper tonight, I better go cook it.
And I'm sorry this is so boring. I shouldn't even post it.
But for me, writing in the blog every day is a little like putting on sparkly eye-shadow, a little like having someone bring me a glass of ice water with lemon in it. Dare I even say it? A little like getting a massage!
Now we're talking.
Talking a fantasy.
Dream on, Ms. Moon.
While you're cleaning out that hen house, dream on.
Y'all too. Find a dream and dream it while you're chopping your wood, toting your water, hauling your barge, baling your hay.
Wear lipstick while you do it if you want. Or a bolo tie and cowboy boots. And sparkly eye-shadow.
But don't wear a bra. Bras cut your dreams off at the tits.
You can quote me on that.