That lady is a doll who lives on my porch. Isn't she pretty? Why do we like dolls so much? I watched The Eyes of Tammy Faye last night and that woman sure loved the dolls. I have never in my life seen or heard of any soul who was as cheerful and positive in outlook and yet, who cried as much as Tammy Faye. It was almost like a medical condition-that crying of hers.
Anyway, good morning. And aren't you glad I didn't post a picture of Tammy Faye?
Bless her heart.
I am determined to feel better today. I have to. Owen is coming for a few hours. I got up and took a shower. I've only been taking baths since about last Saturday. Here's the difference between and a bath and a shower- you have to stand up in the shower.
I washed my hair. It needed it.
I stood up and washed my hair. And my body. It was a good and fine thing to do.
I got a call at ten-thirty-six last night. It was an alarm company and my mother's front door alarm had gone off. Did I know the password?
What password? There's a password?
So they were going to call the police. Okay.
I call my mother- she's there, she's fine. She'd gotten in from seeing a play and had had an alarm glitch. She told me the password.
I called the company back and gave it to them. They'd already called the police but could probably call them back and cancel. Okay. I called my mother back. She calmed down. I calmed down. The police didn't come.
I went back to reading Raymond Chandler.
Have you ever read any Raymond Chandler? I have to admit that I have not. Oh, maybe a short story. He was one of those Great American Alcoholic Authors like Fitzgerald and Hemingway. He really did write passages like this:
"The air was thick, wet, steamy and larded with the cloying smell of tropical orchids in bloom. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted and big drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. The light had an unreal greenish color, like light filtered through an an aquarium tank. The plants filled the place, a forest of them, with nasty meaty leaves and stalks like the newly washed fingers of dead men. They smelled as overpowering as boiling alcohol under a blanket."
Seriously? Newly washed fingers of dead men?
I'm in love!
My friend K sent me a volume of three of Chandler's Marlowe novels a while back and I have finally cracked it open. I can't wait to get to the middle of this particular river. I am going to enjoy the swim, I tell you that.
I finished that short story last night. I sat down and did it. It isn't very good but I did it. And what do I do with it now? Nothing. I am no Raymond Chandler and no Tammy Faye, either. Tammy Faye never gave up. Nothing could kill her until she died. She survived Jim Baker, Jessica Hahn, Jerry Falwell, cancer, and being the butt of every joke in the world. And she just kept on going, gluing those eyelashes on one at a time and wearing tattooed lip-liner, believing in the Lord and not hating anyone. She pitched a show to a TV executive and wanted to call it Tammy's Terrific Teens. She wanted to go with teens to the tattoo parlors and piercing parlors to see what they really thought. She also pitched, at the same time, a puppet show for children. AND a show about medicine.
The TV exec passed on all three. Too bad. I think Tammy's Terrific Teens would have been awesome. That woman was not afraid. She wasn't afraid of AIDS or gay people. She loved gay people. She loved puppets too. And mascara. Lord, how she loved mascara.
Well, I think you've heard enough from me at this point.
It's another freaking beautiful day. Kathleen might be in surgery as I write this, getting a lymph node removed from her armpit. I should be there but I'm not so I guess that means I should be right where I am.
I don't know about that stuff. "If it's meant to be, it will happen." Yeah. Maybe.
I don't think anything is meant to be. I think shit just happens. And then other shit happens.
Take a shower. Wash your hair. Hang dolls on the porch. Or don't.
Don't give up. Don't be afraid to cry. Love the Lord or love the chicken. Read Raymond Chandler and never think about orchid leaves in the same way.
Get on with your bad self.
I love you to pieces...Ms. Moon