Couldn't have asked for a prettier day and now it's the Golden Hour (or as Owen insists on calling it, the Orange Hour) and I am once again exhausted, my body aching from feet to shoulders. I spent all day raking up leaves and transporting them to the garden for mulch and I am still not done. I absolutely hate it when I have a goal in mind and can't finish it by the time I want to but there was just no way I could work faster or longer.
Raking, lifting, toting, dumping, spreading. Pulling the cart and refilling it and emptying it again and again. And I got nothing planted. Nothing at all. Why do I do this? I guess I enjoy punishing myself or perhaps it's just one more example of how I try to control my life by controlling certain aspects like having (for entire moments at a time!) a weed-free and lovely garden. Too bad I don't use this useless technique for cleaning out closets. I mean, I do love my garden and we know I love to grow food and cook it and eat it but is transporting leaves from one part of my yard to another a truly worthwhile way to spend my senior years? I guess it's better than going to a gym.
Maybe. And oh yeah- that thing about doing weight-bearing exercise helping to keep bones strong? That's not true? What? Fuck me.
No. I didn't actually read the article so maybe it does. But probably not. I swear to you- at the age of sixty-one I have seen almost every "proven" fact I know to be proven wrong.
I wonder how many times a day Mick has sex. I swear to you again and I would not lie- every time I look up that rooster is on top of a hen and it only takes him about two seconds to jump on, do it, and jump off. It takes longer for the hen to ruffle her feathers back in order than it does for him to fuck her.
Here's another thing I'm wondering about- I found a package of some mysterious-looking meat-like stuff in the freezer and thinking it might possibly be a few chicken breasts, I have partially thawed it, only to discover that it's like the innards of three different turkeys, still all wrapped in the giblet packages. I have absolutely no memory of saving these. Did I plan on boiling them up for the cats? Well, forget that. They're going in the trash.
Mr. Moon pulled out of the driveway early this afternoon. I cried a little bit when I kissed him good-bye. I don't really mind being alone but that doesn't mean I won't miss him. The older I get, the more tender my feelings towards him become. Sometimes I think that it's a damn miracle that any marriage lasts through the child-rearing/really hard-working years. The exhaustion, the resentments, the frustrations, the misunderstandings, the...immaturity.
But if you somehow manage through whatever means to hang in there, it's pretty remarkable how beautiful it can be. And it's not all such hard work. There can be incredible times of fun and of joy and of sexy-times and of satisfaction.
And I'll tell you what- seeing your spouse of many years playing with one of your grandsons or cuddling your baby granddaughter to his chest is enough to make your heart explode.
"We did this," you think, as you look at the beautiful faces of these children. "Our love did this."
And then you just want to keep on loving.
So here's the last thing I'm going to discuss- what the hell am I going to make for my supper?
I read or hear about women who, when given nights' off in the kitchen, just eat cereal for supper.
Who are these people?
I don't fucking want cereal for my supper. Cereal isn't supper. Hell, cereal isn't even breakfast. It's a snack to be eaten late at night while reading a book.
When Lily and I were at the grocery store the other day I said to her, "When Daddy's out of town next week I'm going to eat a chicken pot pie for my dinner every night."
"No you won't," she said.
"I know," I sighed.
Wish I had a pot pie.
Or a chicken breast. I could make my own pot pie. I have peas and carrots and flour and mushrooms and celery and onions and all that stuff.
But no chicken.
Maybe I should make a tuna casserole. I just want comfort food. I'm too tired for anything remotely resembling crunchy.
Oh wait! I forgot to tell you the most important thing!
I'm going to go pick a carrot if I can walk that far and then bend over to pull it from the ground. You can't believe how many carrots you get from one row of them in the garden. It's ridiculous.