So I Bought Two Tee Shirts At Walmart

Random picture of Maurice under a zinnia. 

I called my compounding pharmacy this morning to see if by any miracle my hormones were ready to pick up. 
Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
They had not received a renewal of my prescription from the doctor's office. 
Exactly what I was expecting. 
They said they'd send another request and I said I'd call their office too. Which I did. The woman who answered the phone, after researching the situation, insisted that they had not gotten a request. 
I made her repeat this statement. 
And then, my lack of hormones kicked in and I said, and not in a pleasant tone of voice, "Well. That would be a first."
And I only said that because I didn't feel I could call the woman a fucking liar. That really might hold things up on their end. 

And then later, Mr. Moon told me that he had a meeting this afternoon with a guy about a situation which Glen has briefly informed me of, a situation that would be the start of ANOTHER PROJECT and I lost my shit entirely. I did not even pause to take a breath. It was like I opened my mouth and a flaming gorgon burst forth. A gorgon that I had no idea resided within me. 
And she was not using her inside voice. I'm not sure the gorgon was even using MY voice.
I believe that I was as shocked as Mr. Moon. 

It was a real good example of, "Tell us how you really feel, Mary."

Ooh boy.

Now whether that had anything to do with my depleted hormones, I cannot say. But when the pharmacy called me a few hours later to tell me that they had gotten the refill order and the prescription would be ready by tomorrow, I was vastly relieved. 
And I have to say that if I was living in Victorian times and had no access to hormone therapy after menopause, I probably would have been put into an insane asylum with all of the rest of the women who were neither being sweet nor calm nor silent. In short, the women who also had gorgons living inside of them. 

So that was that story but the part of my day which was truly important involved this woman.

The one and only Liz Sparks. 
That woman will not let me disappear completely into the ether, mouldering away here at home in Lloyd. She texts me and says, "Can you go to lunch on..." and lists a day as if she was making an appointment and if you can't make it on that day, another one will be found and that is that. 

And I always go because there is nothing better than spending a few hours with that woman. She's about to leave for her annual get-out-of-Tallahassee-for-the-unbearable-summer and head north to gentler climes and excellent adventures. She's going to be a camp nurse for a week somewhere in the Smokey Mountains, (yes, she's an RN) and then she has people to meet and things to do in Maine and Connecticut and who knows where all? 
She is that sort of woman. So it was even more necessary for me to see her before she begins her journey and I am so grateful she does not forget me, she does not let me disappear into the mist and might of anxiety. She calls me forth and I answer. 

She brought me a birthday present because she always brings something. Her mother was British and Liz got good home training from her. She claims the birthday present was meant for last year and I received it as gracefully as I could, knowing that all I'd brought her was a bag of rattlesnake beans. 
Sigh.

On her last summer's trip, she had driven some of the Blues Trail in Mississippi because of course she did. And also, because of course she did, she stopped off in Indianola, the town where my daddy, B.B. King was born. 
I call him my daddy because not having had a daddy, I figured I got to pick whoever I wanted to represent that person in my life and I picked B.B. King. It didn't hurt that at the end of all his concerts (and I think I saw at least three), he would ask, "Who's your daddy?" and honey, you know damn well that I would say, "You are! You are, B.B.!" 

I do believe I chose wisely. 

So Liz got me a few souvenirs at the museum, including that fan, because indeed it is a fan, the same kind you could find and still can find at churches and funerals and gatherings of many kinds in the south, both in the Black and white communities. Many of those fans have advertisements for funeral homes or pictures of Jesus on them.
This, however, is the best one I've ever seen and the best one ever made, I am sure. I have written about Mr. King before and how his autobiography, "Blues All Around Me," is a book that should be taught in all American schools. It holds a proud place of honor in my library, same shelf as Keith Richards' and Bruce Springsteen's memoirs. 
I think one of the best things I ever did as a mother was to take Hank and May to see B.B. play in Tallahassee and somehow we got second or third row seats and all of us, including Mr. Moon, ended up dancing in the aisle while the people who had scored front row seats sat motionless which I did not know was even possible for a person to do when at a B.B. King concert, and need I say they were white?

No. No I do not. 

I remember I was wearing a red dress and I like to think that Mr. King may have noticed me and that when he said, "Who's your daddy?" and I said, "You are, B.B.!" he saw and he agreed to my one-sided contract. 
And best of all, we got to shake his hand. We got to shake B.B. King's hand. 

Well, so Liz who obviously knows me so well, brought me that fan and a little Christmas ornament of B.B.'s guitar, Lucille, and also a key ring which doubles as a bottle opener which also says Lucille. 
Lucille was his guitar. 
Whichever guitar he was playing, that was Lucille.

Lord. I did not mean to go off on that. I doubt Liz would mind. She knows me. She and I talked about so many things today. We sort of caught up and told each other some of our woes and we laughed and we laughed and when it was time to leave, I hugged her so hard. 
"Have a wonderful summer," I said. "And be safe."
She reassured me she would. 

After we parted I went to the dreaded Walmart where I got so stressed out that my right foot and my left hand both fell asleep while I was up and walking around. I went to buy a canning kettle and an umbrella and the only canning kettle they had was not like any canning kettle I've ever seen and I did not want it. 
And I forgot the umbrella.
It has been raining in Tallahassee off and on all day. We got a small amount here in Lloyd. Barely enough to register in the garden-cart rain gauge. But oh my! It's just started raining again and the weather widget on my phone says we're going to get heavy precipitation for the next hour. 
Promises, promises. Thunderstorms are also predicted but no sign of those yet. 

Mr. Moon has finally made an escape from the care-taking, power of attorneying, health care surrogating meetings and also, crazed gorgon wife, up to the cabin. I know he'll be so glad to be there. 
And I'm good here. Because I wanted something homey and comforting and nurturing, I am roasting a little chicken stuffed with lemon and (our) sage and (our) garlic. It is sitting in a skillet atop (our) carrots and surrounded by (our) potatoes.
Did you know that if you roast carrots with garlic they become incredibly sweet? 
Well, they do. 

It is thundering a little bit. It is still raining although not what I would call heavily. I just found two green beans in my pocket. 

Here's a video of Mr. B. B. King, King of the Blues, giving a master class on how to change a string on a guitar mid-concert while wringing his heart out asking the eternal question, "How Blue Can You Get?"

You want to know a secret? 
I wish he really was my daddy. So, so much. 

Love...Ms. Moon