I Had A Painful Epiphany Today. Trigger Warning- Childhood Sexual Abuse

 
Maybe the sign should have been...a sign. 
But I just thought it was humorous although I realized it wasn't meant to be. 

I've had a sore neck for months now. Besides being sore, it has limited my mobility. I have been finding myself turning my entire body to see things in my periphery. I mean, I can turn my head, just not as far as I should be able to. But in true Mary fashion I just tried to ignore the situation and do a few stretches here and there and assumed it would all right itself eventually. 
Well, it has not. What did happen though, was that my left shoulder suddenly became very, very sore. Like- waking me up at night sore. Like- this is pain sore. And after about a week of that I decided that enough was enough and I called our regular massage therapist to see if she had any appointments available but she is in Ohio with her family on vacation so scratch that. 
I took the next step this morning and made an appointment at a local place called Chen's which is pretty well known in the Tallahassee area. I mean, they have four locations. I got a massage there once a long time ago and it was fine. What could go wrong? 
My appointment was at 1:30 and I went in and the waiting/reception area was pleasant and I filled out an intake form and within seconds was following my massage therapist down a hallway. 
My first problem was that it was a man. Now I have had men massage therapists before and they can be very good but honestly, I would much rather have a woman. I don't care how qualified or professional or kind a man is, I would just feel more comfortable with a woman. 
But. I didn't say anything. His English was quite limited and my whatever-he-speaks is nonexistent so that was a thing. But the table in the room he led me to looked very clean and well-covered and of course there was the ubiquitous chair to put my clothes on. He discretely motioned for me to undress and get onto the table which I did, keeping on only my underwear. 
After a moment a gentle knock came on the door and I said "Come in," and he did and he asked me how I was doing. I told him about my neck and my shoulder and he asked me to turn over. He began working on the left shoulder immediately and he asked me if the pressure he was using was okay. At that point it was. A bit deeper than I would have liked it but hey! I was there to get some real work done, not to have a relaxing spa time. But as he progressed, the pressure became stronger and stronger. 
"So tight," he kept saying as he kneaded my neck and shoulders. 
This how it's been for me all my life. 

After awhile the pressure was becoming more and more intense, and in fact, painful. But. Did I say anything? 
No. I did not. And that's when I realized that I have a very serious problem speaking out for what I need. This too is how it's been for me my entire life. I've been to many massage therapists who have caused me pain on the table and I don't think I've ever spoken up to ask them to lighten up. 
I KNOW that I am the one paying for this service and that there is no reason for me to experience unneeded pain. If something hurts that much, it is only making my muscles tighter which is sort of antithetical to the problem. Well, not sort of, it truly is. 
I know these things and I also know that the person giving the massage is not likely to have their feelings hurt if I ask them to lighten up a bit. In fact, I know there is NO REASON IN THIS WORLD FOR ME TO REMAIN SILENT.
As I laid there in what I can only call almost-agony, my mind was racing with all of these thoughts. "Just say something!" my brain told me."
"Shush," said that other part of me which, I realized then and there, came directly from my experience with my abuser when I was a child. Knowing something is very wrong and yet also knowing that speaking out or speaking up would be the most dangerous thing I could do (at least in my nine-year old brain) was so deeply etched into my bones and soul that when I find myself in a situation like the one I had on that table today, I am rendered mute. 
I just bore it. I even thought about the fact that I had had four babies with no epidural, three of them at home, and I could bear this pain for a little bit longer. 
The man had the strongest hands I believe I have ever encountered. I think he could bend steel with them, not unlike Superman. And listen- that's not hyperbole. There was a moment when I considered how easy it would be for him to put those hands around my neck and squeeze the life out of me in seconds. He gave me no vibe like that, it was just a thought I had, lying there naked and defenseless. 
Did I ever feel as if my stepfather might kill me? 
Honestly, I have no idea. I only know that for whatever reason (and I could easily list at least twenty), I felt completely powerless to do anything about what he was doing to me. He was in total control. I was a child and he was a very large man. He never threatened me. Not once. And not a word was ever spoken about it by either of us. It just happened and it happened and it happened. 

And all of this became all too apparent to me today, as I allowed a massage therapist to cause me great pain. 
And then, I paid him. 
I only said, "You have very strong hands," and he said again, "So tight!" 
And I wrote a tip into my credit card payment slip. 

Will I complain to the management? 
No. And you know why? Because I feel as if the pain was entirely my fault because I did not do what any reasonable adult would do which was to simply say, "Less pressure, please."
Again- is this way of thinking reasonable? 
Without a doubt, no it is not. 

Here I am, sixty years after that man my mother married abused me and I am still realizing ways in which he and that abuse affect me in my daily life. And not in a good way but in very toxic and unhealthy ways. I so often wonder what I would be like if I had never met him. I can't blame all of my problems on him. There are so many factors involved. Genetics being a big one. 
But perhaps I wouldn't be on two different antidepressants. Perhaps I wouldn't be so inclined to want to stay at home in my safe place. Perhaps I would have had more faith in myself, whether as a woman, a mother, or a writer. As a human being. 

And so I feel a small but unwished for gratefulness to that massage therapist today. He allowed me to realize this part of myself which has not served me well at all. And who knows? Perhaps I will wake up tomorrow and my neck and shoulders will be much better. 
That would be nice. 

Listen- I don't tell these stories for sympathy. I neither want nor need that. I tell them because a long time ago I learned the power of sharing these experiences. So, so many people have gone through these same things and I want them to know we are not alone, to know that others experience and do the same wacky things we experience and do because of what happened to us, and mostly, to know that we are not to blame for what happened any more than I am to blame for not saying something as my back and shoulders were being what I could almost call tortured. I COULD have spoken up.
Theoretically but not in my reality. 

And that's just the way it fucking is. 

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. I need to make sure that no one thinks the massage therapist caused me pain on purpose. I am sure he did not. But the fact remains, he did cause me pain, and I said not a word. 

Jingle Bells, Shotgun Shells, Etc.

Not sure you can tell but the Christmas lights Mr. Moon has plugged in to show his Christmas Cheer are made of shotgun shells. 

I believe he got that sign at Wag The Dog. I am not sure to be flattered or aghast. 
I also believe it was May who got Glen the original string of shotgun shell lights and since then, he has made his own with a string of white lights and...shotgun shells. Empty ones. You understand. 

It's sort of his craft hobby. A small project to work on when his large projects are in temporary hiatus for one reason or another. 

Speaking of the man and his projects, he left again this morning for his other home, the cabin, to oversee the roofing job that was begun. Also, to get supplies as needed. He left rather abruptly, having just gotten the call that the crew was there fairly early this morning. I packed him up some turkey soup, some blueberries, and some milk. That's all I was capable of getting in the tiny cooler he takes with him. He will be sustained as the Cheerios are already up there. 
I was already in a gray mood when I got up. In fact, I stayed in bed a long time, just thinking about things and trying to come up with good reasons to get out from under the covers where it was warm and safe and where a cat was lying on my legs as if to anchor me there. It was as gray outside as it was in my insides but finally, I decided I might as well get it all over with in terms of stepping into Monday and I did. Maurice was not well pleased. 
So I was not as genial and loving while he was packing up to leave as I could have been but I did remember to send some Ritz crackers with the soup. I am not heartless. 

I offered to bring Lauren's pie to town as tomorrow is her birthday and I knew I needed to get out of the house. It was drizzling and chilly, the kind of chilly, wet weather that, despite the fact that it wasn't really cold, gets into your bones. "Wet cold" we call it. And it is real. 

I met Lily at her house as she was home on break to let Pepper, their very small rather old-lady dog, out. Boy, is Pepper's life about to change. 
More on that in a minute. 

Because I was right there, I ran into Costco and bought a big ol' Costco-sized thing of organic baby spinach and two Costco-sized bottles of avocado cooking spray. As I walked from one end of the airplane hanger-sized store to the other, it occurred to me that I have become one of THOSE people. The old(er) people who go to Costco as a substitute for a social life. 
Oh well. It's always interesting and it was not crowded today. I got to hear people speaking languages that were not English, and I saw that they are now carrying organic pecan halves and I also saw an older couple whose size difference was about the same as mine and Glen's. And now I have just realized that the couple was not older than Glen and I are but in fact, were younger. 
I did not see Brenda and I have not seen her for awhile. I hope she's okay. 

The truly daring thing I did today was to wash two loads of laundry. This generally very calm and peaceful task had become daring because last week when Mr. Moon was working on his truck, he inadvertently got diesel fuel all over his clothes and his body. And THEN, because he was trying to be helpful, he decided to wash the diesel soaked clothes which was really NOT a good idea. For awhile I thought he was going to have to buy me a new washer but after running half a dozen "sanitizing" loads with various things from washing soda to white vinegar and Dawn dishwashing liquid, AND Oxy-Clean, and leaving the door to the washer open in hopes that it would air out, I finally decided to try and see if I could run a load of clothes without ruining them. I started out with a bleach load and that went well and have now washed a regular load which smells pretty okay so I guess we don't have to buy a new washing machine although I will say the laundry room carries the faint odor of a garage.

Mr. Moon just sent me this picture with the accompanying text, "We have a shower drain."

I don't know much about plumbing but I do believe that's a good thing to have. 

All right. The news you've all been waiting for. 

The still small little one is home. 
Why are babies all so damn cute? 
I know- so we'll love and nurture and protect them and clean up their poop. 
Here's another picture.

She is meeting her sister, Pepper. Wary, maybe?

Her name has not yet been writ in stone. Latest #1 contender is Xena, for the Princess Warrior. Lily reports that she has the best puppy breath and adores kisses. 

Well. That is a very fine start. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Our Family Is Growing, So To Speak

I finally got back out into the garden today. Maurice drifted by to see if I was doing anything of interest after I'd been there for about fifteen minutes. She hung out for quite awhile. The plants above her at the top of the picture are turnip greens. They're getting there. When I weeded, I saw that some are beginning to make turnips too. We eat them together, the greens and the turnips themselves. They are delicious. 

Mostly what I did was weed but I also pulled the dead marigolds and collected their seed pods. Now I need to depod the seeds and dry them out to keep for next summer. They surely put on one hell of a show this year. 

Another thing I did was to trim the deadwood off the Thai basil, the African basil, and the Mexican basil which was hands-down the biggest pollinator attractor in the garden this summer. I thought all of them had entirely frozen and died in that one quick freeze we had a few weeks ago but upon inspection today, I discovered that was not entirely true. 

All three of them are showing regrowth at their bases. I picked a piece of the Mexican basil and put it in water to see if time and patience result in rooting. 
And I swear to you- I saw bees still trying to find buds on those plants. I should grow an entire garden of basils just for them. And I so want to know what basil honey tastes like. 

It felt so good to get out in the sunny but cool day to pull weeds. I think lately I have been so overwhelmed by all the work my yard needs that I don't even know where to start. And of course I have started in some places but I don't feel as if I've achieved any control over those areas, merely a temporary fix. I know I discuss this too often but it weighs heavily on my mind and I feel so much guilt about not working in the yard more often. When I'm out there doing it, I am generally very happy. It's not that I dislike the work. I do like it. It's the knowledge that it's a never-ending task, never entirely done or finished that causes me to try and ignore the situation. But it does make me feel stronger and more capable when I've put some time in outside. 
Now. The next day can be painful. But I can live with that. 
I will try to do better. I swear, I will! 

I say this about a lot of things. It's the follow-through that seems to be the problem. 

And so that's been about it today. I spent some time trying to find Mr. Moon a pair of slip-on waterproof shoes online. There are plenty fitting that description but the ones that would be most suitable do not come in his size. Or as Glen says, "real man size." 
Oh, he's a funny guy.

So. Back to the puppies. Here. Just to remind you.

It has been suggested that the pups are boxers or hounds or even AI. 
But no, none of those. 
That is the truckload of dog babies dropped off at the animal shelter in Tallahassee yesterday. Actually, although there are eight in the picture, the real number was nine and yes, all from the same litter except for one. 
Their breed is a mix of St. Bernard and Bullmastiff.

And Lauren has adopted one. And Maggie is beyond joyful. 

Sigh.

Well, I hear both breeds are calm and laid back, patient, loyal, and good with children and families in general. 
Also, both breeds are very, very large. 
Lily wanted to name her Marge, in fact, so they could call her Large Marge, but a reindeer name has been chosen for some reason and that is Vixen. 
On, Donner! On Vixen! Etc. 

Of course things could always fall through but this is what the plan looks like now. She will be spayed tomorrow and then Lauren can take her home. 
Both Mr. Moon and Lauren's dad have suggested that they will have to buy a saddle. Well, Glen said a saddle and a bridle. 

This is going to be an experience! And an adventure! And...when you think about it, that is a fitting dog to live in a Moon-gene household. Just think- when Owen walks this dog, both of them will look like they're normal sized! They better teach that dog not to jump on people. It could kill me with one good affectionate greeting. 
It probably won't. But wouldn't that make a great obituary? 

Mary died of an overabundance of her granddog's exuberance. In lieu of flowers, we ask that you make a donation to your local humane society. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Can You Hear Me Now?

I so wish I had taken a picture of Andrew, the audiologist who tested my hearing today. He was a hoot and made me feel comfortable immediately. I wasn't worried in the least about this appointment. I knew I had hearing loss and I also knew it was starting to really bother me. Forget family gatherings in restaurants. That's the worst case scenario. I also have a harder time hearing what some of my grandkids say than I'd like. And there's a woman in pottery class who is a very soft speaker and I have to ask her to repeat things. So I haven't really been fooling myself about the fact that it was time to get this situation checked out but I probably would have put it off forever if I hadn't made the promise to Mr. Moon that if he got his hearing checked, I'd do the same. I was rather shocked when he DID finally go and get tested. I think something must have triggered him to do that, perhaps while he was in Canada, but whatever the reason, I am so glad he did. 
After his test, he showed me his results but they're rather hard to parse and he insisted that really, they weren't so bad. 
I knew this was bullshit. This has been going on for years. But he stubbornly insisted that it wasn't necessary for him to get hearing aids and that he'd probably lose them if he did and, and, and...

So when I went into the little room at Costco with the glass door and Andrew began the process of testing me for all sorts of different hearing losses, I was more curious than anything. The exam didn't last very long but felt adequate to me although what do I know? 
Not very much. 
When it was over I told Andrew that it had not been the least enjoyable thing I've ever done. And it wasn't. It was pretty interesting, really. 
And yes, I do indeed have losses and yes, I should get hearing aids and instead of being upset about that, I'm excited. I remember how much my world changed when I was in the third grade and got my first pair of glasses. Suddenly, I was able to see what I had never realized that I couldn't. I think everyone who gets glasses at an early age knows what this is like and almost all of us say the same thing- I could see the leaves on trees!
That was some pretty amazing shit right there. It literally changed my life and the way I saw the world. I still do not take this for granted. 
So the thought of having a similar experience with my ears and hearing is sort of thrilling. I honestly don't give a shit if wearing hearing aids makes me look older. I AM older. I am at the appropriate age to wear them and as Andrew told me, virtually everyone over the age of forty has begun to lose their ability to hear what they once could. He told me that I'd hear more birds, that conversation would be so much easier, that I would not need closed captions while watching TV.
Now that doesn't bother me. I like closed captions. But hey! A new world! A world with more birdsong, more understanding of what my grandchildren are saying. A world where I don't have to keep asking what someone said when the family is gathered. A world where I'm not having to ask someone to repeat what they've said. 
This all sounds (haha!) very, very good to me. 

And perhaps the best news is that when I told Glen that yes, I needed hearing aids and that yes, I am ready to order them right away and was very excited about that, he was suddenly far more positive about doing the same. It's like he needed that one tiny push and I was there to give it with my whole heart and not in a way that implied he was being a stubborn old man who wouldn't listen to reason. 
Although he is. 
And I am a stubborn old woman who needed to stop and think about how much richer my life will be if I can hear better. 

So today's experience may turn out to be a life-changer for both of us. I hope so. I really do. 

I made a soup today with yesterday's broth and some of the leftover meat. It's also got all the vegetables that didn't get eaten from the veggie tray including broccolini. I picked turnip, mustard, and kale greens from the garden, chopped them up and added them to the pot along with onions, a lot of garlic, and some leftover green beans. The pot is so full I should probably make rice separately to spoon the soup over. I hope it's good. And...more for the freezer! The flautas last night were every bit as fine as I remember. Glen was so happy. 

And tomorrow we may eat hamburgers. 

Want to see a cute picture?

That is not just a random photo of eight adorable puppies. There is a story to it. 

Of course. 
Details to follow as the story unfolds. 
And NO! I am not getting a dog. Not now, not ever. 
But it looks like someone may be.
Love...Ms. Moon

Funny How One Thing Leads To Another

It's been some time since I posted a Friday picture of sheets hanging on the line and that's because I've been lazy and have been drying them in the dryer but today I decided...why not?
I am not sure what prompted me to dry them outside today because it was chilly out there. And when I say chilly, of course I mean it was probably in the lower fifties or maybe even upper forties or something but I am not kidding when I tell you that my fingers were frozen before I'd finished pinning it all up. But I got pleasure from doing it anyway, and seeing them blowing in the breeze. 
Maurice did not follow me outside because she is intelligent. She spent a good part of the day sleeping on a heat register, draped over it like a super model posing on the beach. 

So guess what I ate last night for my late supper? 
I think this is hysterical- leftover eggplant parmesan for the fourth night in a row. 
I believe I may be over turkey. Today I cut all the meat, both cooked and un-cooked from the bones that I could and then boiled the carcass for about forty-eight hours. Haha! No, it was more like four hours. But that meat is done now! And I have enough stock for a year's worth of soup. Tonight, however, we are having turkey flautas which I never make anymore because they are fried and there is no way an air-fryer could reproduce what happens to them in hot oil in a cast iron skillet so what would be the point? 

Now there's a story here. Forty-two years ago on the Friday night after Thanksgiving, Glen Moon set his cap for me. We'd met, sort of, because we had friends in common. He was originally introduced to me by the brother of one of my best, dearest friends who was painting my house pink. The brother, not my friend. He subcontracted Glen to paint the shutters and steps gray. 
Hey! It was the eighties. Plus I was a single mother living in a stick-up-the-butt neighborhood and I felt the need to let my freak flag fly after I received an anonymous note asking me to keep my yard tidier because basically, it was a blot on the 'hood. 
Haha! I said. I shall paint my house pink. 
So I did, or rather, my friend did, and Glen helped him. There's more to THIS story than I have the time to tell but it did involve weed. As so many good things do. 
Anyway, to make a long story interminable, as another friend of mine used to say, nothing clicked at all between Glen and me on that first meeting but on the night after Thanksgiving, not too long after that, he espied me at the local dive bar where my ex-husband's band was playing and where I was wearing a sweater my beloved friend Sue-Sue had lent me which was made of the softest mohair imaginable and for some reason, just would not stay on my shoulder. 
Invitations to dancing ensued and by the end of the evening, he was dropping major hints about how much he would love a turkey sandwich but I ignored those and went on home with my mohair-wearing bad self. 
Within a very short while though, soon enough in fact for me to still have turkey leftovers, I did invite him over for supper and made him turkey flautas. 
The rest is history. 
Sure, there's more to the story but that's the true and honest explanation of how we got together. 

The recipe I use is one that a friend of mine gave me and it is probably the least authentic turkey flautas recipe in the entire American continent but it is good. I have not yet told him that we are having turkey flautas and I will have to remind him about it being a sort of anniversary for us. He will remember the turkey flautas though. I wish with all my heart I still had the sweater that he bought for me before Christmas had even come around which was exactly like Sue-Sue's although it was pink instead of blue. What happened to that sweater? When we get to heaven are they going to give us a big bag of all our favorite garments that somehow fell through a portal, never to be seen again? 
Golly, I hope so.

And that is my story tonight. I spent most of the day being domestic, doing laundry, making that stock, doing a little mending and of course, making up the bed with the clean sheets. It's now martini time and I should go get our supper started and the stock strained of bones and meat and all of it refrigerated. Some of it is going to have to go into the freezer which is going to require some Jenga or Tetris-like maneuvering. 

Tomorrow I have an appointment at the Costco hearing-aid place to get my hearing tested. There is also a story to this but I'll save it. 
Somehow, that night when Mr. Moon first asked me to dance, so charmed by that sweater and my then-lovely shoulder, neither one of us had even the vaguest thought in our minds that one day, we would both be getting our hearing tested because we would be spending half our lives walking around the house yelling, "Did you say something to me?" and also, "WHAT?"

And yet, here we are. 
Love is grand, ain't it? 

Happy Friday, y'all. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Lloyd Thanksgiving, 2025

Well, I fucked up the turkey. 
Sigh.
I was so very, very happy and proud that I got everything, EVERYTHING done before anyone even showed up. The cream was whipped, the biscuits were cut and on the baking sheet, the stuffing had been made and the turkey was cooked and tented in aluminum foil and resting on the traditional plastic turkey platter I got in Monticello at the hardware/general store in 1979. I'd made the iced tea, both sweet and unsweet and even cut lemons to put in a little dish to go with. 
I washed and put away the roasting pan!
The entire kitchen was neat and tidy and I was running the first dishwasher load of the day. 
It was seriously the most organized and efficient Thanksgiving dinner I'd ever presided over. The kids got here and were very impressed, and their casseroles and Lauren's charcuterie board were all laid out along with the deviled eggs Lily made and the smoked salmon I'd bought at Costco with crackers, mustard, cream cheese and capers. Kisses were given, hugs were given, grandkids were happy, everyone was impressed with my laid-back attitude, knowing that I had everything under control, baby. Observe and learn. 

And then. And then...

I put the biscuits in the oven and they were raising like the angels they are named after and I asked Glen to carve the turkey and oh, what a glorious feeling it all was until...there was silence from Glen. 
"I'm not sure this turkey is done," he said, holding the carving knife in one hand, my grandfather's carving fork in another. 
Excuse me. Not done? I had used the very expensive meat and whatever else thermometer which had assured me that the meat was up to its proper heat and I'd wiggled a leg and I'd cut into a breast and peeked to see what color the juices were and they were reassuringly not pink, and besides- it had been tented and sitting for a few hours at that time and everyone assures you that the bird will continue to cook for awhile as it sits. 
So it was hard to believe but I went over to see what Mr. Moon was seeing and by god, that turkey was so not done. I mean, most of the breast was done but the rest of it was, without a doubt, a threat to human health if consumed. 
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. 
And remember- the biscuits are already in the oven. 
The bitch bird had to go back in the oven. No doubt about that. Lily suggested that we slice the breast and put the slices in a casserole dish, cover it with aluminum foil, stick it back in the oven and deal with the rest of it later. 
Which is what we did. 
The biscuits baked, the turkey breast slices got done, and Thanksgiving was saved. 
Not that not having a turkey would have ruined it. But you know what I mean. 
We all sat outside at two long tables. 

That is hardly a good picture but it's the one I have. You can't even see Gibson, while Owen and Maggie are barely visible. Glen looks like he's had about enough of that, and, well, it is what it is. I have to say it was a beautiful day with a sky bluer than that tablecloth, and very cool. Cool enough for me to need a sweater. 

Shall I go through the menu while we're here? 
Turkey breast slices, twice roasted, vegetarian and non-vegetarian cornbread dressing, gravy, angel biscuits, and cranberry relish. That was what I brought to the table. Lauren brought the charcuterie and the sweet potato casserole which, after a lifetime of sampling sweet potato casseroles, I proclaim to be the best I've ever eaten and it is. She also made banana pudding. May made mashed potatoes that were perfect in all regards, along with an arugula, apple, pecan and various nuts salad with an orange vinaigrette. Lily made macaroni and cheese and the deviled eggs and the veggie tray and brought the kids' drinks and all sorts of things I'm sure I'm not remembering. Rachel went crazy and made green bean casserole, spinach casserole, stuffed acorn squash, corn pudding, and an apple pie. All delicious.

(Photo by Rachel. Thank you, honey!)

Again, I'm sure there was more but forgive me, I'm old and can't remember shit. 
So yes, it was a typical Thanksgiving here and with the power of sweet baby Jesus and Zepbound, I really did not eat that much but then again, I never eat that much at Thanksgiving. By the time it's all on the table, I don't even want to think about food. 
Everyone brought leftover containers and after we ate and took a little while to digest, everyone got what they wanted to take home with them. Of course no one got turkey because it was STILL IN THE OVEN where I'd put it to resume cooking. We got out the pies and slices of those were cut and wrapped to take home too. 

I now have a refrigerator filled with leftovers and the better part of a turkey. I'll use some of it to make various things but I have a feeling that most of it will become soup. I can get out my biggest pot and make enough turkey stock for the coming year. 

We are a funny family, and I am so very grateful for these people connected to me by blood and by birth, by marriage, and most importantly, by love. 

I cracked up right after had we begun eating when Lily said, "We didn't even say a prayer or, what's that thing called that you say before you eat?" 
"Grace," someone said.
"That's it!" Lily said. 
And I believe it was May who said, "And that explains why we didn't say it."
Lord, we are a bunch of heathens. Although Maggie did just get baptized a few weeks ago at her other grandmother's church. 
We didn't even go around the table and say what each of us was thankful for. I think we know what we're all thankful for which is each other and health and love and all of that stuff but I did tell Michael later that if there was one thing I was most thankful for that didn't involve my family, it was that Donald Trump will die at some point. Even if he outlives me, I know that he is not immortal and will die. 

One more picture that Rachel took. 

If those two are the sort of devils that populate hell, sign me up. 
As I always say, I'll save you a seat at the bar. 

Hey! Happy Thanksgiving! 

Love...Ms. Moon

C'est La Vie, Say The Old Folks

As you can see, I did manage to thaw the turkey completely and it is now in a bowl, salt having been rubbed into its wounds skin, and before I go to bed I'll turn it over so that the magic can happen on the other side of the bird too. It's supposed to be on a rack in a roasting pan but that would have just taken up too much space so the bowl will have to do. To the right of the turkey is the stock I made with giblets, onions, spices and Better Than Bouillon which will go into the gravy. 
In the plastic container with a red lid down there on the bottom shelf, we have an impressive amount of angel biscuit dough. The flavor improves as it sits. Trust me. 
And the cranberry relish is in the covered bowl on the bottom right.
I have made the cornbread for the stuffing/dressing and that is on top of the stove right now, drying out a bit. I did something with that I've never done before, which was to sauté onions, pecans, and celery which I added into the cornbread batter before I baked it. 

It looks more like a spice cake than it does a cornbread but I think it's going to work. I also use Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix along with the cornbread and feel no shame about this. Just as it would not be Thanksgiving without the canned cranberry gel/sauce for many people, it would not be Thanksgiving for me without the Pepperidge Farm in the blue and white bag. The stuffing has always been my favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal, bar none, and as Boud says about getting the first slice of something she's baked, it's "cook's privilege" in my opinion that if I make the stuffing, I get to pick the kind I make. My kids would probably not to know what to do with stuffing not made at least partly with Pepperidge Farm. 

Mr. Moon is still at the cabin. He's been soldering the pipes in the bathroom in order to be able to take a shower downstairs. 

Is there anything this man can not do? 

He'll be back tomorrow in time to help set up the tables and so forth. I will admit that I had one of those dreams this morning of him leaving me for another woman. I am not sure who this woman was but she was not the black-haired, truck-driving bitch. We were in Europe and so perhaps it was a French woman. She probably looked like Uma Thurman with black hair and red lipstick and Louboutin heels. 

I do have a vivid imagination, don't I? 

Hey! I cleaned the toilets today! Would Uma Thurman clean the toilets? 
Probably not. At least not in her Louboutin heels. 

I may need therapy. 
Also, I may be the one with a crush on Uma Thurman. I will never, ever not watch this if it comes up on any social media. You shouldn't either. And I'm not even going to say how much I love movies in which John Travolta dances. 
Well, most of them but maybe this one the most. 

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. Rock it like Chuck Berry. Dance it like Marilyn Monroe is holding a trophy waiting for you to claim it and John Travolta has taken off his shoes and is dancing in his Gold Toe socks just for you. 

Love...Ms. Moon