No Title

I thank every one of you who read what I wrote yesterday and I am grateful for every comment I got. I want so badly to answer each comment in a way that makes the author of it know I've read it, thought about it, considered it, and appreciated it. If I don't entirely agree with it, I'll let you know for sure although I find it so strange that I don't have any trolls, not really. This is like a "no asshole" space. Perhaps it's because I'm older because I know everyone cannot possibly agree with me, but despite my profanity, my extremely strong opinions, my views on religion, and, well, a lot of other things too, you are always so kind. 

I hit a nerve last night for sure. It has occurred to me before that I see even a physical resemblance between the stepfather and DJ Fuckwad. The stepfather was also a rather large man, not just in height but in girth. He was not actually what I would call fat when I last saw him, but he had the tendency. It was more the little lying pig eyes, the lying anus mouth, the ability to somehow admit his guilt through the way he spoke, if not of what he spoke. The belief that what he said was law, and there was no debate about that. 
And here DJ AssWipe is, a daily presence online, even if I do not watch TV news. He's in the paper, he's in the magazines, he's in the articles of all the news I consume. 
Constant PTSD. 

Well. 

Today's been sweet, laid-back. Mr. Moon got up very, very early, what I would call STUPID early, to go duck hunting. He took our Gibson with him. Gibson loves going out to duck hunt with his Boppy and although I really wish there was something else they enjoyed bonding over as much, I seem to have to be content with what it is. 
Glen taught him this morning how to clean the ducks and took him to buy Vermouth, because that is the main ingredient in Glen's preparation of ducks. Gibson said he would make lunch for his family. 
That, I do like. 
When my husband gets home from that early hunt and a big manly breakfast, he naps throughout the day in his chair. Maurice loves this as there is no place she'd rather be than in his lap. He says that she's actually truly purring a lot these days and although I am jealous that he's the one getting the purrs, I truly glad to know that our cat is capable of purring and is sometimes content and comfortable enough to do so. 

I worked a little more in the garden but not long. I realized my knees and shoulder (which yes, still hurts like hell at times) weren't very happy with the situation, even though my mind and heart were so very willing. 
Ah well. 
I put the sprinkler on for the time it took me to pick up fallen branches and limbs and haul them to the burn pile. I only wanted to water in the collards and chard seeds I planted yesterday and I don't think they needed much. The dirt is moist already from all the rain we've had. 

I want to say that one of the main benefits of losing weight that I have experienced is that I can get up off the ground so easily that I don't even realize I'm doing it or have done it whereas before, it simply was not easy. I had to get everything arranged so that I could stand up from being on my knees and it took some forethought and preparation. 
Now, I find myself walking over to the garden cart after having weeded for awhile, not even remembering getting up at all. I just did it. 
Of course this COULD be a part of my oncoming dementia and that I've just forgotten whatever struggle I put into the action. 
But I don't think so. 
There are quite a few things that are far easier now and I'm not just talking about getting into my britches. It's sort of a constant surprise, as things change for me, up to and including the fact that my towel wraps around me with far more extra to spare than it had been. 
It was realizing how these small things were moving in a bad direction that put me in despair and gave me the courage to ask my doctor about getting on a GLP-1. 

And that's what I wanted to say about that. Not of earthshaking importance, not something anyone really needs to know but a thing that affects and has improved my life a great deal. 

I'm going to go cook some spicy mustard shrimp and rice which will be a very fine ending to this day. 

Love...Ms. Moon

So Many Trigger Warnings That Really, No One Should Read This

On October 7, 2016, the "grab 'em by the pussy" tape was released. Just to refresh your memory, this is what Trump said to then- Access Hollywood co-host, Billy Bush: "When you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab 'em by the pussy."

I remember like it was yesterday how triggered I was by that. Mr. Moon and I had gone to Apalachicola for a few days of fun and I was so upset, so angry that we really didn't have a great time. I felt guilty but I could not NOT feel the way I was feeling. It's strange- I can read or hear about sexual abuse of children with less PTSD than when I hear about men who get away with the abuse. Not only of children but of women in general. 
I remember the fury I had as a child, a teenager, when my stepfather would chastise me for something, for anything, really or would tell me what I could and could not do, whether it was that I couldn't date until I was sixteen or that I had to model the two-piece bathing suit I'd just bought for him to decide whether I would be allowed to wear it or not. 
I wasn't allowed to have a lock on my bedroom door. There were so many ways he tried to control me and he did control me up to a certain point, and it was all about his power. By the time I was in my early teens, the sexual abuse had ended but the emotional abuse continued, probably worse than ever. He had to maintain that power in order to ensure my silence about what he'd done. Some of my most terrifying memories of all the events were times when he didn't even touch me. He didn't have to. He had already taken care of that part. And so what in the name of the god I already did not believe in gave him the right to tell me how to behave?

And so to hear this man, this joke of a casino owner, of a reality show host, who was actually running for president say what he said about getting away with it because of his star power, his fame, sickened me. It triggered me, as I said, and I felt nauseous and as if I'd been threatened all over again while at the same time, enraged. 

I'm willing to bet that almost every woman has, in her life, been pressured into having sex, or some man has attempted to pressure her into having sex, and not necessarily in any sort of violent way. And no, not anywhere near all of the men who have done this are evil or abusive but the simple inherent imbalance of power built into us by the patriarchal world in which we live is so common and so accepted that women have way too often given in to avoid what could possibly become violent or even just incredibly uncomfortable or because the guy took her out for a nice dinner or brought her flowers or... is her boss, a coworker with a higher position, a guy who accuses her of leading him on, of having come on to HIM. Oh, there are a million reasons a woman capitulates. Sometimes it's just a matter of the fight/flight/or freeze response. 
You would not believe how many of us have been subtly and yet powerfully taught that freezing is the safest way to deal with the situation. 

So what? So why is all of this what I'm thinking about now? Is it the Epstein files? 
Not really. The ones they've released are so redacted and cherry-picked that anyone who has any real power isn't in them, easily to be found. 
It's mostly an article I read in the NYT's written by Nicholas Confessore with Rebecca R. Ruiz, Matthew Goldstein, David Enrich, and Steve Elder contributing. The article came out two says ago and I shouldn't have read it but I did. 

Female bodies were currency. 
FEMALE BODIES WERE CURRENCY. 
FEMALE BODIES WERE CURRENCY.

The article has statements by many women whose bodies were used as currency about how these two men and all of the other men in their private boys club felt as if they had every right in the world to touch, to fondle, to grope, to bed any woman (or girl) they wanted either because of the money, the fame, the name, or the power. 
Or...just because they were men. Older men. Much older men. Men who could perhaps ensure them a career as a model or who could help them work their way up the beauty pageant chain. Perhaps have a career as an actress. The possibilities were limitless. All you had to do was...

Whatever the men wanted. 

Some of the women refused. When Donald would enter their room at Mar-A-Lago, uninvited and unwanted to grope and fondle them, they would assertively push him off. But many did not. Could not. How any of them could is beyond me. I could never be that strong and self-assured.
And here's the thing- this was not only indicative of how he saw and thought of and treated women. It was also indicative of how he saw himself as above any sort of law or moral code because he was who he was and he was best friends with a man who was friends with some of the wealthiest men in the world, powerful politicians, movie directors, university professors. Hell- a FUCKING PRINCE! And they were all in it together. A secret little cabal of men who all considered themselves about the law with no need to worry about the emotional and physical harm they were doing to both children and young women because female bodies were the currency. 

And here's the thing- even if the electorate did not know of the Epstein connection, of the unreported sexual harassment, of the actual rapes, just those few words caught on tape about grabbing women by the pussy should have told everyone exactly what kind of a man he was. This wasn't just locker room talk. This was an admission that Trump did not think of himself as someone who had to follow the rules that applied to everyone else. That he did not care at all what harm his actions could cause. 
Say what you will about the man and all of his lies, he always told us exactly who he was. 
Remember when he said "I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, okay, and I wouldn't lose any voters, okay? It's, like, incredible."

Ha, ha, ha! People said. "Oh, that Donald. He's such a joker."

No. He wasn't joking. He meant it. And he got elected, not once, but twice, and now he's getting away with breaking laws left and right, wiping his ass on the Constitution, causing the deaths of untold numbers of people, and displaying no more regard for the people of this country than he did for the women whose bodies were currency for him and his pal. He knew Epstein was a horrible, sleazy pedophile, but he admired him and the power he wielded, just as he admires dictators and murderers and leaders of drug cartels. And just as with Epstein, he wants to be their best buddies. He sucks up to them, he kisses their asses, he says, "Things happen."
And just as he wanted women to want him, to admire him, to stoke his ego, he wants his staff and his cabinet and his minions to want him, to admire him, to constantly feed the bottomless pit of his need to be admired and praised. 

I tried to tell Glen how I was feeling about this today. I cried, and then I shouted, "And I hate every person in this country who voted for him. They knew what he was and they voted for him anyway. I HATE them."

And I do. If that's a horrible thing to say then so be it. 

I felt better after my outburst and I thanked my husband for listening to me. I spent a great deal of time in the garden today. I planted more collards because the ones I'd planted earlier are just not thriving. Probably a combination of needing fertilization or soil enrichment, and lack of sunlight. I also replanted some chard because so much of the row August and I planted didn't even come up. And then I weeded. I got on my knees in the dirt and I weeded the tiniest weeds, hundreds of them, and I listened to a not-great book but not a horrible one either and I needed all of that so bad. 
Same with the soup I've made. I needed to do that too. 

I'm not sure why I felt the need to write all this again but I did. I do. I think that many, many women know what I'm talking about. I doubt I've made myself very clear but this is how I'm feeling and have been feeling for nine years now except that every day of DJ Fuckwad's time in office is worse than the one before. 

I love the way Maurice hangs out with me outside. 

And I love the way the mustard greens are edged with such beautiful frills. They must be washed thoroughly or there will be dirt in either your pot of greens or your salad. They are best soaked for awhile, rinsed, and rinsed again. 
Some things can easily be soaked and rinsed to a state of absolute cleanliness. Some things never, ever could be. Or will be. 
And there is no use in trying or even believing it to be possible and it is best to simply pull those things out by the root and toss them on the burn pile.

Love...Ms. Moon

I Rage And Then Delete

Here I am, another evening where I've written an entire post and then deleted it all. I talked about my incredibly boring, non-important day (guess what? I washed the sheets!) and then segued into how much I hate and abhor Donald Trump and gave many reasons why and also expressed my anger and ire at every one of the people in this country who voted for him and all of those words were as fiery and red hot and ugly as the deepest pits of hell and I meant every one of them but what good are they going to do? 

Who knows? Tomorrow I may rewrite the whole damn thing. 
Until then...

It's Friday, y'all. 
Love...Ms. Moon

I Fucked Up But I Didn't Burn Down A Playboy Mansion

I should simply resign from blogging. I should have my follower status of Keith Richards on Facebook revoked. I should bow my head in shame. I should grovel and beg forgiveness. I should be sentenced to having to inventory down to the tuning pegs of his supposedly three thousand guitars. I should be forced to reread "Life" for the fourth or fifth time. 

Or better yet, forced to read aloud along with the audio version as I read the read the words on the pages of the book.
Hmmmmm....

Or to write him a personal letter of apology and offer to make him a shepherd's pie every month for the rest of my life. 
Or something. 
Because I absolutely thought that yesterday was Keith's birthday while in reality, it is today. 
Now. Do I know the actual birth date of the man? 
Well yes. I do. 

Hell, it's on my calendar. 
Did this stop me from making that grievous error? 
No. No it did not. 
Am I losing my mind at an uncomfortable rate? 
Oh, honey. You bet. 

Hell, I was signing dated documents at the bank yesterday. I knew what day of the month it was and yet, somehow, I had convinced myself that it was December 18th. I am such an idiot. 

Okay. I'm done berating myself. La-di-dah. Life will go on. Keith will never know, and although I will forever be deeply embarrassed, it won't kill me. And besides, this small mix-up of dates would probably not upset Keith in the least. He's the man who, with his best friend and birthday twin, the horn player Bobby Keys, came close to burning down the Chicago Playboy mansion doing drugs in a bathroom there. 

It was 1972. Come on. Things happened. 

Since today is the actual day, I don't feel bad about saying a few more words about the Old Boy. One of the things I loved most about his book is that he tells SO many stories of things that happened to him, with him, because of him, and with the Rolling Stones in general. Also many other musicians and assorted saints and sinners. Some of the stories are hysterical, some of them are frightening, some of them are romantic, some of them are extremely painful, and all of them, I believe, are honest. From his experiences traveling in the south in the US in the sixties, to falling in love with Ronnie Spector (nee, Ronnie Bennet), to meeting his idols, to the deepest depths of his addictions, to the loss of a son through crib death, to his reuniting with his father and bringing him into his life to tour with the band and become part of the family, to writing the basic bones of "Satisfaction" in his sleep, to his mother and aunties, to his grandfather and the guitar he gave him, to the women he loved, to the tragedy at Altamont, and mostly to the music. 
Always the music. 
Oh god. There is so much more. One chapter of his book can hold more experiences than most lives. 

He should have died at least a hundred times and yet, did not. He is still with the same band he began with over sixty years ago and has the same personal manager he's had since the seventies, a woman named Jane Rose. Can you imagine the book SHE could write? He's had the same guitar wrangler for over 35 years. Pierre de Beauport. And as noted before, has been married to the same woman for 42 years. 

So I guess that was my real Keith birthday post. 

It's been raining again all day but so lightly you can almost count the drops as they fall. There was a short hiatus at sunset and the air became a strange and eery shade of pink and red and orange. 

I'm going to go bake some bread and cook some greens. Mr. Moon is home. 

One last picture.

The most bad boy of all of rock and roll's bad boys, holding his band mate's twin daughters. 

Love...Ms. Moon

No Title Except That It's Keithmas Once Again

Well, don't say I didn't decorate this year because obviously I have. I even had to buy AA batteries to fuel the lights on the tree and I went out of my way to get the lights themselves at the Walgreens which had them on sale for $3.50 a string. 

Ho-motherfucking-ho. 

Today was almost as good as yesterday was bad. First off, Owen got out of school early because of exams and he offered to pick up his mama to go to lunch and asked her to invite anyone who could come. That turned out to be Jessie and me and we had such a good time. Well, Jessie and Lily and I did. Owen probably not as much. The poor kid had to listen to us cackling like hens over our Pho as we discussed various things that sixteen-year old boys do not necessarily want to hear but he's used to it. We are not your typical family. He's such a good boy to tolerate us. 
Here are the after pictures. 

That Moon gene is a powerful thing, isn't it? 

Lily likes to get pictures of Owen and me because I make him look so very tall. As if he actually wasn't. 
I just love to smoosh up next to Owen. He makes me feel so loved. 

I went to Costco after that to get Maggie's Christmas present and at this point, I have almost finished the gift shopping except that I have nothing yet for Glen. What in the world do you give a man who literally buys everything he might want himself? A new paint roller? A box of shotgun shells? Hearing aids?

Oh yeah. We already got those. 
I'll probably do what I always do which is to go to Bass Pro Shop and get him some things that he can take back and exchange for the things he really wants. 

But I feel so very good, having gotten the children's and grandchildren's gifts taken care of although there is still the wrapping to do and I am just the worst wrapper. I take no joy or pride in it. Are you shocked? I actually paid two dollars apiece to the WhirleyPop company to have those things wrapped. I guess Glen's getting the one I bought for us as a present. Does that count? Sure. He's the one who eats all the popcorn. 

After Costco...off to the bank. Ms. Cynthia helped me and she got 'er done. At least in theory. I believe her. It was so confusing but she just powered through it all, telling those people on the other end of the phone line what was what and she knew all the right words and codes and EVERYTHING! Of course I felt like an ass, not even being able to find my credit union's app on my own phone. I needed that for purposes I do not need to mention here but she found the app on my own phone and then I went to open it and of course I had no idea what my password is and then I found it but by that time, we were way past that and TA-DAH! it was done. 
I thanked her fifty times and wished her the happiest, merriest, most love-filled, holy Christmas ever and got in my car and drove away. 
Here are the hives I developed as I sat on the other side of her desk, not being able to find an app on my own phone.

Eh. I get those all the time. These disappeared quickly. 

And now I'm home and I am going to cook some tofu although I'm not sure what I'm going to cook with it. Cabbage, I think, because I have some of that. I'm pretty excited. 

But of course, the big news of today is that it is Keith Richards 82nd birthday and as I said, the other day, the 42nd anniversary of his marriage to Patti Hansen. 

For any of you who have no idea why I am so enamored with Keith Richards, I won't even try to explain. I have written so many posts about this strange and true obsession but here, I think, is the very beginning of how it happened. It all started fifteen years ago when I bought Keith's memoir, Life, and although perhaps the embers have cooled a tiny bit, the fire is still strong within me. 
Go ahead, roll those eyes. I do not care. 
There are days when the most positive thing I can think of is that Keith Richards is still alive and still playing guitar and is still there for his wife, his children, his grandchildren and that he has never given up. 
No matter how bad it got for him, he held on to his guitar, his music, his band, his mates. 
And there has never been another like him and there never will be. 

There are rumors going around on the internet about Keith's health but I am not going to address them. Partially because rumors are just that- rumors, and partially because the man has defied death too many times to count, and mostly because as I told Lily once when she asked me how I'd be if he died, I will not be okay. 

He just played at a benefit to raise funds for research on Frontotemporal Degeneration and that is reassuring. 

Anyway, here's a video the Stones posted at least eleven years ago on Keith's birthday and I'll never not love it. 

Happy birthday, Keith Richards. 

Gold rings on ya. And whatever combination of genes and love and music and magic you have used to stay here with us, keep on using it as long as you can. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Technology Will Be The Death Of Me Yet Which Is Fine Because I Won't Have To Deal With Technology

Another picture of Maurice? 
Ho-hum.

The reason I am posting it is because it's the only picture I took today besides a picture of a shower insert and I KNOW you do not need to see that.

Today has been the suck. And I can't believe I am complaining about my day when parts of Washington state are crumbling in the unceasing rain they're getting, and there are wars going on, and people are dealing with real horrors but you know me- none of that ever stopped me from having a good bitch fest. 

I woke up to find Mr. Moon already deep into answering questions on a form as thick as a small novel which is intended to help us begin to set up trusts for the children in the extremely minuscule possibility that we'll die at some point. I have the hardest time in the world filling out forms like that. Not because I really think I'll never die but because (a) I know I will, and (b) I want our wishes to be so completely covered in all ways so that no one is hurt, there are no unfairnesses, and the children will have the least amount of trouble dealing with all that shit. 
Also, (c), I don't know the answers to half those questions. 
And to be faced with that before I've had one sip of coffee at a moment when my morning angst is registering an eight out of ten, AND I know this is the day I have set aside to deal with the bank situation, the insurance situation, and THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT situation, is really too much to ask of me. 

I recoiled in horror. 

Glen assured me that I didn't have to fill out the form today and advised me that I was going to just have to do some research and neither of those things comforted me in the least. Please understand that not once in our relationship of over forty-two years, has this man lain in bed and complained about having to get up. Not when he was working, not when he goes hunting or fishing, not when he has to be at the airport so early that dawn is a hardly believable rumor. 
So I guess it's a bit difficult to grasp the way a normal person might struggle with coming to an understanding with the universe about how to live another day. 

I got the health insurance thing covered. All I needed was a new card because I probably threw the one they sent me away and it's just about the end of the year and god forbid I have a kidney stone event or break my leg when I don't have a current card. But this was not so difficult although of course I did have to deal with the phone bots and "Tell me how we can help you today!" shit. 

The bank thing? Holy fuck. I'm trying to do something which should be so simple but up until now, seems to be a major problem with the bank I'm dealing with. Mr. Moon had to go through the same process but in his case, the guy who helped him get a new card was able to do it all in a day whereas I've been back to the bank three times now and have been told that I need to download the mobile app and get this situation solved there or call the number on the back of my card for help. 
I have downloaded the fucking mobile app. Do I find anywhere on that site where my actual problem is addressed? No, I do not. And the bots absolutely do not understand what I'm asking about and getting through to a human was a task that strained the very last ounce of reasonable human response I had. Finally, I did. This occurred just when the refrigerator repair guy (oh yeah- that too) was trying to tell me that there is no reason my refrigerator seems to be leaking very small amounts of water onto my floor which is going to create even more rot around here. 
"I'm sorry," I said to him. "I need to talk to this person. I finally got a human!" 
He understood. 
The human seemed to grasp the situation but she told me that no, I could not deal with the problem via the mobile app but had to go to the website or she could send me a form to fill out- ANOTHER FORM- which I know I have already filled out. 
I told her to go ahead and send the form and then I went to the web site and I THINK I may have gotten it almost straightened out but then I glitched because I'd signed "AGREE" to a fifty page document which of course I did not read but which may have included giving over my eldest grandson to Beelzebub who will then train him in the ways of Crypto. 
I have no idea what I'm talking about. 
ANYWAY I shall be going back to the bank. Again. 

I did order the yearly Virgin of Guadalupe calendars and three stainless steel WhirleyPops. One for us and two for the families who preferred those over the Tupperware Heritage collection. No worries about the kids reading this. They know. 
I am slowly getting there and as always, I have waited until the last damn moment because it stresses me out to an unbelievably inappropriate degree to deal with any sort of Christmas stuff. 

I just texted with Lily who is also stressing out (and who the hell isn't and if you aren't, please just don't talk about it here) and I said, "Oh Lord, can't we be Muslim?" and she texted back, "Or JW's," meaning Johova’s Witnesses. 
"Well yes, there you go!" I said to her. "Although would we have to go witness and shit? We could just SAY we're JW's." 
I'd apologize for being such a heretic but I refuse. And anyone who comes here to visit for more than a week knows what my beliefs about religion are. 

And so it goes. Mr. Moon is over there at Lake Seminole, putting up something in the bathroom which involves cutting boards. He is about to eat some of the oyster stew I made for him to take. Say what you will about my attitude towards the cabin, I make sure the man will eat and generally, something I've made. I know he loves that and I love him. 

Tomorrow I plan to go back to the bank, pick up a present for Maggie at Costco, and...I don't know. I have no idea. Oh yeah! Go to the library! No pottery tomorrow because we're between sessions. I look at my fish spoon rests and they make me want to get back in that studio and enjoy more playtime. Soon. 

As to Keithmas, which happens tomorrow, I tried for like forty-five minutes to find one of my favorite videos of the ovation Keith got in Argentina when they played there on their last South American tour. In it, Keith gets so overcome by emotion when the massive crowd sings the Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole song to him for so long that the the entire concert is paused and Ronnie Wood has to comfort him. 
I know there's a good clip somewhere but damn if I can find it. 
So I'll just give you this one which someone in the crowd obviously took and it's not very good in that it does not have the old boy in focus on the Jumbotron or whatever that is. 
Still. It's what I have. I would advise starting around 1:11. 

He is beloved all over the world. 

Even in Lloyd. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Worth The Frostbite

May and Jessie and I went to get our toes painted and our feet made beautiful today. May only has Sundays and Mondays off and many nail salons are not open on Sundays so today was the day. And it was SO cold that the prospect of wearing flip flops in order not to ruin the polish was daunting but those two would not let me wimp out and so off to town I went. 
It really was fun and worth every bit of having cold feet for awhile. I'd never been to this salon before and it was nice. I had a unique experience there today and I will not soon forget it. Except of course, that I probably will because you know- memory loss. But for now the memory is firmly lodged in the drawer left slightly open in my mind closet for easy access. 
Both Jessie and May had older men salon techs and I had an older woman. And when I say "older" I do not mean as old as me. They just weren't spring chickens. There was a woman there who sat across from us with her shoes on the floor beside her, lying in a massage chair, looking at her phone. She had a towel draped over her because yes, it was, as I said, it was cold. For us. I had no idea who this lady was but she was Asian, seemed to work there, and was absolutely beautiful. She appeared to be in her late twenties, if that, but later May told us that she is the boss lady which explains her lounging about while keeping an eye on things. So she may have been fifty, who knows? Whatever, she was truly beautiful. 

Nail salon techs can vary from the extremely talkative to the almost silent. I am sure a lot of the variation comes with degrees in confidence of speaking English. My lady did not talk much at all but I absolutely understood that she called me "Mama." This is a thing I've noticed about people from some Asian backgrounds- as I've aged, they have become so respectful and almost tender towards me. I remember the nurse I had when I was in the hospital to get my kidney stone lasered. I believe she was from the Philippines and she could not have been more attentive and honestly, really loving towards me in her care. I know I must have reminded her of her grandmother and in that situation, I took it as a huge compliment. 
And perhaps today's lady also saw me as a grandmother, as of course I am. So she called me "Mama" but as I said, did not say much else except to ask me questions about what she was doing, if the water was too hot, if I liked the color of the nail polish, and so forth. When she was rubbing my calves, she looked up at me and I mouthed, "Thank you," and she smiled.
So my girls and I chatted and laughed and talked about husbands and all the secret things that women chat about at times (or, at least husbands think we do and which yeah, we do) and it was a pleasant experience and we all loved the way our feet looked at the end of the pedicure. I paid for all of us because that's what mamas do, right? When I put the tips on to the bill, the lady who had done my care looked at me as if I'd tipped each of them a hundred dollars (uh, nope) and seemed so, so happy, at which point, she opened her arms to me, brought me in for a hug, and said, "Thank you, Mama! I love you!" and what could I say but, "Thank YOU! I love you too."
And at that moment, I certainly did. I mean...I live for hugs and she gave me a good one. 
Boss Lady, from her chair, said, "Thank you, Mama!" and then there was a chorus of "Merry Christmas!" from seemingly all the employees. 
Dang. 

After that sweetness, we went to our favorite Mediterranean restaurant and my veggie platter was so damn pretty I had to take a picture of it. 

Pita, falafel, hummus, dolmades, Greek salad and some other thing hiding under the pita which I forget the name of. At least 2/3's of it is now in my refrigerator. No way I could eat all that food. 
And while we ate we talked some more, and it was wonderful to have May there too. She works so hard and so many hours that we don't get to spend a lot of time with her which means that when we do, it's a joy. Well, it would be a joy anyway but it's even more special. 

I had completely forgotten to take a picture of us so Jessie took a selfie in the parking lot which, I mean- uh, yeah! We were freezing! Can you tell? The temperature was not that low but it was so breezy that the cold air rushed through our clothes and flip-flops. There were hugs and more hugs, kisses and more kisses. 
You know- the way we do it. 

Oh my way home I passed by a yard which for well over a year now has had giant Trump signs. Not just his profane name but also things like, "Hispanics for Trump!" and other signs proclaiming big lies about what he was going to do for the economy and so on and so forth but guess what? 
They are gone. 
Gone without a trace. For the first time in forever I passed that part of the road without having to display a middle finger which I generally do not do because (I know this sounds funny), I consider that gesture so profane that only the very worst of the worst inspires me to do it. 

One wonders...

I have so much more I could say about how that man has responded to tragedies in the last few days but you already know. He is beneath contempt. I suppose we could blame it all on the ever-encroaching final states of dementia but my god, my god. 

The way Trump spoke on his fucking Truth Social account about the incredibly senseless and horrible deaths of the students at Brown University, and of Carl Reiner and his wife are, for me, reason enough to have Congress invoke the 25th Amendment, Section 4. 

Yeah, yeah. I know. J.D. Vance. 
Well, one down, more to go. 

For today's Keith Richard tribute, I advise you to go and read this article from 2016. 

And then, for a bit of a bite of what rock and roll was at one time, I give you this which I have probably posted at least five times. Possibly more. 

This is from 1981. A crazed fan had rushed the stage and before security had subdued him, dear Keith took care of the problem. 
He has said that when he strapped the guitar back on, it was still in tune. He has also said that although he bailed the guy out of jail, he'd do it again. No one was going to get to HIS lead singer. 

There you go. 

Love...Ms. Moon