Grieving For Lost Myths

For the second day in a row it doesn't look like I'm going to answer comments. I don't plan on making a habit of this but I'm running late tonight, mostly because I took a nap this afternoon which is something I hardly ever do. 
I took a nap because I felt tired. I think the fall caught up with me a bit today and I have developed what I am diagnosing with the help of Dr. Google as an intercostal muscle strain or a between-the ribs muscle strain. The pain I'm having ticks all the boxes. I was feeling a little discomfort in that area up until this afternoon when I was scrubbing a sink and make a fairly quick twisting move and... KA-BLAM.
Ouch. 
I'm being a baby. 
I'll tell you this- it's nothing like a broken rib. And my wrist feels much better, although still somewhat delicate. 
There is no powerlifting in my immediate future.

See that pretty little tree in the photo up there? That is a limequat. Jessie and Vergil got it for us for Christmas and Vergil even came over and planted it for us so you know it's done right. It is a cross between a key lime and a kumquat which are two of my favorite citrus fruits. The peel, which is quite thin, is supposed to be very sweet, the inside part, tasting more like a lime. We have been wanting to plant citrus in the backyard where the Bradford pears were removed and this is Jessie's and Vergil's way of urging us to do it. Their yard in town is filled with citrus trees and it's amazing how much fruit they produce. And of course, having Vergil come out with all of the different things needed to ensure a good start for the tree is a wonderful gift to us.
Vergil also planted the little olive tree Jessie got me a few months ago. I am VERY excited about that too.

In Christmas prep news, I peeled the eggs I boiled yesterday but I haven't deviled them yet. Is that what you'd call it? Perhaps "bedevil," like "bedazzle."  
Who knows? 

And I made the chicken salad. Here is this year's version. It probably looks just like every year's version except for the years Jessie has decorated it.

I even made a small version for the Weatherfords as I am almost certain they won't be able to be part of the festivities at Lily's house tomorrow. 

August may be on the mend but still had a fever, at least this morning, Levon now has it full-force, and Jessie appears to be coming down with it. Either they'll do a drive-by to Lily's tomorrow or else we'll be dropping off presents and that little bowl of Moon Christmas Tradition at their house. 

This makes me so sad. 
I just sent a text to Jessie asking how everyone was and she said the boys still have fevers despite alternating Tylenol and Ibuprofen but the good news is that they're happy and still excited about Christmas. They are generally positive little guys. She's not running a fever yet but feels achy and loopy. 
Ooh boy.

There is part of me that wishes with all my heart that I could still feel some of that Christmas Eve magic which children can conjure so easily and which I even felt when my own children were little. I was actually deeply invested in the Nativity story when I was a child, loving the simple romance of a baby being born in a barn who would become...well, JESUS! It was a rather simple and pure love I had, based on too many Christmas shows and Christmas sermons and even the traditional Christmas plays our church put on. One year I sang, one year I was Mary. Of course. Even at a young age, I was in love with the English language and I will never forget the thrill I felt when I heard the lines from Luke 2:19 which were, "And Mary kept these things and pondered them in her heart."
I'm not sure why but the word ponder was beautiful to me. I still use it a lot. I think it is an excellent word, saying more than its worth in its  

number of letters. 

But then I grew up and I read the Bible and I realized how much of it was myth and made-up stories and then I had babies of my own and the sweet image I'd had of Mary being pregnant one moment, and then the next, having a child laying in the manger, dressed in swaddling clothes, surrounded by the shepherds and magi and oxen and sheep, was completely destroyed. 
And by the way- barns don't smell like sweet hay if animals live in them. They smell quite literally like shit. 
But of course that's all the least of it and even if I knew none of it was true, I could still feel the deep pulling of my heart yearning to feel that way again. 
Over the years, even that passed. I can still remember what it felt like when I was a child, and that feeling is sweet but I can also remember what it felt like to believe in Santa and that feeling is ooh-type excitement which is also very cool. I mean, Jesus was adorable but Santa brought presents. 

Ah, lah. What am I talking about? Who knows? Not me. What I do know is that none of the Christmas lights or the Christmas songs or the Christmas shopping or the Christmas yard displays hold much interest for me. I can definitely see the beauty in certain light displays, especially the ones in cities, but mainly, my cynical heart just wonders how much energy these things are sucking and also- who has to put all this stuff up and who's paying for that? And worst of all- who has to take all that stuff down? Just taking down a Christmas tree was always a monumental task to me. 

Since I started writing this I've taken time to go get our supper started. I have a tiny meatloaf in the toaster oven, a pan with potatoes boiling which shall be mashed potatoes, and another with some of our canned green beans with onions. 
I discovered today that my husband is making me an outdoor sink to put by the garden so I can wash vegetables there which is something I have wanted for many years. 
Vergil planted us a limequat. 
Tomorrow I will see all of my children and grandchildren and children's partners, even if I will only be able to see the Weatherfords from a distance. 
My silly little Norfolk Island pine does offer a bit of cheer along with the vintage Santa lights. 

And all of that is good enough for me. No magic involved except for the magic of good luck, of the capacity to love, of health, and of the planting of a new tree which is now being shone down on by a silver crescent of a sharp-pointed moon. I will keep these things and I will ponder them in my heart. 
And also? I will wish that every baby born, no matter where or to whom, is loved and adored, if not by angels and magi and shepherds but by parents and grandparents and all of those who have waited long months to greet them. And I also know that every birth is a miracle because a woman has created life with her body, sharing blood and air and space and then, with tremendous effort, has delivered a child to this earth, to this place and time. No need for virgin birth to be involved.

Happy Whatever This Night Means To You...Ms. Moon

In Which The Ground And I Have An Unexpected Encounter

I took a fall today.
Jesus. 
Glen was about to leave to take Magnolia fishing on the St. Marks River and as he was getting in his FourRunner he asked if I had a hat she could borrow because one does need a hat for fishing. 
Well, of course I did so I went back to the house to get it and was walking towards him when I tripped on a root and went down like a tree. I absolutely face-planted. I seriously ate dirt. My glasses flew off and my hearing aids did the same. 
How incredibly old can one possibly feel? 

How old ARE you? Old enough that when I fall, my hearing aids fall out.

Falling is the most seriously bizarre thing. One second you are functioning on earth with its gravity as one has all of one's life, remaining upright while walking as all humanoids have done since the dawn of humanoid history and the next you are in a completely different time/space continuum wherein gravity has taken over in a new and interesting and yet, horrifying way as you somehow have time to think, "Well hell. I am falling." 
And then, "How bad is this going to be?"
The last time I had a fall like this was years ago when I slipped on the back porch steps in the rain, fell, and realized quite quickly that I had damaged something pretty bad. In that case, I had broken what I think was four ribs and so yes, I had. 
In today's spill, I yelled out, "Oh, babe!" to Glen I suppose, but he wasn't very close and didn't hear me so I laid there and took inventory. I was breathing fine, nothing hurt terribly, and my face and chest were filthy with dirt. 
Okay. 
I got up and everything seemed to be working but as I gingerly touched my face, my hand came away bloody. And dirty. But I picked up my glasses which seemed miraculously to be unharmed and was not yet aware that I'd lost both hearing aids. I knew I'd lost one because I saw it and I picked that up too. I walked over to Glen who was unsurprisingly shocked. 
"I fell," I said. 
Duh.
"Are you alright?" 
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."
Why do we always say that? We could be laying on the ground with our arm separated from our body and we'd probably still say, "Oh, that's nothing. I'm fine. Just give me a minute here!"
But really, I was. I even convinced him to go on and pick up Maggie because that girl has been wanting to go fishing with her Boppy forever. I gave him the cap and he offered again to stay home, take me to the doctor, whatever, and I shooed him off, came in, went to the bathroom to assess the damage, took a washcloth to my face, stopped the bleeding of the little cut on my nose and put a bandaid on it, rubbed off the dirt, rinsed the sand out of my mouth, and was grateful as hell to see that my nose looked unbroken, my teeth were still exactly where they had been before. All-in-all, not so bad. The only thing that really hurt was my left wrist which must have taken some brunt of the fall or else I fell on it weird. I have no idea. It's the wrist I broke when I was seventeen and which has grown wonkier with every year of my life and it didn't hurt THAT bad. I could wiggle all my fingers, I had as much range of motion in the wrist as I had before which is to say, not a whole lot but I still had what I'd had. I didn't have any blurry vision or dizziness or bleeding from the mouth or nose and so this nurse's assessment was that I was (a) very lucky, and (b) in no need of a doctor. 

I think I'm going to be sore tomorrow. My nose is swollen, my face is red, as one would imagine after being sandpapered, and the wrist is bothersome. I've taken it fairly easy today as I know that the fall was an insult to the body as they say, and I am no spring chicken. I will be glad to get in bed tonight though, I can tell you that.

I got no food prep done except to boil a bunch of eggs to make deviled eggs for Thursday. I somehow ended up with many, many eggs, having bought some and then given some by Jessie from her hens, and Glen brought some home from Lake Seminole where a neighbor is taking care of a flock whose owners moved and who could not take their birds with them. I took the trash, I tidied up the wrapping paper detritus but I did not carry the bin that holds it all back upstairs, I loaded up all the boxes that were clogging up my pantry in the garden cart and hauled them to the burn pile but none of those things, not one of them, was very strenuous at all. 

I think that Magnolia and her grandfather had a very good time on the river. They just got off the water about an hour ago and so it was a full day. Here are a few pictures Boppy sent to Lily and me.

Pre-fishing lunch at the Riverside Cafe under their beautiful palapa roof. 

The ladyfish that Maggie caught entirely by herself.

A baby redfish.

Maggie is most definitely a Moon. All of the Moon women I've known have loved fishing as much as the men. I am so pleased that Glen took our grandgirl today. I know she will remember that for a very long time. 

An interesting thing that happened this morning before I lost touch with gravity was that I was inspired to google my great-uncle Burkett's house on Lookout Mountain. I have spoken about Burkett before. He was a very well-known man in Chattanooga, Tennessee for various reasons and there is a park named for him downtown there which he funded. He was also the founder of The Miller Center Foundation at the University of Virginia. 
I remember Uncle Burkett and his wife, Bill (yes) very well from my childhood. He was a character and not really a child friendly character but even at a young age, I knew the man had gravitas, even though I had no idea what that word meant. I was slightly terrified of him but somehow knew that I was so far beneath his radar that he gave as much notice to me as he would a house cat. Or less. He and Aunt Bill had no children of their own and I think my brother and I were simply aliens to him. 

I had vague memories of the house he and Aunt Bill lived in on Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, and I wondered if there was anyway to find it on the all-knowing google. 
Turns out that it was just resold a few years ago and the listing is still to be found. The house was indeed as impressive as I remember although I do not like the way the interior has been redone and modernized. There was one picture that finally answered a question I have had in my mind for my entire adult life. I had the vaguest memory of a stone bench outside on the grounds of the house which I believe my brother and I and perhaps my mother, sat on to wait while some sort of business was taking place in the house. The scandal of my parent's divorce and the legal logistics before and after, were mysterious thing to me but I felt they held great importance and I think some of these issues were what was being discussed that day. But I have never been sure and not even sure that my memory of that stone bench was real. 
And then I saw this.

That's it. There it is. I think my brother and I walked on it as we waited to be allowed back inside. 
Why in the world do I remember that and also- how? Was I even five years old yet? But I swear to you, I have thought about that memory a hundred times. I thought about it and wondered about it just last week. 

I may end up studying our genealogy yet. 

Glen's home. He said it was a very fine day and that Maggie fell asleep on the way home. 
"Fishing wears me out," she told him. 
She'll probably sleep well tonight.

As will I.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. I found the other hearing aid too. I told you I'm lucky. 

Once Again, I Believe I May Live Through This

I saw that spider web this morning, strung and woven between two sea grape leaves, highlighted by the morning sun streaming in through the laundry room window. I had not noticed it before and I'd love to say it just sprang up overnight but I'm pretty sure that's not how it happened. 
I leaned in closer to examine it and I spotted this.

Aha! Can you see the tiny creature near the left border on the sea grape leaf? 

Here's a close-up.

I believe it is a magnolia jumping spider and they are on the good guy team, eating mites, aphids, and ants. And sometimes other, smaller jumping spiders because protein is protein. Am I right? So I will not be taking that web down but will leave it right where it is in hopes that my own personal miniature spider finds happiness and an adequate amount of nutrition in the little plant nursery in front of the window on my folding table.

I have been to town for the last time before Christmas unless someone really, really needs me for something. I needed a few things at Costco and also to return some jeans I got there that I did not like the style of although my favorite jeans at the moment I also got at Costco but a different Levi's fit and style. Both men's jeans which have always and still do fit me better than women's. I absolutely do NOT have an hourglass figure, my hips being approximately the same size as my waist, and that's all there is to it. 
Costco was so very crowded, of course, but they know how to get you in and out of there in an efficient manner so it wasn't so bad. The hardest part was trying not to block the aisle with my cart. In fact though, EVERYONE was blocking aisles with their carts and a great deal of patience was required. No one really seemed to be in a very holly, jolly Christmas mood, either. 
But that was fine. 
On to Publix where I got most of the things on my list. Because I am going to make Glen's mama's traditional Christmas chicken salad, I needed ingredients. Okay, I say it's Glen's mama's traditional Christmas chicken salad and it is close enough. There was no recipe as far as I or his sister knows so I just try to replicate it the best I can. 
Miracle whip and sweet pickles are involved. Also, red and green grapes and pecans which are used to decorate it. 
Publix too was filled to capacity and the cart blockage even worse as the aisles are far more narrow. Again, no one seemed to be experiencing the joy of the season. I tried to smile in a way that showed I cared and knew that we were all doing the best we could under the circumstances but to tell you the truth, not that many of those smiles were even acknowledged. 
One guy who was with about four other guys, all of whom appeared to be having a good time despite the crowd, did return my smile and we shrugged and I said, "But hey! It's the happiest time of year!" 
"Not for some of us," he said. 
"Is it really for anyone?" I asked, and on we went in our separate directions, me heading to the milk, he and his posse heading to the frozen food section. 
I made sure to thank the cashier and the bagger, thanking them for working so hard in this very, very busy time. They were gracious. Most Publix employees are. 
Which leads me to what happened in the liquor store when I went to visit Lily for a hug and a brief discussion about what we're doing on Christmas. 
I was standing there, waiting for an opportunity to tell her good-bye. As one can probably guess, liquor stores are doing a booming business right now, either because people are having parties and want to celebrate or people are at the end of their ropes and need some chemical assistance to get through this mess. Either way, they are busy.

So I was standing there, waiting for that good-bye when a man came in who was one of Lily's regulars, as she told me later. She had already pulled his regular purchase off the shelf and had the bottles ready for him and Lily told him that I was her mother. 
And then that man began praising my girl, calling her a sweet, kind, intelligent, cheerful, hard-working person. He praised her to the skies and I stood there and loved every second of it. 
"Go on, go on," I told him. "You know I love hearing this."

I was beaming and so was he. 

After he left, Lily told me that he is truly one of her favorite customers and I could see why. And then I teared up because I am so proud to be her mother and because I know she deserves all the praise she'd just been given by him. I have seen her help and check out people who look like they probably drive BMW's and people who look like they've probably never owned a car in their lives and she treats them all with the same respect and courtesy. Some people buy bourbon that costs up to a hundred dollars or more a bottle and some people buy two shot-sized bottles of Fireball, and Lily makes each and every one of them feel as if their purchase is as important as any other. She does not judge. She is gracious to all. 

And that was a beautiful experience. 

Another very nice thing that JUST happened was that Mr. Moon wrapped all the presents we are going to be giving. He is a much better wrapper than I am and I hate wrapping gifts and so in his doing that, he has given me a gift. 
ALTHOUGH, I will point out that he did tell me that I could clean up after him which is a little what-the-fuckish but hey- it's better than having to wrap and also clean up. 
He is good. He is not perfect. Like I say, he ain't walking on water yet. 
But then again, neither am I.

I had set aside an entire day to wrap those presents which was a vast over-estimation of the time it would take, so I feel like I have an entire stress-free day before Christmas. Perhaps Glen and I can spend some time outside with him giving me instructions on how to operate the new battery-powered chain saw he's gotten me for Christmas. I said awhile back that I sort of wanted one and he ordered me one and I opened it, thinking it was something I'd ordered for the kids. 
I am timidly excited about having my own chain saw. I bought some men's heavy duty work gloves at Costco today and I feel like perhaps I need some men's heavy duty work boots too. Not only would they make me feel powerful and protect my feet should I drop my battery-operated chain saw, they could also be a fashion statement, especially worn with a dress or skirt. 
I'm really not kidding about that either. 

I finally figured out something to get him and although it won't be here by Thursday, I think he'll like it and it's not something I believe he would buy for himself. It may not be as good as a chain saw but it's pretty okay. 

I am feeling that the stress of Christmas I always feel has lightened tremendously. A burden taken off my shoulders. 
I will make that chicken salad with a light heart, and a glad one. And I will not be going back to town. 

Love...Ms. Moon

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