No Suffering!

I am that tired. Falling asleep sitting up tired.
It was a long day.
This morning's filming was so much fun. I just slipped right into the character, whoever SHE was, and I danced with it. Not quite literally, but almost.
We were in a magical place to film and at one point, one of the caretakers there came out and said, "Would you cast us a good spell?"
Well. This is MUCH nicer than being kicked out off the property. I told her I would do my best.
I don't know why, but when I'm in the right mood, being in front of FC's camera does nothing to frighten me or make me anxious. Possibly because there is no real crew to speak of, just a few people and so I'm not wasting a bunch of people's time and I'm not having to prove anything. I am not a movie star nor even an actor-wanna be. I am just...whoever Freddy wants me to be.
It's a joy.

But really, it's been a very, very long day. From early this morning to just now I have run, run, run. I stayed with Owen for a few hours, I visited with Kathleen. Can I tell you how beautiful she is? Her hair is coming in, a smooth, lovely cap of gray which covers her head and makes her look like the goddess she is. She is driving down to Pine Island tomorrow to spend Christmas with her family and I am so glad she feels well enough to do it. She had offers of rides but has chosen to drive herself and I am sure she can do that.
I hope they have a wonderful Christmas.

And Mr. Moon is playing poker and I should be wrapping presents and this morning's dishes still aren't washed and I am just beat. But, as you can see- my lipstick still looks good! (Loreal, Saucy Sangria, in case you're interested. That shit is awesome.)

So. Dishes. And then maybe try to wrap a few things? Or fall in bed?

We shall see. Either way I do not intend to suffer.

Life holds enough of that on its own and I do not plan on taking any which is not my share to take.
Not tonight, anyway.

And don't you do it either.

And P.S.
I really do not have the energy to respond to comments tonight and may not have the time tomorrow. Please know this breaks my heart but, sometimes you can only do what you're big enough to do, as Mr. Moon's wise father used to say.
I am reading them. I am loving them. I am loving you, too.

Gatherings

Three days before Christmas. Is that right?
Okay. Here's one thing I like about Christmas- sometimes people get together.
Last night after rehearsal at the Opera House, Jan whipped up eggnog and we all sat around and talked for a bit and although we see each other three times a week, it was just nice.
And then I came home and went next door to Ms. Fleur's house for a solstice party and there was a couple there whom I've known for a very long time, whose wedding in fact, I officiated at and I haven't seen them in forever.
And it was GOOD.
It was one of those remeetings where your heart opens because it's been keeping someone close in it and it gives a sigh...oh.
Just that.
Oh. Here you are again. Well. Yes. I still love you.

And we drank a toast to the man's daddy whose birthday it would have been if he hadn't died and we all cried a little and hugged and we talked about the people who have gone on whom we've loved and we talked about chickens and ducks and dogs and the longest night of the year ended up being way too short.

That's what I like about Christmas. Or, in this case, the solstice.

And now I'm off for a fine, full day of filming and of taking care of my grandson and then tomorrow will be the day I wrap and bring in magnolia leaves and make chicken salad and then it will be Christmas Eve and all of my babies will be here and such sweetness.
Such sweetness.

I'm too overwhelmed by it all right now to be bitter or angry or resentful or sad.
I am just grateful for the ones in my life that I can get my arms around, the ones far away that I may not be able to, but that mean much to me nonetheless.

And on we go. I hope there is candlelight and love for you, moments of that love and of heart-opening.

And fruitcake, if you so choose.

Mania

Just to make this Season of Darkness, as our Ms. Bastard Beloved calls it, even more intense, I am going to be playing a witch doctor in a film that Mr. Rabbath is making. Who knows if you will ever see it?

I DO IT FOR THE JOY, PEOPLE!

Tomorrow we shall film.
Today I spent Fifty-Five Dollars at the Dollar store. You didn't even know that was possible, did you?
Well. It is.
I bought lots of bags so that if I ever get around to wrapping anything, it will be Fun and Easy!

I asked Freddy if I couldn't be a Santaria Priestess instead of a witch doctor. We all know I yearn to be one of those. Drink rum? Smoke big fat cigars? Dance insanely? Wear crazy dresses and men's boots? Sacrifice goats?
Oh yeah. I'm there, baby.

But no. Maybe someday.

In the meanwhile, I now have plenty of stocking stuffers and I bought a fruitcake. NOT at the Dollar Store, I assure you. Even I wouldn't stoop that low. At Costco, of course. And no fruitcake jokes. I love fruitcake so please- be polite. I usually make my own but this year in the spirit of not doing anything I don't have to do for Christmas, I did not.

So okay, that's my update.

How are your Christmas preparations coming along?
You all ready yet?
(That was for you, rebecca.)

Pass the eggnog. On second thought, forget the eggnog and just pass the rum.

In a week this will all be but a faint dream.

And I can't wait.

Booger Hearted

There. There's a picture of the bird feeder taken from behind the back door and it's a shitty shot and I'm in a shitty mood so there you go.

Something turned in my heart last night and my half-way decent attitude towards Christmas disappeared and my heart is as small and hard and green as one of the Grinch's boogers today.

Last night I went out to see the moon before I went to bed, knowing that I was NOT going to get up to see the eclipse and I wanted to take a picture of that moon and I could not hold still enough so I got on my back on the cold dirt and I propped my arms on my body and I took that picture you see for the header and damn, I was a little bit proud of it and when Mr. Moon saw it he said, "We have a tripod in the closet."

And isn't that just the way I am about everything?
I make everything harder than it should be and then I realize I'm a moron.

There is a huge bin of wrapping paper here, there are plenty o' gifts to wrap, I need to go back to a store to return something and get it right, I need to get things for stockings, and it's four days before Christmas and you know what I'm about to go do?

Rehearse at Freddy's house.
Filming tomorrow.

Yeah, yeah. Christmas. Whatever.

I'm sorry. I apologize. I should try to reach into this green, dried-up booger of a Grinch heart and say something sweet about family and memories or something profound about the solstice or something wise about time and the turning of the seasons or something poetic about the birds at the feeder and the way the sun is shining on this beautiful day or something funny about the chickens but really...no.

A. You have heard it all before.
B. I don't feel like it.
C. I need to get going.
D. Damn.

Maybe I'll feel more cheerful later. Maybe my green velvet dog-collar-scrunchie will make me all happy and warm inside. Like hot oatmeal with apples and pecans and cinnamon.

Gag.

But guess what?
I love you.
Ms. Moon

All Right. The Tree Is Freakin' Trimmed

I haven't found the bird's nest yet.
Maybe tomorrow.

Christmas Shopping

I went Christmas shopping. I bought myself a present. It's a green velvet scrunchie with bells sewn on it.
It was in a pet store.
Because it's really a dog collar. For the holidays.
After I bought it, I told the guy behind that counter that he had just doubled my Christmas wardrobe.
It cost $5.99 which is sort of a rip-off, but it is velvet.

That and lunch with Kathleen and Judy were the best things that happened to me today.

You?

Porch Plant Pooch Screwing

Well, it looks like Mama done screwed the pooch. I didn't cover up the porch plants last night and this morning the chicken water is frozen solid. I heard the number "38" somewhere and thought it was going to be the low temperature for the night and for all I know, "38" is the chest size of Lady Gaga.

I should pay more attention.

I don't even want to go look at those plants. If they're dead, they're dead and there's nothing I can do about it now.
Shit.

The Bradford pears in the backyard have suddenly turned golden. I have been waiting for the sun to properly come out and torch them up to take a picture and this morning, despite the cold, it did.


We do get seasonal color here, just not so much as say, Maine. Or Vermont. Or wherever it is that fall is a glory. Some of our leaves just turn brown and fall off and some turn orange and red and yellow and fall off and some persist in staying green and not falling off until the new leaves of spring push them out of the way the way Owen pushes me out of a chair so that he may climb on it and claim his dominance over the human race.

Well, it is five days before Christmas and the panic has set in and blocked my throat. I sip coffee trying to open it and let me tell you- probably not a good idea.
To town today to try and gather up this and that to round out the meager offering I have of gifts.
I think it is not just the plants I left uncovered in which I have screwed the pooch.

No. The pooch is well and royally screwed as applies to Christmas and so be it. The leaves will continue to change color, the Spanish moss will continue to hang like Christmas ornaments from the oaks,


the sun will continue to come up and light it all, exposing my pooch-screwing to the world, and if my twenty-something year-old philodendron is dead than I am a murderer due to lack of paying attention.

I have been guilty of worse.

Believe me.

Let us go forth and salvage what we can, remembering that we are not, as Anne Lamott said, The Piece of Shit Around Which The World Revolves. No. We (and here I mean "I", of course) are just a tiny piece of shit, like all humans are, as well as unstoppable sparks of life, capable of light and dark, capable of great good things and tiny murders, and we make our choices and we deal with the consequences and bless out hearts, the world continues to go on.

My Past, My Present, My Heart

Back in another lifetime entirely when I was a single mama of two (Hank and May) I went to nursing school. I thought I would end up a midwife.

Well, I didn't, but those years of being in school turned out to be some of the best of my life. And one of the main reasons was because of the girls I went to school with. The one that caught my heart and that I fell in love with the hardest was the youngest girl in the class, even though I was one of the oldest ones in the class.

And now she's started a blog and I hope she keeps it up.

Tonight she wrote about those years, that other lifetime, a little bit, and how she has met Jessie and Vergil and how they are coming to her house tonight in the mountains of Colorado to have dinner with her family.

Ah-lah.

It made me cry, reading what Terry wrote.

As I wrote in the comments, I have always said that there is a place in my heart where there is room for no one but her.
Always will be.

And tonight Jessie is at her house, eating supper.

Life is funny, the circles that we make.
And enough to make you cry.

You can read Terry's words here if you want.
I think she's a terrific writer and I can hear her voice, her Brooklyn voice, as I read her blog. It makes my heart so happy.

Yeah. Terry. Terry Joy was her pre-married name.
It suited her then, it suits her now.

And in my heart, she will always be a joy.

Oh! The Opera House!

We've been in rehearsal for Steel Magnolias for a few weeks now and it just gets more and more fun. Before this afternoon, we've had to rehearse in a Methodist Church Youth Group meeting room which was fine and served its purpose but tonight we were back at the Opera House and oh, it was amazing.
There's just something about that old stage. It was built in 1890 and has been in use, off and on, for that long. Some people say that Mr. Perkins, the man who built it, haunts it but I have never seen or heard his ghost. Despite that, it is impossible to stand in that place and not be filled with a sense of the history of it.
Hell, I've got a bit of history there myself by now. In the last four years or so I've been in several plays and radio shows and each corner of the stage and backstage holds a memory. And then I think of all the shows, the actors, the musicians, the performers who have walked onto that stage and and put on their make-up in the dressing rooms and the audiences who have trudged up those stairs to see them and it's just a little bit magic, you know?

We've been concentrating on the first scene in Steel Magnolias because it's the bulk of the play and we are almost off-book on that which is wonderful because that's when we can start to really PLAY with our parts and figure out the tiny things that will make it real, make it come alive.
On Tuesday we're going to block the second scene and I need to start learning those lines. I am finding it easier to memorize lines in this play than any other I have been associated with because they make so much sense and they are so well-written.
Which is not to say I don't have my glitches. I do.
Hopefully though, they will smooth out.
I always wish for a perfect performance- every line delivered properly, every move made gracefully- but of course that never happens.
I sure would like to get close. Once, at least.
It deserves that, this play does. Knowing that the author, Robert Harling, wrote it about his sister and the women of the little town he grew up in gives me sense of obligation. I am obligated to do the best job I can do.
We are keeping his sister alive, somehow, and I hope to do that with as much honor and humor as I can.

Well, that's enough of that.

It was just so good to be back on that old stage, to be with these people I have come to care for so much, people I am learning to care for. It's wonderful to be in a play with all women. We get to touch and do each others hair and just be...southern women.
It's comforting. It's soothing. It's just a whole lot of damn fun. I started laughing tonight for real during the scene and could hardly stop. I don't even remember what set me off but it was a good moment.

I think we're going to have a lot of those.

Oh! And Jan and Jack have gotten a few leads on old beauty shop equipment but if you live around the North Florida area and know of any not being used, let me know. I'd sure appreciate it and you'd get your name in the program.

It's been a good Sunday, despite all the poop and I am simmering greens from the garden (they weren't really dead, they just looked that way and will be sweeter for the frost) and Mr. Moon is smoking some venison that marinated all night long. There will be sweet potatoes.
I wish I'd grown 'em but I didn't.

As Ouiser says in the play, "I am an old Southern woman. We're supposed to put on funny looking hats and ugly old dresses and grow vegetables in the dirt. Don't ask me why. I don't make the rules."

And that is me although I usually wear ugly old overalls rather than dresses but I have my share of funny looking hats and I do grow vegetables in the dirt. I am not sure that there is a rule about this; I think it may be a gene.
Whatever. I think I am feeling mighty lucky to be in this production with these people in the old Opera House.

And to live in the south, even though we have our problems. Everyone has problems, everywhere. That's just the way of it. We find the beauty of the place we feel at home.

And I have and I do and those greens are going to taste very fine.

A Whole Lotta Nature, And Oh Boy. It's Sunday. With Themes

I swear to GOD that if my dogs don't drive me batshit crazy it's a fucking Christmas miracle.

Hey- around here you stay in bed until dusk, waiting for the other person to get up first because whoever gets up first is greeted by all the damn dog poop in whichever room the dogs have decided to use as their personal toilet. Don't we all just want to clean up dog shit as our first act on a Sunday morning? And oh yes, piss too.
Don't we? Don't we all just wish with all our hearts that we could get up and brush our teeth and pull on our overalls and cashmere of the day and then go clean up dog shit? And piss?
It's like a fucking dream come true. The scent of poop, Fabuloso and white vinegar.
Then they want out. Then they want in. Then they want out. Then they want in.
Then they bark. And want out.

Okay. That's enough of that.

Yeah, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here. Mr. Moon put the tree up yesterday and draped it with two vastly mismatching strings of lights. It's done as far as I'm concerned. It smells real nice. It's in the Glen Den so there are deer heads peeking around it. I find that very seasonal. Don't you?


Just lovely. Just like the winter woods. Just like...oh hell, you know. A fucking Christmas card.

Which I have not written one of yet. Not one. Nope. No cards, no presents for anyone but the family, no baking. And of course the dogs ate the cookies and treats one of my friends in the play brought for us on Thursday night. Those calories will not be settling around MY hips! And does chocolate kill dogs?
I wish!
It didn't even give them diarrhea, and for that, my friends, I am eternally grateful.

Sorbitol, it would appear, does give certain sensitive individuals gastric problems though. I am not going to name any names but Mr. Moon will never again buy No-Sugar-Added orange sherbet. He had a terrible night.
I wouldn't touch that stuff. I mean, I like sherbet fine but No-Sugar-Added? No way.
Bless his heart.

So it's Sunday morning and all I'm doing here is talking about poop and Sorbitol and deer heads and okay, here's something else:

No. That is not lichen or moss. It is a tiny frog. I think he came in on the Christmas tree. He's probably some sort of frog from Wisconsin or somewhere. I hope it's not a pregnant female who will introduce thousands of tiny non-native frogs to North Florida which will result in some sort of environmental catastrophe because after we took his picture, we set him free outside. Probably should have squished the poor little thing but we did not.
Ah, something ate him anyway, I'll bet.

I was talking on the phone to Kathleen this morning and I heard a huge fuss involving chickens. I sent Mr. Moon out to check and the next thing I know I see a hawk the size of a Volkswagen taking off from the ground, screaming his displeasure at being interrupted in his hunt for the perfect Christmas Chicken dinner. His mate was screaming up in the sky so I assume she was pissed off too. She probably already had the pot boiling.

Kathleen, in case you haven't heard, fought off a possum the size of a Cadillac a few mornings ago who had one of her chickens in its jaws!

She is a brave woman. The chicken lived and laid an egg in her bathtub. After she made the chicken slow-cooked steel-cut oats with grapes in them. Now THAT is a woman! I real chicken-tendin' woman! My hat is off to her.

But yes, it's a life fraught with danger around here for chickens. I suppose it is everywhere. Everything alive likes to eat chickens from wolves to foxes to coyotes to dogs to owls to hawks to bob cats to possums to raccoons to baby humans who love to gnaw on their yummy fried legs.

So what else do I have to report on this lovely, gloomy, poop-filled Sunday morning before Christmas?
Not much. To continue on with our shit-theme, I need to clean out the chicken house of the poopy straw and replace it with clean. Chickens actually poop a great deal. For some reason though, chicken poop does not offend me very much. It's a nicer poop than dog poop. At least in the relatively small amount in my hen house. I mean, if I had a chicken house the size of a Stretch Limo (I'm just carrying through with my themes here, people), it would be a different matter.

So. Okay. Sunday. I've made the breakfast and washed the dishes. The kitchen is tidy.

No obvious poop but believe me- the mice have been having a party so it's there. You just can't see it. And for those of you who gag at the thought of rodents in the house, let me say this- YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I need either a pet snake, a bunch of cats or a hundred or so traps.
I can't put down poison and even traps are iffy with the baby and the dogs, although poisoning the dogs might just be a solution to my problem.

And the dogs would eat the cats and a snake would scare me to death every time I opened a cabinet. Which is worse? Mice in the drawers or a snake coiled up on top of the stove?
Mmmmm....
I'll have to ponder that.

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas. Happy Sunday.
Nature is a beautiful thing and I celebrate it. Yes, I do.
Just not when it comes out the back end of my dogs or rodents and not when it involves birds of prey preying on my beloved hens.

God, I wish Rick's Oyster Bar was still open. Well. It's not. And neither is Posey's, the best, most down-home, tilted-floors, redneck, biker-bar, great, over-the-water oyster bar ever in creation in the Universe.
It's a wonder I ever get through a Sunday any more at all without Rick's or Posey's.
Life goes on.
Shit happens.
Clean it up.
Chase the hawks.
Clean the chicken coop.
Learn your lines.
Stay in bed as long as possible whenever possible.

And if want to smile and if you want to see Bruce and The E-Street band back when they were all stringy muscle and snaky hips and glorious, goofy grins and fine, fine New Jersey noses, (well, except for Clarance who was a mountain of a man even then with biceps the size of Hummers) AND get a seasonal feeling right where it counts (in the groin, of course), check this out.



Who loves ya, baby?
I do.

Ms. Moon, Proprietress of the Church of the Batshit Crazy
At Your Service, Now and Forever.

Short And Sweet, Part II

Not yet fifteen months old and he can arrange a small frying pan, a plastic bottle of Mentos Gum and a lemon in a pleasing display of balance. He gets a joke. Put the necklace on the dog and he cracks up. Imitate the smallest dog crying to get into the room and he imitates you imitating the dog and he laughs. He insists on eating in the dining room, even if it's just last night's pizza. He wants to sit in the high chair because that is how it is done.
When I go into another room and he is with his grandfather and then I come back he says, "Hey!" And he holds his arms out like maybe he thought I was gone forever but no, here I am, back again and what a miracle!

What a miracle. All of it. The way it's been set up so that a child's grandparents love him more than life itself and in that love of that baby, they know even more love for each other, thus ensuring a more stable place for the child to grow up in.

That and the way the rain falls and the night-insects whirrr and the butter mixes with the milk and the flour to become a sauce and the nutmeg and the lemon and the egg yolk add to it all and the night falls and the electrons sing and the universe whirls itself around in endless space: eternity and here I am and I am at a loss for the words because there are no words for the infinite mysteries, the infinite love, the infinite light of it all.

Not much else to say.

Love...Ms. Moon

Short And Sweet

Owen has been here for an hour and a half and has run his grandfather and me a merry chase. Right now the two of them are out feeding the chickens in the drizzle.
Saturday morning.
Sweetness.

Boy. Am I going to need a nap today.

It's True Love

I told you that Owen thinks Bop is god. I offer these pictures as proof.
I had Owen for a long time by myself this morning and it was good. We did get a walk and we picked up sticks and I gave him a ride in the wheelbarrow and we fed the chickens and we just played and played. Anything can entertain that boy. He's very much into rearranging things these days. He places this pot here, that seashell there, according to some inner balance he feels, I suppose. I don't know. His Aunt Jessie used to do the same when she was a baby.

Anyway, when Bop got home I was so tired I thought I might pass out. I did not sleep well last night. And Bop gathered the boy up and told me to go take a nap but before I did, I took those two pictures above. Do you see the mutual delight?

But then, when I woke up and got up, I walked through the guest room to find this:

And I thought I'd die.

Yes. It's been a good day.
And that boy will be back at six a.m. so it's going to be an early night tonight.
It is raining and there are martinis and I think that will be a very good thing.

My heart needs rest from all the breaking it did today. Over and over and over again.

Desolation Row

Temperature- 60 degrees.
Humidity- 100%
It is raining.
Which is fine for the thirsty earth and the chickens like it too as it seems to bring up bugs and makes the ground softer for their scratching needs. I love to watch them scratch. Step forward, scratch, scratch; step back, examine ground for results. Repeat until fatigued at which point- find a sheltered spot and take a nap.

Yes. It's one of those days. Not a bad day. Except for my hips and knees which, okay, let me just say that if they did hip and knee transplants, they would not use mine. Or at least, they shouldn't.
"What the fuck?" the patient would say after the surgery.
"That dead person's knees and hips are worse than the ones I HAD!"
"But they looked fine," the doctor would say. The doctors always say this when I get an X-Ray. Okay. I won't lie. I've never had an X-Ray of my knees. They are what they are. Old. Well-used.
My mother tells me about her knee problems. I don't mention mine. Why should I? She can't do a damn thing about them. Neither can you but here I am, blah, blah, blah. Jo will tell me to go to an osteopath. I still don't know if there even is such a thing in North Florida. Maybe there is.
Maybe I just like to bitch.

Yeah. I do. I like to bitch.

The tree is still outside. The Christmas tree that is. It's a fine tree and it only cost ten dollars. What a steal! Perhaps Mr. Moon and I will make a martini and set it up tonight. We'll put lights on it. Twinkle-twinkle and pine smell. Lovely.

Owen's coming soon. I wonder what devilment he'll get up to today. I knew it was going to be warm today and was thinking we could take a good, long walk. Not in this rain. Maybe it will clear. His Bop said he'd come home early to play with him. Owen thinks his grandfather is god. I'm pretty sure about this. When he sees his grandfather, he runs towards him with outstretched arms like a lover in a field of daisies. Then his grandfather lifts him up, up, up into the air, up into the sky because he is a giant. "Bop," says Owen. All is well with his world.

I understand. That Bop is a pretty great guy. Sometimes I wish I could sit on his hip. It's a pretty fine perch, I would imagine, from which to view the world.

Well. That's it. It's almost Christmas. Yesterday the obituary page spilled over onto another page and a half. I guess it's true what they say about people dying near Christmas. Blake Edwards has died. If he had never done another thing but make Victor Victoria for his wife it would have been enough. Mary Poppin's breasts, bared for all the world to see. The singing, the dancing, Robert Preston and James Garner. Throw in The Pink Panther and well...genius.
I'll forgive him for Ten.
Almost.

But I think about Julie Andrews and how she must be mourning her love. I think of all the families who lose a loved one near the holidays and I mourn for them. It's a hard time of year and today represents that well. In Steel Magnolias, Shelby says, "I love cloudy days. On cloudy days I feel God's not trying very hard, so I don't have to either."

Amen, Shelby. I'm not going to try very hard today myself. I'll just try to keep Owen safe and happy. And that'll be enough.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Step back and look for results. Repeat.

And if I had an ounce of estrogen left in my body, I'd bare my breasts for you in honor of Blake Edwards.
I don't.
Lucky you.

Be well, y'all. Stay alive.
Happy Friday.

Love...Ms. Moon

A Mixed Blessing

Back when I was a Weight Watchers leader, this was, of course, the hardest time of the year. Numbers at meetings dropped off like Enron's stock after the big announcement and the members who did show up had more excuses for gaining weight than Dolly Parton has wigs.
And every damn meeting our little program thingee that we were supposed to follow was all about how to "survive" the holidays without gaining weight.
It is possible, of course, but the strategies are so lame and almost impossible to follow. Eat a bowl of vegetable soup before you go to the party. (Is that before or after the pre-party martini?) Drink at least one glass of water between each drink. (How often do you really want to pull those panty-hose down to pee?) Go for the wine cooler rather than the Eggnog. (Are you kidding me?) Don't stand around the buffet table. (Then where? In the kitchen? The bathroom? The buffet table is where everyone IS.) Fill your plate mainly with raw vegetables and the fresh fruit. (That stuff is to eat? I thought it was for decoration.)
Etc.

It was pretty hopeless and we all knew it but we, the faithful, hung in there.
The dreaded holiday parties.

Well, I've found a new way to deal with those particular diet-busters. It is- have no social life and you won't get invited to any holiday parties!

This works well for me.

Seriously- I have not been invited to one. Well, okay, I have been invited to TWO solstice parties but I have rehearsal that night.

The place where Mr. Moon has his office used to have a big old holiday party. They threw a wingdinger. People dressed up, they rented a nice place, there was a sit-down meal, alcohol flowed freely, there were door prizes and bonuses were passed out and if you were lucky, you could take the centerpiece home!
Awesome!
Now they have a lunch catered at the office. From Moe's. Do you have Moe's? I like Moe's fine but that's a real come-down from a holiday party with a DJ and open bar. Plus, I wasn't even invited to the Moe's lunch. Didn't even get a damn free burrito.

And the hunting club Mr. Moon belongs to had a pot-luck last Saturday night after hunting hours. I was invited to that.
No. I did not go. I did make chili to send. I did my part. I hear I missed a few buckets of fried chicken and that does make me sad but so be it. Prairie Home Companion was on.

And that's it for my social calender this year. I know I should be embarrassed for having such a pathetic life. It's CHRISTMAS! Even dog catchers have a damn office party.
I guess.

But housewives do not and if my friends are having Christmas parties, they have not invited me, with the sweet exceptions of the solstice parties.

But you know what? I am not embarrassed. I am, quite frankly, relieved.

I do not have to figure out an outfit to wear to a party. This means- no BRA! Also, no tears as I try to fit myself into something that I may have worn with easy glory just a few years ago. I don't have to buy any fancy stockings. No fishnets, no glitter-down-the-side black hose. I don't have to wear heels. I do not have to do my hair and make-up.

Nope. I can just stay at home and wear my overalls. Scratch my butt if I want to. (That was for you, Mwa.)
I can eat my own food. I will not be tempted by tiny quiches or rare roast beef or fancy cheeses or baskets of bread. I will not have eggnog presented to me. Nor will there be little brownies with red sugar-glitter or chocolate-covered anything. Or even sugar cookies with icing. Or, or, or...
Hell. It's been so damn long since I went to a Christmas party I can't even remember what they fucking eat at those things.
It was fancy, though, as I recall.

Those Weight Watcher sermons would be lost on me.

So for all of you who are having to experience the torture of one beautiful, glittery party after another this season with all of the temptations and fuss of having to get ready and be beautiful, I say to you-
DAMN!
Sounds like fun.

Enjoy yourself for me, will you? Wear something in red and satin and cut down to your dadgum low-cut bra that pushes those puppies up like little cupcakes on a platter. Enjoy the cold snuggle next to your man as you walk from your car to the warm, brightly lit room where people you know and possibly even like wait with drinks in hand and smile with great, good holiday cheer as you enter the room. Don't fill up your plate with raw vegetables and fresh fruit. Unless it's pineapple. Then it's okay. Pineapple is always delightful. Eat chocolate and lots of things gooey with cheese and buttery crust and laugh and giggle and flirt and put your hand in your man's pocket, either front or back, depending on your mood.
Drink one too many.
Dance. If your shoes get to hurting, take 'em off and dance until those twenty-dollar hose have holes in them.

Because I won't be doing any of those things.
And it's okay! It is! I won't have any of the next-day regret. The Oh My God, what did I SAY to that man (woman, boss)??!! regret.
The hangovers, both of food and strong drink will not be mine. There will be no heartburn.
The expensive clothes which need to go the cleaners, the lost gloves and hats- no- they will not be my problem.

Nope. I'll just be right here in Lloyd, taking pictures of birds eating roaches, cleaning out my chicken's nests, learning my lines, playing with Owen.

So- I am giving you full permission to take at least one thing that happens at those parties which you may have a tiny bit of regret for the next day and you can just hand it off to me.
Say to yourself, "I did that for Ms. Moon!"
And I'll take it on my own blameless shoulders and I'll carry it for you and you can go on, head high and happy.

But you have to tell me about it for it to work. I want to KNOW what I'm taking on.

And I don't do drunk driving and I don't do making-out with people I shouldn't be in out-of-the-way places. (Kisses under mistletoe are the exception here.) Oh- and I do not eat that worm in the bottle of tequila bottles. (People probably don't do that anymore, do they?)

So have a designated driver or call a taxi and dance with the one that brung ya.
And have fun.
Do it for me.
I'd do it for you!

And then let me know all about it. Tell Ms. Moon. Full descriptions.

I am waiting with bated breath. In my overalls. With no bra on.
And no excuse not to gain weight.
Taking pictures of birds eating roaches. Reading the New Yorker. Ecstatic at the idea of having clean sheets. Perfectly content with going to bed at a reasonable hour while all the world is up partying.

And I'm fine with that! Really! I am!

(Wear bright red lipstick. Please. For me.)

Happy holidays. Now go have fun.

Love...Ms. Moon

(P.S. You know damn well that if I WAS going to a party or parties, I would be bitching up a storm. And that's the truth. I'd be moaning and complaining and I'd be awkward at them and say things that offended Christians. I know this for a fact. I still blush at the memory.)

A Tiny Visitor

This little guy flew onto my porch from the dog door and proceeded to find his own tasty treat.

He is gettin' down on it:


Glad he found the dead roach before Owen did.

And If This Doesn't Make You Happy, Please Go See Your Doctor

I so wish I had a picture but I don't.
Just go HERE and read what Ms. Bastard Beloved re-posted for me today.
It's a Christmas Classic, sort of like The Charley Brown Christmas Special only MUCH, MUCH BETTER! And with profanity.

I am so grateful for the presence of The Famewhore Squirrel in my life.
She completes me.

I Got Bupkis Today But There Is A Picture Of Robert Duvall

For awhile there this morning it was like the Reds versus the Blues at my bird feeder. A flock of blue jays came in and darted to the feeder and fussed and fussed and then the cardinals came in and chased the jays away and every now and then a little red-headed bird would fly in and eat.
I have no idea what's going on in bird world. I never do. I tried to get a picture of the other birds but the cardinal was the only one I managed to get even a half-way decent shot of.

Wow. Okay.
Here it is what, nine days before Christmas? And what have I done today?

Talked on the phone, mostly. And bought an item online for a Christmas present.
And I'm doing laundry. When am I NOT doing laundry? Why is there so much laundry? There are only two of us living here! Jesus!
I will say that ONE of Mr. Moon's hunting outfits is one entire load of laundry. He is big. Not fat. At all. Just big.
Here's another question:
Why does he keep getting more and more handsome and good-looking while I am becoming less and less so by the moment? He is godlike. I, on the other hand, do not even have the good looks to qualify as a crone.
Perhaps I should start wearing make-up in real life.
And a bra.
(Ha-hahahahahaha!)

It's not as cold today but it is bleak-looking outside. And windy. And raw. Just raw. The humidity must be about 80%. I have no desire whatsoever to go out there in it.
And I have nothing of importance to say, no wisdom to impart but here's my favorite quote that I've read recently. It's from Esquire and it comes from Robert Duvall:

When I finished Lonesome Dove, I said to myself, Now I can retire. I've done something. Let the English play Hamlet. I'll play Augustus McCrae.

For the entire (small) article, click on the picture.



And thus, I love Robert Duvall even more than I did before, which is seemingly impossible.

To think that I live in a time when Robert Duvall could act in a movie playing a character written by Larry McMurtry is one of the things that makes me happiest.

What makes you happy today?
And don't tell me it's Christmas, either.
Unless it is.
In which case I'll probably forgive you.
Maybe.

Love...Ms. Moon

For Elizabeth. Silent Night. Holy Night.

For the post which inspired me to finally get the nativity down from upstairs and to set it up, go watch what Elizabeth posted here.
You may need a hankie. I did.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

It has been the oddest day.
After I wrote that post this morning and did what I needed to do, I got ready to go to town to get some shopping done. I had a list. I had a plan. This place first, then that, etc.

I got dressed, I picked up my watch off the big jewelry box thing I have in my bedroom and on top of it I saw a pair of earrings that I've been looking for since last August. I bought them at my favorite shop in Apalachicola when Kathleen and Vicki and Judy and Denise and I stayed on St. George. I had gotten a few things for the other girls and after I gave them to them, I could never find those earrings.
And then today, they just showed up in their little plastic bag right there on top of the jewelry box that I pass by forty times a day and store my watch and silver bracelets on.

All right. This COULD be a motherfucking Christmas miracle because they are red, shiny earrings but I don't think so.
I immediately suspected that Kathleen had something to do with it and I called her up. She was sitting in the oncology center in Thomasville, waiting for a shot, and she denied all knowledge of such goings on. But she was here two days ago. And she's trying very hard to pick up karma points. We were laughing about that on Tuesday morning.
So I don't know.
Did she somehow replace those earrings and slip them onto my jewelry box? Did she find them in her things and put them there yesterday? Did...the Christmas fairy do it?

I don't know but it's odd. I found them, I wondered at them, I put them in my ears.

Let it be.

I went to town. I got presents. I marveled and delighted at the fact that Tallahassee has a Sephora outlet where a beautiful Asian gay guy in very tasteful make-up helped me make my choices. I went to a shop for a gift certificate and was charmed by a woman named Frahnkie. I don't know that that's how you spell it, but that's how you say it. FRAHN-KIE. She was beautiful, that Frahnkie was. She had long, dark hair with bangs and I envied her youth, her energy, her gorgeous skin and her shop.

I did all I needed to do and came home and then Jason and Owen came out. Jason and Mr. Moon had scheduled this afternoon to clean Jason's deer and since Lily was at work, I volunteered to take care of my grandson.
Like that was a big sacrifice or something.
Ha!

We played in the house and we went outside. He was wearing his big red jacket when he came and when we went outside, I bundled him in it. I put the hood-hat on him and he looked like this:


He insisted on carrying a basket outside that he found in the kitchen and I thought he looked for all the world like a modern-male Little Red Riding Hood. He can barely walk in that jacket, it is so bulky and the hood fits like a helmet, keeping his head in an upright position. He didn't seem to mind it though, and we walked around the yard and he fed the goats and he kissed his Bop and he picked up sticks and chased the cat.

He was very busy inside today, too. He not only got all of the stuff out of the cabinets, he placed them in different places, rearranging the kitchen, as it were.


You will notice the Revere Ware up by the Kitchen Aide. He carefully placed those pans there and was satisfied with his work. Then he found the baskets and wanted to put the bread pans in them.
I let him.
Why not?

He polished the floor and walls with baby wipes and he got out the dust mop.
"Mop," he said, quite clearly.
As well as "butt" when I changed his diaper.

He is intent in his projects and he is serious about learning. And he laughs a lot.
He ate two cucumbers while I was making supper and he again ate an entire yogurt but he gave a cooked carrot and a muffin to the dogs.

He looks so much like his mother and his father that I can hardly stand it.

I talked to May and she made me feel better just as Hank's comment on my post this morning did. I think that for Christmas Eve we shall have chicken salad and pizzas and play games. And on Christmas morning we'll eat breakfast and open presents and there will be tangerines and toothbrushes and who cares what else?

I made Mr. Moon and me some supper of tuna and quinoa and Freddy called when we sat down to eat. He is filled with the movie making spirit again and wants me to be at his house tomorrow night. I have rehearsal tomorrow night and that is my commitment and I told him that.
"Can you leave by eight?" he asked. "It's important."
"What's so important?" I asked. "Do you have a part for me?"
"Am I talking to Mary Moon?" he asked. "Maybe I'm talking to Mary Mars."
I still do not understand why he wants me in his movies. There are beautiful young things clamoring to be in FC Rabbath movies. I'm an old, wrinkled thing with no real experience and no
training. All I can do is show up and do what he tells me.
"Say this. Say that. Lose the gum."
I spit out my gum, I say this, I say that.

And I don't even know why Jan and Jack have asked me to play Truvy. Everyone is going to be expecting Dolly Parton and I am not Dolly Parton and I COULD imitate her if necessary but then it wouldn't be me playing Truvy. It would be me imitating Dolly Parton and although that may indeed go over better than me playing Truvy, I just can't do it. I have to make Truvy out of the words written for myself and so far, I am not exactly threatening to change the world.
They asked me if I'd be willing to color my hair. I laughed. "Of course!" What's hair to me? I've given up on it recently, just willing it to grow in gray but Truvy wouldn't do that.
When I say the line, "It takes some effort to look like this!" I want people to be laughing with me, not at me. So I'll color my hair and I'll wear whatever they want me to wear, even if that involves a push-up bra and false eyelashes and I'll do it because although I don't have a clue as to what being an actor involves, I do realize it involves becoming the part you are playing.
And Truvy does not believe in natural beauty and there you go.

So it's been a day of feeling like a complete and utter failure as a mother and then going to town and doing the best I could there, and finding a pair of earrings as if they had been delivered from a parallel universe and then being a grandmother and following my grandson around the yard as he picked up sticks and fed the chickens bread and ate pansies, and then being asked to show up for a film rehearsal.

What the fucking fuck? Has life gotten swirled around the drain? Is Jackson Pollack throwing the paint of my life at the wall?

I don't know. And to add to the weirdness, Mr. Moon left after supper to go to a basketball game which starts at nine-something at FSU.
And he is going to pick up a Christmas tree on his way into town. They are selling them for ten dollars at Publix and Lily called to tell him so. I don't think I'm going to put a damn thing on that tree but lights. And who knows? Maybe I'll bake cookies and put those on too, the way I used to do when the children were little?

Ah-yah, I say.

For those of you who come here who are young and haven't figured out yet what your life is about or where your path leads or who you're supposed to be or what you think or how you feel or...whatever...let this be a lesson to you- thirty years from now, you're probably still not going to know.

Make peace with that. And the sooner the better.

But stick around. It can get interesting at times.

And it may be that red earrings have magical powers.