All OVER The GD Place

Sunday morning and Mr. Moon got up before I did and then he got antsy to go throw feed at the deer place (woods?) and he offered me two choices:
1. He could go do that and I could have breakfast ready when he returned, or
2. I could make breakfast RIGHT THAT SECOND and then he could go to the woods.

Whaaa?????

He's spoiled.
But so am I.

We mixed up the sausage last night and there was a bit of a vibe and an attitude about it. Neither of us knows shit about sausage and we're just making it up as we go along but Mr. Moon seems to have actually watched a video on the internet or something so when I just got into that ground deer and pork with my HANDS to mix the spices in, he said, "But, but, I'm supposed to sprinkle the spices over it while you mix because..."
He didn't really have a reason and I was disdainful.
"This will work," I said, and continued to mix, getting frostbite in the process because ten pounds of almost-frozen ground meat is COLD.

Mr. Moon never cooks but he has theories.
I cook all the time and I have theories too.

Based on forty G.D. years of G.D. experience in the kitchen.

The waters of peace were roiled a bit there for a moment but when the mixing was complete, I said, "Let's cook up a little bit and see how it tastes. See if we need more spices."

So we did. I made up a little patty and heated up the little cast iron frying pan and we cooked that piece of sausage and we ate it and pronounced it FINE.

And the waters of peace were stilled again and we were happy. We had made sausage.

Which we are going to have for breakfast with our pancakes.

When he comes back from the woods.

After we made the sausage and had our supper with Kathleen and Vicki and her friend, Ken and they had left and Mr. Moon washed the dishes (he is really getting good at dishes-washing and I have to give him huge credit for that and so I am) we played a little Wii bowling. I like to Wii bowl because I am so much better at it than doing it in real life where I roll many gutterballs and basically suck.
In Wii bowling, I stand there, my feet in mountain position and take a few deep breaths and roll that imaginary ball down the imaginary lane and I often knock all of the imaginary pins over. It's awesome.
What I mostly like though, is our little avatars. I think they look just like us.


And it's nice to be able to participate in a "sport" in which Mr. Moon does not have a huge advantage.

It's definitely imaginary.

So the evening ended up with us tied at bowling and all was well and now I guess I better go make up some sausage patties and mix up some pancakes. I'm pretty excited about that. Our very own sausage! And I have a left-over sweet-potato to go in the pancakes and well, they may just the be the very best pancakes I have ever made!
I wouldn't be surprised.

And I can't talk any more about that shooting or the fallout from it and after reading some of the paper I do not want to talk about politics, either, or how we keep electing officials who say they can do a great job because they are political outsiders and know how to run a company! and I say this- a government is NOT a company but is there to help the people of the district/state/country who need help and to build roads and schools and so forth and so SHUT THE FUCK UP and what the hell is the deal with Faith-Based Prisons?

God and guns and beans and rice
Two are scary, two are nice
Promise god and promise guns
That's the way politicians run
And what we really need is not
To fear a god or being shot
But just a chance to earn our bread
Feed our bellies, feed our heads
Schools and roads and doctors, too
Peace for me, peace for you
Help for those who need a bit
So please- shut up with this other shit

All right. That's my stupid, rhyming poem of the day and I should be too ashamed to put it there but I am simple, simple, simple people and I may not know how to make sausage but I can figure it out. It's not that hard. I think it's like a great many things- keep it simple and don't fuck it up.

And that's my sermon from here at the Church of the Batshit Crazy this morning and let us all open our hymnals and sing that fine old classic, You Can't Always Get What You Want (and remember that although this is true, if you try sometimes, you might just find you can get what you need) and really, there's no winning or losing in a lot of situations, just...could we find a balance? A tie, maybe, where everyone gets some of what they need and no one has to be a prick about it?

Yeah. I doubt it too.

Okay. Here are guest artists for the day to lead us in our hymn.



Amen, bless, keep it simple, don't fuck it up.

Love...Ms. Moon

And While I Had The One Of The Best Days Of My Life

Why do we keep defending the rights of people in this country to bear fire-arms?
Why?
A handgun is of use for two things:
Shooting at targets and killing people.

I'm sick of this shit.

Unless you have a need to shoot at people to kill them (i.e. you are a cop) I don't understand why it's your right to carry one.

And if that makes me completely naive, well, so be it.

More Of A Beautiful Day

Kathleen's best friend since something like age four is here visiting and tonight they dropped by. I heated up soup and made some biscuits and it was a short but very, very sweet visit.
Do you see that beautiful hair that Kathleen is growing?
Do you see the love?

Shit. I am so damn lucky.

In Which We Go To Thomasville And Come Home With A Horse

I do not think it could have been a better day.

I think I'm going to let the pictures speak for themselves. And oh yes, the little movie of Owen meeting the horse for the first time.



It's like he was born knowing how to ride that horse.

Bop arranged for the purchase of it first thing and we explored the store a little more and then we took off for lunch. We went to the place which I have spoken of before where a little old woman sits at the cash register (it's all buffet and you pay when you come in) and looks at Mr. Moon and says, "How tall're yew?"
Well, she wasn't there today so things seemed a bit off but the food was as downhome great as ever and everyone always talks about how fine the vegetables are and they ARE but dear god, there is so much pork fat in them that a vegetarian would not find enough to stave off starvation there. Ironic, eh?

Here's a plate of goodness:

There were three kinds of greens, three types of beans, rutabagas (which the man at the cash register told us about when we paid- "There are rutabagas today!") and okra and oh, hell, I don't know what all. And baked chicken with rice and Macaroni and Cheese and meat loaf and barbecued pork and fried chicken and yeast rolls the size of Owen's head.
And the best tea. Oh, just the best.

Here's Owen.

He especially liked the green beans.
But then we decided to give him a fried chicken leg. A long time ago, I took Ms. Omgrrrl to this restaurant with her young son and he ate his first fried chicken leg there. He called it "shicken" and we are still talking about that day. That boy ate that chicken leg from the top to the bottom and I am sure that to this day he remembers it. At least to some degree.
So we gave Owen a leg after Lily took off most of the crunchy, crispy, delicious coating

and at first he was hesitant and then he tried it

and then...

Yes. He is a carnivore. He ate it to the bone in about thirty seconds.

I was so proud. My little southern boy. He can feed chickens AND he can eat them.
I know. It's confusing. Let's not think about it too much.

We went back downtown and did a little strolling and shopping. Owen needed to work off some of that chicken and we let him out of the stroller and he gleefully held our hands and walked like a man down the sidewalk.

We loaded up the horse and drove on home and Owen fell asleep because he WAS TIRED and he WAS FULL and the horse bounced along in the truck bed behind him and I made Lily take his picture because he looked so jaunty back there.


And so the horse is home now, in our library. Lily just doesn't have room for it at her house. He may end up on the side porch when it warms up. Who knows? I just hope that Owen really loves it as much as he seemed to when he first saw it. He was still half asleep when we set him on it at home.

So that's been our day and thank-you for indulging a grandmother. I realized, as we were eating lunch and I was ignoring my food to take the boy's picture and give him bites that really, I AM A DAMN GRANDMOTHER AND THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT!
I mean, I knew I was a grandmother before that moment but it just really sunk in that I am one to such a cliched degree and don't you judge me until you've had your own grandchildren.
You'll see.
Oh yes you will.

And here's one more picture. A lagniappe, if you will.

Dessert.
Yeah, the meal wasn't enough. We had to get dessert. That's the best cinnamon roll you ever ate, a piece of yellow sheet cake and some banana pudding.
And no, I did not eat all of that. I promise you. In fact, I didn't even bother tasting the cake or the banana pudding and I probably only ate about one day's calories worth of the cinnamon roll which was less than half of it.

I wish I had another one right now.

Life is sweet. And salty. And crunchy. And bouncy.
Sometimes, anyway.

Today it has been. It surely has for four of us here in North Florida as we traveled up to Georgia and then came home, a plastic horse dancing all the way as we traveled back south to where we live.

Raving But Not Mad

Quiet this morning and I slept late, Keith Richards dancing through my dreams all night. I am up to the heroin years and his friendship with Gram Parsons and he came from Winter Haven where I lived a long time as a teenager- those dating years.

Mr. Moon gave me a little reading light that clips onto your book and I have never used it until now.
I swear- I haven't been as captured by a book as I have by this one in a long time. It helps that I have been observing and listening to guitar players my entire life and now I will listen to the old, old Stones songs in a different way because now I know how Keith tuned his guitar and that may not be of significance to you but it is very interesting to me.

We are going to Thomaville today and Lily and Owen are coming with us. I am excited about that. I love being around Owen and his mama and we shall have adventures. Everything is new and exciting with Owen, even the old streets of Thomasville. I hope that horse is still there. I need to get dressed and here I sit, still half in Stones world, still half in this one.

It's a funny world, how there are ties and circles and circles within circles and rays expanding out and this touches that and changes this, and that, in turn circles around and changes this other thing or at least encloses it. For instance, I discovered a while back that one of my forefathers, a man, who, by his picture, looks exactly and eerily like one of my brothers, moved to Thomasville after the Civil War and lived on a plantation there with his bride and so there are probably relatives of mine there, in that beautiful little Southern town up the road from us. He is buried in the old cemetery there and I have never been to his grave but my brother has.

I had a friend who turned out to be a very twisted, tortured soul (as Truvy would say) and who has spent most of his life in prison and he used to tell us that Gram Parson's parents and his parents were very close and that back in the old days, those Winter Havenites were swinging people and that he always suspected that perhaps he and Gram were brothers and I never gave it much thought but then I got to the part in the book where Keith R. describes the effect of Gram on women and I thought of this guy, this criminal who, before he was a criminal, could charm the pants off any woman he wanted and his brother was just like that, only a thousand times more. He bedded every woman I know except for me.

One wonders.
Those eyes.
That proclivity for addiction.

Well. Dark thoughts on a bright, Saturday morning and I should be getting ready to go play with my husband, my daughter, my grandson, instead of sitting around here entertaining what-if's and could-it-be's.
But there you are- and it says something about Keith Richard's voice which up until now I had only heard through those guitar strings and about how he has used it in writing about his life and it's a strong one, it's an honest one, it's a story-telling one and who knew?

Not me.

I really don't know much, do I? It rather astounds me how much I do not know.

I do know that I stole that beautiful picture via google images from a website HERE.

Check it out for more.

Now go learn something and tell me about it!

Thank-you very much.

Love...Ms. Moon

I'm Not Depressed, Even Though It Sounds Like It

I'm feeling old this evening and fragile, my knees like rusted hinges that may or may not bend, depending on the wind and the wind keeps blowing, mild, almost like spring one second and then a breath of winter's hint the next.

All I did today was go to Costco and Publix and buy a bunch of food and stuff you need to run a house, the soaps, the light bulbs, the toilet paper, the hot sauce, the coffee, a new broom.
I went to sweep yesterday and looked at my broom and realized it is as angled an one of those fancy O-Cedar ones but it's not supposed to be and so I spent eight bucks on a new one and here I am- another year of sweeping all ready to go.

Of course it was trips into the house with all that stuff and food and oh yes, I did stop by the thrift store and bought white linen napkins, stiff with some old, old ironing, perfect in every way for a buck a piece. I would like to sew them all together to make a dress of, they are that beautiful.

But after I put everything away and Mr. Moon came and went to go to the woods, I laid down on the bed and read some of the Keith Richard's book (and every day I want to put up some new Richard's Quote of the Day but there's too many to choose from and so I haven't) and then I slept so hard that Kathleen and Vicki came by and I didn't even hear them, and when someone comes here the dogs bark and sing and chorus and howl, especially if it is Kathleen because they love her and it's like opera and I slept right through it.

Well. It's been a long week and I was awake a lot last night with my hands waking me up, numb and tingling and I don't know why. They've been this way for years but they are sometimes better than others and last night they were just bad. Usually they get this way when I do a lot of knitting or crocheting or sewing or gardening but I have done very little of any of those things lately.

Just old. I'm just old.

But lah, the sun is going down and the setting sun paints a different picture than the rising one and it's beautiful too, not so glowy, but beautiful. Red and pink and gold.

The chickens finally came out of the hen house today, all but one and so I guess that the trauma is easing, as trauma will. If you are lucky. Sometimes I wish we humans had the same ability to forget and recover that chickens do. But even animals will remember a cruelty, a dire danger which was presented to them.
It is what keeps us alive although humans seem to need to repeat experiences over and over to see if the danger is still there- are we the thrill seekers of the animal kingdom? I think so.

And thus we tame the Wild West, we shoot the rapids, we climb the mountains, we tempt fate every time we get on the road.

I'd just as soon not.

The sun is going down, the wind has settled down, Mr. Moon will be home soon, with deer or without. We will go to Thomasville tomorrow, we need to make that sausage, I bought crushed red peppers and sage today and smoked paprika, and I have no idea how to make sausage but it seemed like smoked paprika would be good in it.
We shall see. That ground venison is not getting any younger.

And neither am I, although I bought supplies for the house which will last awhile and I suppose I'll live to use all that toilet paper. It's down to that, I guess- buying toilet paper in bulk and walnuts, too, the aisles of the Costco assuring us that we will live long enough to drink all of this coffee, eat all of these berries, use all of this detergent. It's like a life-insurance policy. How can you die if you have twelve chicken breasts in the freezer, thirty rolls of toilet paper in the cabinet, two pounds of walnuts, unopened?

You just can't, I guess, unless you do, and then the people who live on can use the rest. Which is better to receive from a dead person? Six month's supply of toilet paper or a diamond ring?

I'll let you decide. I think I'm going to go make muffins.

Riding In Cars With Boys

I hear that kids don't really date any more and that's just too bad. I guess it's a different world but my world was immensely opened up when I was finally allowed to date.

Because my stepfather thought of me as his, he would have been quite happy if I'd been kept in the house forever, a child-nun to keep all to himself, but somehow it had been put in place that when I turned sixteen, I could go out with a boy on a real date, and I'll never forget the first time I went out with a guy, and the Evil One stood there and cried as I left with this football player who had a twisted sense of humor and that perpetual wound over the top of his nose where his helmet rubbed him and my mother thought it was so sweet that her husband loved me so much that he cried when I went out, having no idea the twisted perversion going on his mind.

Or the complete and utter feeling of freedom in mine as I left that house, even if just until ten o'clock when I had to be back in it.

I can't quite describe it. And if I tried, it would go on for days but I'll say this- when I was out and in a car with a boy, my body was my own and my desires were my own and my choices were my own and it was normal and right, whereas in my house the things that went on were certainly not of my control and beyond a doubt, not right in any way.

But aside from all of THAT, it was just such a fine rite of passage. The boy getting his nerve up to ask me out, my acceptance, the time set, my clothes picked out, my hair just right, all of it...
And then he'd be there and I could walk out the door and get in a car with a boy.

And those poor boys. They had to have a car or at last access to a car to take a girl out and some of the cars I was picked up in- well, I would say that the car never really mattered to the girl, but of course it must have because I remember some of them so well.

I don't remember what Joe Reed (the boy with the wound over his nose) drove, which is odd, but I did not date him for very long. I don't remember why. Although I thought of myself as an entirely unattractive, fat schlep of a girl, the truth must have been otherwise because boys did ask me out. I seemed to charm them or something. I don't know. I was probably just really cute.

One of the boys I remember going out with was a fellow everyone called Mafia and he, too, was a football player and had the wound over his nose. He wore sunglasses all the time and had sort of crappy teeth but I let him give me my first kiss and we were leaned up against my best friend's mother's Lincoln Continental when it happened. Ah Lord. What a moment in time for me.
He drove a shitbeat '55 Chevy that sometimes only went in reverse that at one time had probably looked like this:

He also rode a motorcycle that he'd buzz by my house on fifty times a day. He wore a leather jacket and of course what I found attractive about him was his bad-boyness. He actually told me that some girls were for having fun and some were for taking out.
I was of the taking-out variety.
Ah Mafia. That smile, that leather jacket, that turquoise and white boat he drove.

I went out with a neighbor boy one time. He was a piece of shit but he somehow had a 1971 Corvette Stingray and got many dates just on the bait of that car.

Many first dates, I would say.
He took me out and I don't even know where we went and then he took me home to his house to "watch TV" which of course meant he wanted to make-out and even then I knew that he wasn't worth making out with and I demanded to be taken home, the two blocks or whatever from his house to mine, in that bright yellow penis-extender car of his. I don't care what sort of car a boy drives, if a girl gets all dressed up she expects more than a damn milkshake and a make-out session in his parent's den.

Buh-bye, rich boy.

I never have liked Corvettes.

One of the sweetest, sweetest boys I ever dated (and he was a serious boyfriend) drove his grandmother's 1960 Chevy Impala. I think. It was another land-yacht of a car. It looked something like this, but not nearly as shiny:


It smelled like a grandmother car, of old leather and metal dashboard. I would have gone out with that boy in a mail truck. He had no money and our dates were handmade, to say the least. I remember one night he took me down to a park at a lake and sang me songs by the Band and we had a communion of sorts with bread and possibly wine but probably grape juice of our own and I have no idea why but I think it's because he loved me and he was giving thanks.
That boy just about saved my life when I got really, really sick from mono and was in the hospital for a month and he would come and sit by my bed and sing "All Things Must Pass," and I made it through that valley of darkness more because of the light he brought to me than of anything the doctors did, which was just about nothing.

And yet, and yet...

Because I was seventeen and cruel, I left him for another boy and that boy was crazy so of course I loved him and he drove his father's Renault which was a ridiculous car and I remember him throwing that on-the-steering column gear shift and the car jerking and sputtering and he drove me away and he drove me crazy and the crazier he made me, the more I loved him and sometimes he would fill up that Renault with garden-stolen roses and leave bouquets at my door that would have filled up the front room of a funeral parlor and finally, I had to go away to college and he slept with other women and I thought I'd die out there in Denver, so cold and everything white with snow and I listened to Joni Mitchell's Blue a million times and embroidered him a shirt and cried and cried and cried. I think that my love for him may have been based on the fact that he was so insane that he might have actually taken on my stepfather if push had come to shove and it almost did several times. My stepfather hated that boy. HATED him. Told me to tell him he had to get a haircut or he couldn't take me out any more. Made horrible remarks about him to me. And although I never told that boy what my stepfather had done, I think he had some inkling of it and I think he would have killed the man for me if I had asked.
I guess I'm glad I never did.

I had a few moments of sanity in the days I dated him, and sometimes I'd break up with him and I always intended to stay that way but you can't fight that sort of crazy for too long.

But the one boy I dated in one of those inbetween times is one that is still dear to my heart. He has been married now for what? Thirty-five years and we've stayed in touch as we raised our children and now we send each other pictures of our grandchildren and he and his wife have come and stayed here and we have visited them and well, yes, there is always a room in my heart that he lives in.

I may have forgotten a million dates that I went on as a girl but I remember the first one I went on with him. He picked me up in a car that looked like this:

A Morris Minor and where he got that thing I do not know.
"We are going incognito," he said, and I guess we were and we went to see a movie and one thing lead to another and he gave me Bob Dylan and I gave him the Rolling Stones and it was a fair deal and always has been.

So where the hell was I going with this? This date thing? When did it turn into a car thing?
I don't know.
Do you?
I guess it's just that back in the days when the earth's surface was still cooling and boys and girls actually dated, it seemed to me a fine thing and I can still remember what I wore on some of those dates and I can still remember the cars the boys picked me up in and I learned early on that a car does not make the man and that was a good lesson to learn, don't you think?

And then somehow, I married a man who drove a pick-up truck and then he got into the car business and cars have paid our bills for a long time and since I've been with him I've driven everything from Mercedes Benzes to a Mini Cooper to a Mazda minivan (still one of my favorite cars ever) and now I drive a Honda and it doesn't matter to me as long as they start up and get me where I'm going and they all have. That man has taken me out on a thousand dates and many of them in one beautiful old convertible or another and we've driven in those cars through pine forests down straight gray roads in the dark with the moon following us and we've acted like teenagers and made out in the back seats and we've been wild even as life has conspired to make us mild and old.

Tomorrow I think we are going to drive up to Thomasville in yet another pick-up and maybe buy that horse for Owen if it's still there, maybe have a meal, maybe hold hands when we walk downtown.

I wonder what I'll wear.

I hope he kisses me. I hope that boy kisses me in the front seat of that truck.

It'll be like a date, even though we are going to buy something for our grandchild.

Isn't that something? I think it is. I really do.

Happy Friday, y'all.
Love...Ms. Moon

I Hope I Am Not Tempting Fate

You know what? I think our production of Steel Magnolias is going to be amazing.

This is the most wonderful group of women and we are already making each other cry. For real. During rehearsal.

Magic. I can feel it happening.

Not just fake-believe.

Magic.

I am almost sad, knowing that this might be the most fun I'll ever have onstage.

Maybe not. But I would not be surprised.

The Dogs Are Thrilled

Because every floor is freshly mopped.

It is as if I have given them a clean canvas upon which to paint with their bodily functions.

Damn them.

But the house smells good.

(Do you see Buster's evil green eyes? The sign of a demon for sure.)

Fear

Something traumatic has happened to my hens, I think although I can see no wounds or missing feathers. They will not leave the hen house or even go into the run and their rooster cannot seem to lure them out.

Was it hawk or fox or dog or coyote or eagle?

I do not know but it must have been something.

Even I, occasionally, will leave the house for food.

Nothing But Everything

I dreamed last night or this morning that my entire purpose with the blog had become the way I see things. In my dream, I was looking through my camera's view finder and framing a picture and that, that was the purpose of it all.
Started with words, became visual.
Well, I don't know about that. I still don't even know how to operate the camera properly.
I think that writing and photography are two of those things that everyone looks at and says, "Shit. I could do that."
We all see (mostly) and we all use language every day.
And in my heart I do not take these things seriously that I do with words and pictures. Not one bit.
I woke up this morning after that dream and since it had rained all day yesterday the dogs had not been open to the suggestion that they go out last night to pee and poop and so what greeted me was...well, filthy.

I looked at a river of pee, flowing down my hallway and I said, "Well. It's going to be that sort of day."

And then I looked outside and this is what it looked like:


Light pouring in over winter's bones and moss and dripping left-over rain drops and glory everywhere and the downed branch with the resurrection fern like some dinosaur femur, green covered and alive again, somehow, rebirth even as the branch itself rots into dirt, slowly and with great dignity.


This, this is what is happening in my back yard while my soul feels like a hardened, small nugget of failure and bitterness, enclosed in this old body, enclosed in this old house and I am not paying attention and as I wrote to Ms. Bastard-Beloved already this morning- am I just peddling along here, waiting to die?

Ah-lah.

And I record with pictures that anyone could take and with words that anyone could write and meanwhile, the real raw reality of it all is that my floors desperately need mopping, my lines desperately need learning, my husband poured and took with him all of the smoothie and the blackbirds are still with me, right over my shoulder, eating like demons, and a cardinal is fussing somewhere and the dogs don't give a shit (!) that they are fouling my nest.

Well. The loquats are blooming like I've never seen.


They are full and heavy and are waiting for the bees to come and make love to them and the train whistles and comes charging by and this is life and this is my small part of it and there is no one to blame for filthy floors but me, no one to record this life but me, no one to write these specific words, to take these specific pictures and already the light has changed, the sun gone behind a cloud that was not there twenty minutes ago and here I am.

Too Many Words But Cute Pictures Of Baby Boys

Strange day in many ways. Not bad-strange, just different, I guess, and having just written that, I feel like Sarah Silverman in her book The Bedwetter, which I am listening to on CD, illustrating why reading someone else's diary is the most boring thing on earth.

Ah lah.

I am the most boring thing on earth.

Owen and I had some early morning fun but he was soon ready for a nap and of course, would not take one. We'd had oatmeal (meal-meal, he calls it) and dried cherries and played the piano and fed the chickens and the goats.

His technique could use improvement but is quite efficient.

I assure you this is not a face of terror, it is a face of excitement. I think he is speaking with the chickens here.

But the only two chickens who showed any interest in coming outside were Elvis and Shalayla and after they had some corn, they went back into the hen house. And it wasn't even raining.
Then.

The goats were of a mood to nibble leaves. They are not always. There is a very large mule who is in another bit of fence right down from the goats and Owen is terrified and fascinated by her. Or him. I don't even know. We could not visit today as the mule was lying down, taking a nap.
I checked.
He wasn't dead.

But then it began to rain and Billy and Waylon came out and why didn't I take a picture of Billy? He is looking so great these days, not that he didn't always, but he's grown a beard and he was wearing new jeans and a snap button cowboy shirt. Fatherhood agrees with him tremendously.

Both of our boys were sleepy and neither one was willing to admit the existence of another baby in the world and so there we were with two hip monkeys and we did take them outside for a little round-the-yard walk and we gawked at the chickens in their house and well, it wasn't the circus but it was what it was and then it began to rain and we brought them in and gave them some lunch and finally, Owen in Waylon's stroller and Waylon on his daddy's chest, they both fell asleep and we put them so carefully and quietly down in the guest room and Waylon slept fifteen minutes and Owen about thirty and then they got up and we went through it all again and finally, they played a little bit.

Waylon is monster-cute. He has little eyebrows that furrow when he's serious and he laughs at his daddy and he is intent when he plays. These ball-thingies were supposed to be some sort of massage tool and I have no idea why we bought them (Jessie probably made me) but now they are baby toys.

And here's Owen, playing with an old remote. Toys stand no chance of being played with if there are real objects around. For the life of me, I don't understand why we buy toys at all. I keep thinking that Owen would have been perfectly happy if he had gotten him a box of sticks for Christmas because
(a) Box
(b) Sticks.

Waylon was wearing his "that's what she said," t-shirt which cracked me up.
If you don't get it, don't worry. But if you do, you know it's sort of funny.

It rained and it poured and at one point, Owen ran away from me and I found him in the mud room, kneeling on the floor and looking out the glass of the door at the rain falling outside. It was so beautiful it almost broke my heart. The tiny boy, looking at the rain.

It finally let up some and Billy and Waylon left with the Christmas presents which have been waiting here since, oh, Christmas, and Waylon finally got his quilt.
Yes. His life is now complete.

And then Lily came to get her boy and he was so happy to see her. "Ma-ma," he says, and reaches out to her and before too long he's reaching down her blouse and she says, "When we get home," and he's fine with that.
After they left I tidied up some and then fell in my bed and slept for a little over two hours. I was that beat, I was that tired. I woke up and it was dark and I was disconcerted and confused and finally I got up and Mr. Moon is out tonight, playing poker and the rain is falling and since I had thawed a piece of deer roast I made soup and I have no idea why. I no more want to eat soup than I want to fly to the moon in this cold rain but there it is- a pot the size of a water buffalo's head on my stove, bubbling away with meat and vegetables and I guess it smells nice. I put lots of celery in it. Celery is the most Republican vegetable in the world, if you think about it. Bland and stringy and full of water but sometimes I like that about it. I doubt anyone ever got heartburn from eating celery. It's seeds are tasty as well.

Mr. Moon asked me tonight on the phone if I have the sausage seasonings taken care of.
What-ho!
Fuck no.

Well, that's why they invented the internet.

I wonder why I can operate a computer when I can't operate my TV remote. I tried earlier and nothing worked and then Owen started pushing some buttons on the front of the TV and well, it's hopeless. And it would be such a good evening to sit and knit and watch something ridiculously mindless, the rain falling down while the soup simmers, a universe in a pot of deer meat and onions, garlic and leftover collards and tomatoes, green beans, squash, lentils, potatoes, corn and celery and carrots.

I think I know why I made the soup- my heart has been all over the place and my soul has been uneasy and if there is anything more soothing than cutting up vegetables and sauteing cubes of deer meat in a pot, then I don't know what it is.
Maybe heroin.
I would not know and for that I am eternally grateful.

Well. That's me tonight in excruciating detail. I would apologize but this is my blog and I write what I want.

Stir the soup. Look up recipes for sausage. Go back to bed and read a few pages of Keith Richard's autobiography. Wake up when the husband comes home. Take deep breaths and be grateful, settle in to the rhythm of his breathing.

Another day.

Done.

Worst Daughter In The World: Part Gazillion

You may notice that I hardly ever discuss my mother here and there are a myriad of reasons for that and one of them is that I just hardly ever see her despite the fact that she only lives about fifteen miles away.

I will sum up the reasons with this: I am a bad daughter.

It's true. I am.

Just ask my brother.

Anyway, Mother called me yesterday. I had Owen and was chasing him around the house, trying to change a poopy diaper and if he isn't in the mood to get a diaper changed, you have to do all your tricks to cajole him into it and that's almost impossible to do if you're on the phone.
But we did talk for awhile, me running from room to room saying, "No, Owen, you cannot have that." "Get down, honey, you can't get up there." "Here baby boy, you want some apple?" and so forth.

"Do you have him every day?" asked my mother.
"Oh no, no," I said. "Some weeks I don't get him enough and I have to go see him."
And this is true.

Mother's been having problems with her knees. She's in a lot of pain. And she's determined to get knee replacements. At the age of 83. And I don't blame her. If they can fix the problem, let's do it. Of course, the problem isn't the surgery, it's the recovery period.
She hinted around about this.
"I know you have so much to do," she said and boy, is she right but the guilt ceiling lowered over me and threatened to smash me, the way it will.

I don't know what I'd do or how I'd do it if she needs me to help her through recovery. First off, we don't even go to LUNCH together.
For a myriad of reasons. (I am the world's worst daughter.)

Secondly- this old house is so not set up for someone who has problems walking. There are uneven floors which tilt and tip and there are thresholds at each of the many, many doorways that our feet just pass over unconsciously but for an older person, just learning to walk on a new knee, they would present a problem, each and every one.

What to do? How to do it?

And then last night at rehearsal, Jack said, "We have six weeks of rehearsal left and we want everyone to make this their priority. It has to be."
And we all nodded gravely and agreed it would be and there you go.
Another priority and I already knew it. I'm not a real actor but I do know that when you get a part in a play, you gotta show up for all the rehearsals, you have to know your lines, you have to get your costumes together (this IS community theater) and that is just THAT. No fucking around. They sell tickets and there are five other women in this play for whom any irresponsibility on my part would be completely unfair.

As I nodded, I kept hearing the words, knee replacement, in my head. Mother, I kept thinking.

What to do? How to do it?

Every time I think about the situation, my head and heart trip like she would on these thresholds, and how do I leave the room, the life I'm living and enter the one she may need me to lead in her aid?

I don't know. But that's what I'm thinking about this early morning as I drink my coffee and wait for Owen to show up.

I really don't know. And I don't know how anyone does that- take care of elderly parents while trying to live a life and yes, I know that she set aside so much to raise me but isn't that what we all do? She raised her children, I raised mine and now I am helping with my grandson and that is the joy of my life and important to the life of my daughter and her husband.

And what will I do when I need help because almost certainly I will?
The guilt ceiling descends a few inches farther when I think of that. Ask my children for that sort of help?
Unthinkable.

Well. No answers here today. And I don't even know what a knee replacement rehab would be like for an eighty-three year old.

Time to let the chickens out. Time to get on with this full day of mine. I will shove these thoughts to the back of the closet and put up my steel umbrella to keep that guilt ceiling's lead weight off my chest, my back, my neck, knowing that a knee replacement or two (she needs two) is just part of it, there is going to be so much more, that this is what it means to be part of a family, fighting myself with every step I take in this thought-direction, tripping not-so-merrily over the thresholds, my own old knees grumbling and complaining but still strong enough to carry me through these days.

Apology

It's ten-twenty and I'm back from rehearsal and I still have to make a lunch for tomorrow and oh yes, a smoothie and set the coffee for six-thirty because that grandboy of mine is coming at eight.
And Billy and Waylon are coming over and I have NO BACON OR TOMATOES to make that man a sandwich and really- what sort of a friend AM I?

Crap.

Needless to say it's going to be another fun-filled day and I'm looking forward to it.
All those boys. At my house.
Hurray!

But this is to say that I do not have time to answer comments and do not even bother to tell me not to worry- I do. This is my contract with you- that you comment (I hope!) and that I answer so that it is a conversation, so that you know I really, really do appreciate comments and that they mean so much to me and well, you know.

I know a lot of people don't answer comments and that's cool. It's probably insane that any of us do but it's also so very nice to feel like someone cares enough about what you said to answer but we all know that sometimes it's just not going to happen.

Okay. Done. Give me a few rosaries to say, a mea culpa, a ditch to dig, whatever. I can take it. I'm a woman.

I'll catch up when I can both in comments and here. Life is speeding down the highway of insanity, as always, but it sure is interesting.

Night-night kisses. Night-night... Moon.

And Now

We are working on chaos theory.
We've almost got it figured out.
I would not lie.

Walking And Chewing Gum At THE SAME TIME!

No, those are not Christmas decorations. They stay up all year 'round.
So there.

I am a hot mess this morning. I can't seem to figure out the electrical wiring between brain and body. I went to get out a pair of socks from my drawer and there is so much black in that drawer and none of it was two socks that went together and I finally just shoved the thing closed and went sockless.
It's not that cold.

I have GOT to get organized.
Me and the entire world.
I love how in January they put all the Lean Cuisine and Weight Watcher meals on sale at Publix and the Rubbermaid bins at Target.

Lose weight and get organized!
Do it!

Forget it. Not this morning.

I went out to let the chickens into their run. They had no water. The thing they drink out of is a very primitive device. Believe me.
I couldn't get it apart to fill it up. When I finally did, after drenching my new Antique Ye Olde Gap Outlet overalled leg, I felt as if I'd conquered space. Yeah! That's me! Standing on the moon with my chicken waterer! With wet legs! Wearing slippers with no socks! Call NASA for an update!

Next thing that almost made me cry:
My necklace was tangled!
Oh god. Oh lord. WHAT WILL I DO?
I got it untangled. This time I felt as if I'd done brain surgery.

Slowly things are coming together. I can type.

Just got an e-mail from Jack and Jan. It says this:

Hope you all had a great holiday! See you on the Opera House stage at 7:00 this evening. We'll block Act I, Sc 2, then run all of Act I.

Oh Lord. Again. Oh Lord.

And Owen's coming.

To-do list for today:

Lose weight, learn lines, organize, take care of Owen, make sure he doesn't drink poison, fall off of something very high, or eat light bulbs. Possibly teach him to read.

At least the chickens have water. At least my necklace is untangled.

Heighho, Silver! Away!

Where's my horse to gallop on? Where's my brain? Where's my husband? Oh yes. In the woods. Probably thinking about oatmeal.

Can I do that? Make oatmeal?
Maybe. So- conquer space, do brain surgery AND make oatmeal.

So much to ask of me.

And I KNOW he's going to ask me if I've "had time" to find a good sausage recipe. Yes. We're going to try and make our own sausage.

Hahahahahahahahaha!

Sorry. No. I haven't had time. I've been inventing the wheel.

It's one of those days.

Carry on.

Not The Day We Planned, But A Good One

We got up to Thomasville in good time and did not have to wait long. Just long enough for me to cast on 88 stitches for the next part of the poncho I am working on and for Kathleen to get around the knitting device a few rows and to strike up a conversation with two other ladies who were waiting. In the oncology center in Thomasville, everything is so nice and everyone is so thoughtful. There are Sara Lee pastries and a microwave and coffee and hot water in the waiting area and comfortable seats and tables, too. We were sitting at one of the tables and the ladies were sitting next to us at a nearby table. We started out talking about knitting but soon got around to cancer. One of those ladies has colon cancer and she is doing very, very well with her treatment and is absolutely thrilled about her progress and the fact that she never lost her hair and how well she feels. It was a good conversation until she said, "I give all credit to the Lord."
And there was dead silence from our table. I did not even look up from my knitting.
She went on, "The doctors are doing what they do but the Lord is doing the rest."
I wanted so much to say, "So, if you had gotten this cancer oh, twenty years ago when the doctors didn't have the tools and medications they have now, what would the Lord have done then?"
But of course I did not.
I guess she realized by that time that we were a pair of heathens and she went on to talk of something else and we joined back in and all was well but then once more, she just HAD to bring up THE LORD and how much he has done for her and again, there was silence.
Bless her heart. She was witnessing to two people who just were not going to go there with her, no matter how nice we appeared to be.
It was awkward, in a small way.

They called us back and the nurse asked Kathleen all the questions and then the doctor came in and he sat down and scooted over to where he was practically in our laps, the way he does, and he asked some more questions and then he told Kathleen that her platelets were not numerous enough to do treatment today but not to worry, they would be fine in a week and then he showed us some of her bloodwork where one of the markers for tumors is markedly decreased and that cheered us so.

I gathered my courage today, after that good news, and asked Dr. M. if he would mind if I took his picture to put on my blog and he said I could. Then he posed for me.

Did I tell you he looks like Antonio Banderas? I swear. Only probably cuter. He knows it too but that's okay. Being so darn handsome just makes him that much more cheerful. How can he not be cheerful, getting up every morning to see that face staring back at him from the mirror?
And I suppose you notice that he is emitting white light around his head.
Yes. We do love Dr. M. He is handsome, smart, sweet, funny, caring, personable, AND obviously holy.

Sort of like The Lord, only real.

So Kathleen and I went to downtown Thomasville and had coffee and tea there and then walked around an antique store for what felt like three or four months. It's a BIG place. We each bought a pair of overalls. They aren't antique, but they only cost five bucks. So we were happy.
Here's a picture of Kathleen talking on the phone to Judy while sitting in an extremely interesting chair next to its mate.


Picasso chairs! And quite comfortable!
I would not mind owning them.

But here's what I found that I really want:


I don't just want it. I NEED it for Owen. Perfect condition. A beauty. Those springs are so strong I could probably ride that horse. I am sending Mr. Moon up for it ASAP.
Owen is going to need a horse like that to ride the plains of his imagination on and to get out some of that wild boy energy. I had a horse like that and I loved it. Oh man. That horse was my favorite thing for many years.
Yeah. We need that horse.

After we bought our overalls, we walked down to the Mexican restaurant for lunch and it was mighty tasty and just fine and then we drove home through the beautiful day and oh! When we pulled up at the oncology center, there was an entire flock of bluebirds. What? Yes. Blue, blue, bluebirds, and we stared in wonder for quite a while before we went in.

Yes. A good day. Some cheering news, some shopping in a sweet old town, a good lunch, and now home.

A day of small miracles, I suppose, and Michelle wrote about that here today.
Good bloodwork in one sense, bluebirds, a smart, cheerful doctor, a beautiful small southern town to walk around in and shop in and friendly people everywhere.

And my friend and I had plenty of time to talk and visit about things both serious and profound and silly and playful.

A very good day and just being in it is a wonderful thing and the light is falling through the magnolia leaves and the roosters are crowing because they are alive and the redwing blackbirds are not dropping dead out of the sky but are singing their sweet, liquid, melodious sounds and here I am, here I am and I am so glad to be and I doubt I would be feeling one bit more blessed if I believed in the Lord.
I seriously doubt it but if it makes others happier, I am fine with that.
I will give my praise to science and to smart doctors and to the very real and honest strength and glory of Kathleen and her soul, her outlook, her innate joy and her will.

Going To Thomasville

Cold and dark outside?
Check.
Coffee in to-go mug?
Check.
Smoothie drunk?
Almost checked.
Chickens let into run?
Not checked.
Knitting, script, camera, Keith Richards autobiography and crossword puzzle in bag?
Check.
Glittery eye-shadow?
Check.
Big comfy sweater and beautiful Kathleen-made shawl/blanket/scarf?
Check, and double-check!
This post finished?
CHECK!

Catch you later, babies.

Time to shine on out of here.

The Creatures We Share Our Lives With

I just went to tidy up the guest room in preparation for Kathleen's coming to stay tomorrow night and I opened the top drawer of the dresser in there to put away a piece of flannel which I did not use in Waylon's quilt and a small, brindle-colored mouse scooted down to hide from me.
"Oh my god!" I said and he probably said the same, only in whatever language a mouse uses.
It was like finding a small pet I did not know I had instead of finding a pest, a rodent, a vermin.
I closed the drawer, not wanting to intrude upon his or her privacy. Not wanting to scare him or her to death.
"I am so glad," I thought, "That it is Kathleen coming to stay."

She will understand.

I really sort of want to go and pick that mouse up and stroke it but I know it would not be fair. I am way too large and it is way too small and yet, its tiny ears were so dear.

As If We Had A Choice

This fucking freaks me out and I am not sure why. I mean- I take pictures of my house and post them all the time and yet, to find that my house is visible on googlemaps to such degree of detail is just...weird. I can tell from looking at the picture that it was taken in winter because my porch plants are covered and by moving the cursor around, which Jessie showed me how to do, I could go into the yard and see by which cars are there approximately the year it was taken.
Ooh boy.
I am not a person who is vastly concerned with privacy. Or piracy for that matter but that's another subject entirely. And honestly- it's not a bad picture. But how do they take these things? I know I am simple-minded but does some guy with a camera walk all over the world and take pictures and then they put them all together? I highly doubt that. Did they take this from a satellite? Really? How?
If I'd been in the yard at the time would my picture have been there too?

I guess so.

That's Ms. Moon's house. She has four dogs and six chickens. Her husband is very tall. Her grandson is learning to use a fork. Ms. Moon looks very bad naked. Age has not been kind to her and she needs to start exercising more regularly.

Is there a file with an entry like that somewhere? Should I care? Is the entire concept of privacy a moot one at this point?

I don't have any answers at all. I barely have the questions.

But it's something to think about on this Sunday evening before Mr. Moon gets home from the woods. Before I go to bed and get up in the early morning to take Kathleen up to Thomasville for chemo treatment number six if her bloodwork from last week proves her to be in good enough condition to have corrosive chemicals dripped into her veins. And you know what? I don't mind at all that I "have" to get up to take her. It is going to be cold and it will probably be dark but when I see Kathleen, all of that won't matter. That's the sort of woman she is. She carries her warmth and her light with her and she gladly shares it.

In a perfect world, you would be able to search google maps for things like this: This is where you will find light and warmth. This is where you will find wisdom. This is where you will find peace. This is where you will find good leftovers. This is where you will find joy. This is where you will find a guy who tells the very best jokes. This is where you will find an asshole. This is where you will find a serial killer. This is where you will find an old woman who has forty-seven cats who are alive and five who are dead. This is where you will find the best recipe for gingerbread in the world. This is where you will find the best and most colorful zinnias ever grown. This is where you will find someone who is the loneliest person on earth.

For fun I just went to googlemaps and typed "Biggest Asshole in the World" into the search space. Guess what came up?

An overhead view of my house.

Ah lah.

Too true.

It's a strange world we live in. After this chemo or maybe the next, Kathleen's doctor may order a scan in which he will be able to see the smallest bit of this or that which may or may not be inside of her. A sort of google map, if you will, of the universe of her body. For some reason, that idea frightens me more than any satellite shot of my house. If it was applied to me and I know she is anxious about that prospect too.

Sometimes I wish we lived back in the olden days when there was no such thing as an invasion of the privacy of our homes, of our bodies, of our very wombs and unborn children.

But with the internet, you know? I want to be able to see into your hearts or at least as much of them as you want to show me.
For some reason, that's fine with me. I guess because you choose (as do I) what to share and what not to share.

What an incredibly old-fashioned notion.

Well. Google on. Mr. Moon is home. Time to heat up the leftovers and eat our supper which, even in this superteched world of ours, we humans tend to want to do every night.

Sometimes I can barely live in all the worlds in which I inhabit without going crazy.

Be well, whichever part of the earth you live on. I trust you to keep on with it and you can trust me to do the same, right here in real life and virtually as well.

Love...Ms. Moon

Pancakes And Politics

This Christmas, while shopping, I did buy myself one other present besides the dog-collar scrunchie. This one was far more expensive but not nearly as senseless.

I bought myself a cast-iron griddle that goes over two stove burners on which to cook, oh, say pancakes. The other side of the griddle is ridged so that I could conceivably cook fish or sausage or hamburgers on it and perhaps sometime I will but mainly I want it for pancakes.

I've wanted one of these for years. My Lis has one and I am always fraught with envy when she uses it. But they are relatively expensive and I have so many cast iron pans and skillets and I've been making pancakes, three at a time, in the giant iron skillet that came from my Girl Scout troup (I am not kidding you- so I've been cooking on this thing for about forty-three years now) ever since I've been a mama and now the kids are gone so really? Do I need one?

Yes. Yes I do and I bought one and today was its maiden voyage to sail across a Sunday morning bearing loads of pancakes (six at a time!) from raw to doneness and oh, it is a joy.

And here is how I make pancakes which, after you eat them, you will never, ever be satisfied with plain pancakes again, even the lightest and fluffiest because they will be dull as dirt. My pancakes are never dull and every Sunday we pronounce them to be quite possibly the best I have ever made.
Today was no exception.

I start out with oh, maybe a cup of self-rising flour. I add about a teaspoon of baking soda because I use buttermilk and for some scientific reason, this is necessary. I think.
Then I add about a quarter of a cup of ground flax seed because it is the current "miracle" food. Why not?
You can't see either of those ingredients in that bowl, can you? That's because I add so much more!
Today I took some frozen berries and put those and some pecans in the food processor and ground them up to a fine chunkiness. Not into dust- I stopped far short of that. I added those to the bowl. I grated an apple into the mixture and then cut up a banana and added that. Next, maybe a few tablespoons of oil, an egg from my hens, and enough buttermilk to make it all a lovely, spoonable, spreadable consistency. Don't ask me how much! I do not know! Enough!

I had heated the griddle and I spooned out the batter. It looked like this:

Nice, huh?
And when I flipped them, they looked like this:

And I put the done ones in the oven at a low temperature to keep warm while I make the next batch and it went so quickly today. I always put a glass of milk in the freezer while I make the pancakes because that's how Mr. Moon likes his milk- really very cold. He grew up on a dairy where they kept the milk at one degree above freezing which would explain that. He had a little Bozo cup that hung from a hook over the cooler and he could go dip a glass of almost-freezing milk whenever he wanted. This may also explain why he grew to be almost seven feet tall.

Anyway, I served him his pancakes this morning, fresh off the new griddle, and gave him his cold milk and his piece of venison sausage and he is now ready to take on the day. Whatever that involves. Right now he's changing the oil in a car. In the rain.
I wanted to take his picture as he ate but he refused me. He said that he did not feel pretty enough. "Well, that's not what I mean," he said, but I think it is. I kissed his head and put the camera away.

You know, as I have said before, Hank had a girlfriend whose main contribution to our family was that she gave Mr. Moon the title of Zen Glen. She was right. And he proved that this very morning as we were reading the newspaper in horror. There is an article in it about our soon-to-take-office governor, Rick Scott. He used a third of his personal wealth to buy the office and if his personal wealth was like a million dollars, that would be one thing but NO! his personal wealth (reported, at least) is $218 MILLION DOLLARS which means that for $70 million dollars, you, too, could probably be governor of the state of Florida.

"Why would he want to be governor?" we wondered.

I said, "Oh, those rich guys, they always say they seek public office to 'give back'."

"Well why didn't he just give Florida seventy million dollars?" asked Zen Glen.

Indeed.

This may be one of the first First Families to move into the governor's mansion and think, "What a dump!" You should see the picture of their house in Naples. On the Gulf Coast.

Well, pancakes and politics. It's Sunday.

Love you...Ms. Moon

Okay. One More.

If I have any wish to grow up to be a professional poet it is so that I can go onstage and read my work without sounding like a poet.
Good God! Who told poets they should sound like that?
(Not all of them, I am sure. But so many. Lord. Is it like a style? Where is the music? Could we stop DRONING?)
It is raining here and that is so musical and lovely. And really- the notes? There aren't that many.
I'm just saying....

Terry Joy Says....

Here's the best advice I've heard this New Years. It comes from my aptly named friend, Terry Joy. I am ripping her off! But do yourself a favor and go read the entire post.
Honestly, this is just the sort of New Year's resolution I find entirely sensible.

And it charms me almost as much as Ms. Joy does.


Here's some advice I am going to take and you can too, if you want.

Drink alot of water, Pee alot (it keeps the bad stuff on the outside), Don't over-react to stuff, and the best one...If it feels like the end of the world, and at the time I am sure it does, really isn't. You will know when it is really the end of the world because it will be.

I Believe It Is Fixed

Try the trailer again if you want to see it. I think it's correct now.
And hey- it's only 1:27 in length. That's minutes and seconds. No popcorn needed.

As Truvy Would Say

Making up can be SO romantic.

Mmmm.....

Happy New Year indeed!

The wind is blowing, it is warm, and Owen is here and all is so well.

Sometimes, I guess, a woman (girl, grandmother) has to just lose her shit in order to regain it.

Or something like that.

Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.


My collards smell real good. I think when I make the cornbread I'll put extra honey it, now that I feel all sweet again.

Sure wish you could drop by to share some.

Love...Ms. Moon

Witchy Woman

You know, the funny thing is, Freddy gets shots of me that I don't even remember.
Well, here's a teaser.

1-1-11

So this is real life.

I made the dinner, I set it on the table in front of the TV where we usually eat. The pears were perfect, I swear. The salad simple and yet as fresh as it could get, Mr. Moon having picked the greens in the dark. Leftover chicken potpie that Kathleen had sent over.

"The" game is on. What game? I don't know from games. The only thing I'd rather not watch on TV than "games" is the hunting channel.
It seems to be an important game.

I ate some and it was good but something horrible and evil swelled up inside of me. New Years Eve and I'm watching (not watching) a game.

I blew up. I lost it.

I took my plates to the kitchen.
I brushed my teeth.
I went to bed.
After I had screamed some.

Mr. Moon perfectly unsure of what had just happened.
We were in bed by nine o'clock.
Sleep was not good.

Today is the New Year.

Fuck holidays. Fuck them.

Just fuck them.

The black velvet was not worn in 2010. It slept in the closet as I slept in the bed.

Maybe this past year was so good I didn't want to let it go. Who knows?

Whatever. It's all just a bunch of numbers. Saturday morning and we're here. At least we're not dead on a highway somewhere. At least the house isn't covered in confetti with martini glasses upside down on the sofa. At least we don't have hangovers.

I hear someone won the game.
Someone always does.