Am I An Ageist?

There. That's me. All wrinkled skin like an old elephant mama, hands, neck. As Nora Ephron said, I feel bad about my neck. And chest. And ...whatever.

The play went better tonight. I felt better for one thing. Not in a complete fog of not-rightness. Jon and I went over lines from one troubling scene before the show started. It helped. Oh, god, it helped. Me, at least. The audience laughed. I could feel the exact moment when they started to warm to Harriet Copeland, my character. This is huge in that I now know I can make her at least likeable. Which I was completely unsure of before. I will carry this with me for the next five performances. Five? I think so. Whatever.

There was a moment when our Grampi was onstage and I was next to him and I could feel the audience loving him and I could feel his responding to that and it was so beautiful. I melted. I was so proud of him. So happy for him. He was joyful and he took me on that ride with him.

Here's a funny thing- the man who reviews the plays in Monticello is an older gentleman and he is quirky, to say the least. I don't even know how many plays I've been in at the Opera House and he has never given me anything more than a nod of recognition that I was playing a role. No good, bad or indifferent. And yet tonight, he came up to me and he hugged me. HUGGED me, y'all, and said in a wagging-finger sort of way, "Mary, you dirty old woman!"
Okay. That was a mixed message right there but as I was leaving the Opera House I thought to myself that I have been practicing a self-imposed agism on myself. Hell! If the main characters were gay or one was black and one was white, I'd be cheering. But no...because I am playing an older woman opposite a younger man, I'm freaking out.

Meanwhile, I only know that tonight was pretty much fun. I hope tomorrow is too although I am going to be nervous as a cat because my family is coming and shitfire...
Well, as Jan said tonight, "Mary, I love your family."

They won't die of embarrassment, my children, my husband.

Although I might.

Stay tuned.

He Said It. I Believe It.

I saw that on Facebook last night. Go ahead. Click it. Harsh, right? And no, I do not love his use of "your shitty kid," or "your ugly child," but the message is valid and is resounding in my heart.

Then today, I read an article in the New Yorker. The Story of a Suicide by Ian Parker and what it all boiled down to for me was not that one kid web-cammed another in a dorm room with a guy of the same sex, but that the idea of gay sex is still a thing of such prurient interest that no one stepped up and protested the action and reported it.

And in my mind, if we could all just adopt Louis CK's message and make it clear to our kids that being gay and in love is no weirder than being not-gay and in love, then maybe kids wouldn't find it necessary to jump off bridges to their death because of their gayness.

That it is no more acceptable to call someone gay as an insult than it is to call someone nigger.
And that it is no more right to deny gay humans the right to marriage than it was to deny black humans the right to eat in restaurants with white humans. And it's just as absurd.

And that to not take the time to discuss that with our kids is also wrong. And leads to things like suicide.

Yeah. Really.

It does.

The Mircle Of Acceptance, Even Yes, Of The Very, Very Good

Even though it is definitely chilly, there is a very strong feeling of spring here. Could have something to do with the fact that things are blooming, just as they might in...spring.
Those are Japanese Magnolia, above, and they, like the camellias, are early bloomers.
And the redbud, which also chooses to open in flower before any real hint of heat arrives but which is a definite sign that it will.
I have seen the redbud blooming in other places in the area, but just noticed that my very own trees are blooming as well.

They are not a showy flower, the redbud, but more of a mist of color, if viewed from a distance.

I noticed that the dogwoods are even knobbing up

and that the trillium is opening. I love the trillium. It looks ancient and otherworldly to me.

I am so grateful that a former owner planted them here. The chickens scratch around them daily but leave them alone.

I woke up this morning, this chilly pre-spring morning, still achy and feeling slightly feverish, worrying about the play, but still with an overall feeling of okay-ness.
Jessie and Vergil were asleep upstairs, the house was quiet, Mr. Moon already gone to the gym and then to work, and birds were whistling outside my window a song which brought the word "spring" to my mind. I do not know my bird calls but after fifty-seven years on this planet, my mind associates certain bird songs with certain seasons, just as my skin can register the humidity and the simple feeling of the same. I cannot explain it. It just is, as I am sure many of you know and can recognize exactly what I am talking about. It's not unlike a good midwife who can walk into a room where a woman labors and know exactly where she is in her progress without having to check her dilation.

The calender may say winter, but the air and dirt and birds and bushes say spring. Or at least- spring-soon. That train has very much left the station.

And now Jessie and Vergil have eaten their breakfast and gone to town and again, I am alone and the house is quiet and I so grateful for this day of nothing-much-to-be-done in front of me. I have beans simmering on the stove for soup and I am going to warm my aching body in a tub of hot water as they cook. I am surrendering today. To my body's need for rest and for my mind's need for ease. I am making the soup as a therapy, which is one that works for me. The eating of it will not be anywhere nearly as restorative to me as the making of it. I have greens to go in it and tomatoes and deer sausage and a little bit of left0ver chicken. Garlic, onions, carrots, celery- they go without saying. And some sweet potatoes. I may grate some fresh ginger into it and I may not. We shall see.

There are years where spring comes before it is "time" and yet of course, whenever it comes is the right time. We can do nothing to change that and can only respond to it as do the birds and the dogwoods, the redbud and the buckeye. There are days when it would seem that there is much to do (I was invited to go to town to be with Jessie and Lily and Owen and Hank) but the wisest thing to do is to simply accept the fact that the body needs rest and to do that and also, to rest happy in the knowledge that my children are all in the same geographical area, the same one I am in, and to be glad that they are getting to spend time together. There is great peace in that for me. I do not have to participate in it to feel pleasure in it.

I can do nothing to change this play and its repetitive dialogue and subsequent dragging but I can study my lines and do my best with the part I have in it. I am only one of four in the play, I am not the director, nor did I write it. We will and have all done our best and it will get better as time passes and even in its imperfection, there were moments of magic in it for me last night and I readily acknowledge that.

You know, spring is a miracle whenever it happens and so are days when nothing much is required of me. I intend to take this miracle for what it is, even with the small aches and worries.

My children are all in town, my daughter Lily is beautiful and blooming with new life about to be born, I have spoken to my husband this morning and we love each other, there are beans simmering on the stove and chickens scratching around the emerging trillium and all of this fills me with great peace and gratefulness. The rest I will let go of as I truly cannot change much of any of it. I refuse to be frantic today. I refuse to obsess about the small things which are not perfect.

I sound like a walking serenity prayer, don't I? Well, so be it. For today that's plenty for me. It is quite obvious to me that today is a day to restoreth my soul.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Flower Boobs Were Probably The Best Thing About My Performance

I feel like shit. The play dragged.
I don't even want to talk about it.

But Jessie and Vergil stopped in right before the performance, on their way to Lloyd. The road from Asheville took them right by the Opera House. I cried to see them. Now they are in town with their sibs and Owen and Jason. Mr. Moon (my hero for sure) is in bed and I am about to go join him after I scrub my face clean of make-up.

I slept so much today and yet feel like I could sleep another twelve hours. At least.

Well, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.

Tomorrow I will study lines some more, make soup, visit with my baby and her fella, and go do it again. This time, I will not take off the sweater I wear at the beginning of act 2, no matter HOW NUCLEAR A HOT FLASH I AM HAVING because I hear that the invisible (to me) flowers on the front of the dress were positioned right over my nipples.

Okay. That about sums it up.

Flowery boobies and I feel like shit.

Night, y'all.

Best Boys In The World

All pictures taken at six a.m. this morning.

You know, I did not win the Daddy lottery for myself. And when it got to the Stepfather lottery, well, that was even worse. If you can even compare a murderous drunk to a sexual abuser.
Who was addicted to Codeine.

But. The balance has definitely been tipped in my favor over the years. My first husband had his issues (and so did I) but he has remained a stalwart friend over the years and a good father to his children. And then I met Mr. Moon. And of course I had my Hank. And then Owen came along. And of course there's Jason, Lily's husband and Vergil, Jessie's fella.
Not to mention men like Billy and Lon and so many more who are a part of my life and blessings, every one.

And yeah, I'd say I got the golden ticket.

But even before all of that, I had a friend back in high school. We had a short romance but we have had a long, long friendship. Forty years or more. He has been married for thirty-something years and has three sons and three grandchildren and I've been married to Mr. Moon for almost twenty-eight years and we have one grandchild and another on the way so we've all been busy in our family-ways and of course all that life has gone on but here we are- still friends and that just makes me feel so lucky.

We always say that he gave me Bob Dylan and I gave him the Rolling Stones. I'm still trying to give him Bruce Springsteen but he ain't buying.

Anyway, he had some Guardian Ad Litem work to do at the Capitol today and so he spent the night with us last night and it was just a tremendously good time. Mr. Moon made martinis and I made a venison meatloaf with bacon on it and mashed potatoes with garlic and collard/mustard/turnips from the garden and bread.

We didn't stay up too late, we weren't too crazy, but it was so terrific. Mr. Moon even washed the dishes so K and I could talk, which we did for as long as our tiredness would let us.

And then we all got up before five-thirty this morning which was when Owen was due to arrive and boy, did he! He was yoo-hooing everything when he got out of the car and wanted his train tent set up and he was as happy and awake as I can possibly imagine a human being being at such an ungodly hour. He ate his cheese toast and I made K. and egg sandwich and then Bop and Mer and Owen went back to bed and the boy settled right down and we all went back to sleep and what a lovely thing that was.
Owen and I slept until after ten, which is completely unheard of but dammit, I needed it and I guess he did too.
And I really hate to admit this, but I think I'm coming down with a cold which is just DANDY, tonight being opening night for the play.

But hell, I'll suck it up. And Mr. Moon continues to be my hero by staying home today to help with the boy so I can study lines and get rest which has made Owen very happy. "Bop, come on!" he says and Bop crawls into the Thomas The Tank Engine Tent which is about forty sizes too small for him.

Ah, damn. My fortune is overwhelming to me sometimes, my luck unbelievable.

Now. Off to study lines.

And Jessie and Vergil will be in tonight.

That's it from Lloyd.

Love...Ms. Moon

Beautiful Boy In Tub

Because Mer's house is not just a farm and game center and library and restaurant and nap palace.
It's a spa as well.
Now as long as I don't confuse the bubble bath and the flea
shampoo, we're good.

Morning Does Indeed Come At The Right Time

Well it's cold again but it's clear and beautiful and in about an hour Owen will be here and so I really, really should be doing something productive like mopping a floor but here I sit, drinking coffee.
Gah.
No! Get up! Mop the floor! Go find some sausage in that deep freeze in the garage which has a lid weighted down by an axe because it is coming apart, yellow insulation coming out from beneath the seal like a clown's wig. Go see if there's a head of cabbage in the garden worth cutting.
Get up and go look at that script again because obviously, last night when you woke up forty-two times and tried to remember it, you did not. Is it even possible to remember lines at 3:43 a.m. when the moon is full and insinuating itself into your bedroom like the silver voice of an uninvited alien Jehovah's Witness?

Not for me.

Not possible.

Okay. Time's up. Gotta pull up my big-girl panties and get this show on the road.

God, it's a beautiful morning. Hope it is where you are too.

Love...Ms. Moon

Failure Can Equal Success!

Another full day, so full it was like a cow's lovely pink-tipped (I have no idea, I am making this shit up) over-full, un-milked-udder and yes, oh, yes, my mother's mental capacity has slipped but let me ask you this:
How many of YOU can count backwards from a hundred by sevens under pressure?
Yeah.
Well, hell, she did say she'd never seen a rhinoceros before or a picture of one either and I have right here in my house a carved wooden one she got in Africa after she'd seen rhinoceri with her real eyes so, whatever.

It's just so tragic, having to prove you've lost your mind.
And embarrassing. This woman taught school for a million years, PLUS has a Masters degree in education. I mean, really. And she knows she's lost it. But she also knows this means that maybe now the insurance company will pay for her care and boy-oh-boy, that's some weirdness there.

I personally insured that we shall have a spectacular opening night by screwing up as much of the last dress rehearsal as I possibly could tonight. Yes! Thank-you! I meant to do that! It's a tough job, but someone has to do it. I took the onus on myself. I got some of the lines right. Really, I did.

And so it's been a day of failure meaning positive things and let's be aware that this is a possibility. I even failed at getting Owen to take a nap but that probably means that he took one with his very tired papa when he got home from work so good for me! Owen is NOT happy with his Mer right now. I do not know why. He ignores me mostly and when I beg on bended knee for kisses or even a tiny squeezy hug, he pretends not to hear me and actually starts singing sometimes, and next I expect he'll put his fingers in his ears and say, "La-la-la-la, I can't HEAR you."

So yes, I am feeling very good about myself at the moment and my dear friend K. is coming tomorrow for a visit and I'm afraid I'm just going to have to make a big pot of soup to serve him because Owen will be here tomorrow and I won't have time for much of a culinary effort but we'll just call it "peasant fare" and it will be fine. He won't care. Hell, we've been friends for about forty years and I did change the sheets on the bed in the Panther Room so there you go. Mr. Moon will make us up some of his dandy martinis and it'll all be delightful and I'm looking forward to it. Owen can help me make "dough" and in this case, bread dough, and homemade bread will cover a lot of sins.

And now I'm going to go to bed and I am going to TRY and not spend half the night worrying about this stupid tiny thing and THAT tiny stupid thing and just sleep. Just sleep.
I think I might try counting backwards from one hundred by sevens. That's got to be a more peaceful way to get to sleep than trying to recite entire scenes from a play in my head, which is how I have been falling asleep and which obviously does not work either for sleep or memory.

Church
Velvet
Face
Daisy
Red

That's the list of words they gave my mother today to see if she could say them back. In that order. See? I am NOT losing my mind.
I can still do it. And if you think that you can go with your mother to get her mental state tested and not try to do the test with her, then you are WRONG! You will do it and you will worry.

100, 93, 86, 79, 72....

Is that right?

Night, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Another Untitled

There are robins mobbing the yard. Their voices rise and fall and they lift and settle on limbs of pecan trees.
It is going to be one of those days where I have to remember to do everything one step at a time, staying mindful of where each foot is placed and not worrying about the next footfall until it is time to place it.

I am woman, wife, daughter, mother, grandmother.

Why did I think it would be such a great idea to add Romance Book Publisher Character to the mix?

Well I did.

And here we are. This step, that one.

Robins take flight suddenly and chorus in another place. All they have is feathers, voices, and hunger for flight.

I take note.

You Can't Make This Shit Up

I swear to god. I just got the very, very best word verification word I have ever gotten.

It was...drumroll....TIGHTHO!

I might puke from laughing.

It's All Like Greased, Sparkin' Wheels Sometimes

Ah-lah. Almost ten-thirty p.m. and I am just home from rehearsal. It went SO much better. And I have an office! My own little stage with a carpet and a desk and...My Very Own Life-Sized Fabio!

Yes, yes, I know that many of you do not find him attractive. Well, that's okay. He's a symbol, y'all. Of romance novels and ridiculously male sexuality. Like, oh Barbarella. A cartoonish symbol which I am hoping people (especially women) get and find funny.

It's so wrong it's fantastic! Know what I mean?
Okay, maybe not but in my warped brain it totally works.

And like I said, the rehearsal went much better. Sure, we lost our way a few times but we wended and wandered and came back to the path.

We dress-rehearsed and I even wore make-up, and our darling young Dee-Dee looked at me when I came in and said, "You look so young!" Haha! She's fourteen. One has to wonder what that little girl thinks of us. I at least know now that she thinks I look old. Which is fine. I am.
She lusted after my red, buckley shoes. I just might have to give them to her when this whole thing is over. Maybe. I might just keep 'em. They're pretty awesome.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

Tomorrow will be a long day. I take my mother to the doctor to get her rechecked as to her mental state. The very, very sad part is that we have to hope that she has declined because that insurance company still ain't paying, those sons of bitches. She called me the other day and said, "Mary, I need to just move back home. I can't afford to live here."

Well, aside from the fact that her home is up for sale and has no furniture in it, she isn't able to live by herself any more. She can't go to the store, she can't cook, she can't take her meds on her own. She insisted though, that she can live on pineapple and cottage cheese and peanut butter and bananas, the way she did for a long time before she moved. She did admit that she couldn't handle her own medications, though.
God, this is sad. God, this is wrong.

I'm too tired to go into a rant and so I won't, but it's just such a fucking bad scenario. And so I shall take her to the doctor and hope that she doesn't know what day it is and that something has changed enough that the STUPID DOODY-HEAD INSURANCE COMPANY THAT SHE WROTE CHECKS TO FOR YEARS AND YEARS will finally qualify her.
Back when she could write checks.
Back when she could remember to write checks.
Back when she could write.

Oh hell.

But then I'm going to Lily's midwife appointment and then I'm taking care of Owen and I miss that little boy. And then another rehearsal tomorrow night.

I do get tired and I do get overwhelmed but I have to remember that for now, while I CAN do these things, it is a gift to have them to do. It won't always be this way and that's as sure a thing as I know. And the play will be over in three weeks and my new grandchild will be coming in a little over a month (please, PLEASE Baby, don't be early!) and I am just solid-gold lucky.

But if I'm a bit quiet in the comment-answering, please forgive.
Time is like a silver fish these days, swimming with the current, fast and with no turning back.

Which is the way it is.

From the shining spirit in me to the shining spirit in you...Ms. Moon

It's All Just An Excuse To Make Fun Of Mitt Romney. And Talk About Keith Richards

All right. I just watched Madonna's halftime performance via the miracle of the internet. I couldn't be bothered last night. I was running lines.
Anyway, the old gal looks fine and I sure wouldn't complain if I looked half that good. She seemed a little stiff, didn't she? Like- had to push herself up off the floor once or twice. I will say that no one on the planet can writhe/dance on the floor like she can.
The woman has a gift!

Now me. I'm stiff today myself. Garden work will do that. But you know, I'm older than Madonna. How old is she? Get this- I just went to Google and typed in "How old" and before I could finish, I was given about fifteen billion websites telling me that Madonna is 53. I'm 57. I tell you what- I gotta give it to her. I doubt I could walk in those boots she was wearing, much less dance in them.

Still, I think it must be easier to be a man-celebrity. Keith can get away with looking a thousand years old at the age of 68 and we all cheer him but if Madonna dares to look over forty at 53 we tut-tut.

Ain't right, ain't fair but then, Keith never made his bucks because of his looks while Madonna...well. She's not THAT good of a singer. Or songwriter. And don't you talk to me about Keith's Richard's voice. He can sing his songs anyway he wants. And so can Madonna, of course, but as far as I know, she's never once played the intro to Jumpin' Jack Flash.

(Where'd he get that coat? I want that coat.)

So where was I? I don't know. I took a break to go take the trash. Took a break from trash talk to deal with the actual stuff. Somehow, that makes me want to talk about this picture again:

I just love this picture. Old Mitt and the Wifey, doing their laundry. I know this horse has been beat to death but come on! I just want to kick it one more time. He said something really stupid about it like- he and the wife do their own laundry because who else is going to do it? They have to do a month's worth at a time because that's how long they're on the road.

If they did a month's worth of laundry in those machines, they'd be in that basement (I guess it's a basement- it looks like a basement) for three days. Any person in this world who has let his or her laundry pile up for a month knows this is pure-T bullshit. What a crock of shit. Thirty days worth of holy Mormon underwear alone would take at least an entire night to do.

Okay. Enough. Let's let that horse rot in peace.

I'm just wasting time here anyway. I've got a week ahead of me that would make Madonna's pretty head spin. I wonder how much it costs her a month to keep those incredibly beautiful golden locks of hers looking like that? My new hair color cost $5.99. It was on sale at the CVS. I like it pretty much.

All right. Here's one more picture of Keith.


He's not too bad on the floor either, although he doesn't do much writhing. Hard to writhe and play guitar at the same time, I would imagine. He's got a grace all his own, that Keith does.

Thanks, y'all. I was a little anxious this morning but being able to talk about Keith made me feel better. It always does.

It's like a little prayer. No floor-writhing or holy underwear required.

Love...Ms. Moon

A Good Day In Pictures

Weeded, weeded, weeded.
Planted two types of lettuce and brussels sprouts.
Then watered.


Stuck a few pansies in the dirt. Watered them too.


The late-afternoon sun shining through the Sweet Williams hanging on the kitchen porch where they can be easily snatched for salads.

I love their darling little faces.

The chicken's before-bed promenade.

What it looked like above them as they made their way seriously and solemnly down the fence line:


Sitting down with my feet up to study lines. My dirty, dirty feet. And I wore shoes and socks. Truly. I did.



Excellent recording of a damn well-written book, even if Mr. Burke's subjects can get a bit..deep into the ugly side of life.

Wonderful narrator. I finished this up today while I was working in the garden.

What Mr. Moon made for the Super Bowl. Gotta love that man. I do.


That glory-light leaving us for now.


Howdy, Moon. Watch over us as we rest tonight, okay? All of us.


And finally- the ubiquitous script. I've about worn the damn print off the cover.


Night, y'all. Let's have GOOD dreams, okay? Let's all let it all go long enough for our raveled sleeves of care to be knit back up and embroidered with silver strands of moonlight.

What the WHAT?

I am too old to go out at night and too old to stay up late.
This is just the fact of the matter.

Too old and too set in my ways.

I haven't slept well in days. The dreams- well- YOU just try and tow a huge house full of people down a road because Hurricane Joe is coming. See how easily you rest.

Hurricane Joe?

So it's Sunday morning. I was just mean to my husband. I said, "I suppose you want breakfast."
He said, "You say that so sweetly."
I said, "I don't want to cook breakfast."
He said, "I'll eat cereal."

There you go.

Lines. Lines. Lines. Gotta study lines.

I bought pansies. Need to plant some. I bought some more lettuces in plant-form. Need to plant them.

It's like...hot here. All night I kept waking up uncomfortably hot. God- what's up with my hormones? Then I finally realized I was sleeping under a doubled down comforter and a down blanket and a cotton blanket and a sheet. The sheet would have done.

It's so warm that it feels like maybe the wisteria and dogwoods missed their cue. Like- it's summer but the flowers never came out. The leaves are still somewhere down the road. Maybe at the Waffle House, eating breakfast, unaware that it's way past time for them to be here, finishing up their hash browns and reading the Opinion section of the paper.

The dogs won't quit scratching. Lis said I need to have an auction here at the blog and sell them. I told her no one who reads this blog would buy my dogs, that in fact, I couldn't possibly pay anyone who reads this blog enough to take my dogs. Let me know if you feel this is not true.

I want to simplify my life. I have no idea what this means nor how to go about it. On the surface, this is about as simple a life as you can lead here in the 21st century America. Well let me tell you something- chickens still need hay and feed and water. Gardens still need weeding and watering and planting and pulling. Grandchildren still need tending. And I don't care if you're starring on Broadway or down the road at the local community theater- you still gotta learn those lines, put on make-up, be there for call-time, do your best. Plus, with community theater you have to do your own costumes.

What does this all mean, Mr. Natural?
Simplify, simplify, simplify.

What does that mean, Mr. Natural?

Don't mean shit. You gonna stay alive, be alive, keep on truckin' (haha! how many of you are getting any of these references?) you can't be sitting in a meadow or on a beach and calming your neurons all day long. Nah. You have to make sure you have toilet paper and clean clothes and that there's milk in the refrigerator. You have to buy soap and razors and lipstick. Yes. Yes you do. Okay, maybe not the lipstick.

You have to get a good night's sleep.

I'm too old.

Hey leaves- get your fucking asses over here. Pay your bill at the Waffle House (cash only!) and do your job. Time's a wastin'!

I think it's going to be Hurricane Season in about three minutes. Yeah. It's THAT warm. And muggy.

Damn. It's almost eleven o'clock. Too late for breakfast. Maybe I'll make my husband some lunch. Brunch. Whatever.

Good morning. Happy Sunday.

Super Bowl?
No thank-you. I'll be going to bed early.

Ah...men.

Goin' Out

Dyed my hair again. Can you tell?

Later, loves.

Happy Saturday night.

I Have No Idea What I Am Talking About. Which Has Never Stopped Me So Far.

Mr. Moon has gone back to Monticello for more set work. I mean- this is just awesome! And bless his heart!
I feel sort of guilty but that's my default emotion so what the hell?

All right. I want to ask a question- if the state of Florida is so damn worried about the money it takes to run the prisons that they're going to privatize them, why don't they do something even smarter like let all the pot-offenders out?
I'm just having some very deep questions in my heart about prisons to begin with. I mean, sure, there are people who really need to be separated from the rest of society. Yep. I'll buy that. Child abusers. Rapists. Serial killers. Bernie Madoff.
Oh yeah. Can't have them running around.

But there are so many people in prison for things like pot and other non-victim-related crimes and why? Why the hell should the damn state care whether or not people smoke pot or sell pot or grow pot? Man, you can hardly stop that stuff from growing. Not that I'd know anything about that personally. Of course.
According to the NORML website, the US spends over a billion dollars a year on imprisoning people for marijuana-related offenses.
That's a bullshit waste of money if you ask me.
Well, no one asked me.

I don't know. Prisons are just completely a mystery to me. Doesn't seem to me that they do much good at rehabilitation. They let weirdo Christians into them to have Bible classes. That alone is bizarre. I knew a guy who did those Bible classes and his idea of good literature was The Left Behind series. Really? I wonder if I was in prison if I would become born-again out of sheer boredom. Maybe. Especially if it took some time off my stay with the state. Or, the company who was running the prison. That just seems wrong to me- to have COMPANIES running prisons. I mean, the more "customers" they have, the better, right? Won't this lead to at least some subtle push for more arrests? I'm not even going to go into the whole horrible situation wherein something like 10% of black males face jail time at some point in their lives for doing things that white people do all the time who DON'T go to jail.
Nah. Why talk about that?
And I SURE don't want to talk about the War On Drugs and what a great thing for our country that's been. And how successful.


Now speaking of the Rapture (and you know I do love to speak of the Rapture), when I was in Mexico I saw a pair of smallish sandals on a sidewalk arranged so perfectly that it looked as if whoever had been in them had just suddenly arisen out of them. I wondered what it would be like if the Rapture happened and so few qualified to be raptured (I just love that word) that no one noticed. Like maybe four people in the whole world just suddenly went missing.
Haha!

Damn. I might as well talk about nuclear physics now because I don't really know anything about THAT subject either.

Well, here's something I DO know for sure and that's the fact that my buckeye is leafing out.

This perhaps faux Spring just has me in a tizzy. I did not plant one damn pansy this winter. And now it's about time for the impatiens. My pots where these things go are empty and sad-looking. Should I go buy some pansies and plant them and then replace them in a few weeks or just leave them empty? I don't know. I feel like I should be planting something. My salad greens in the garden are bolting already. That's ridiculous! It's only February 4th.

I think I'll go to town and hit the library and maybe a cheap plant outlet. I can't allow myself to go to any of the nurseries yet. That would end up being expensive.
I am SO pissed that Target shut down their gardening sections here. Did they all? I loved their gardening section. It was so pleasant and I always found cool plants for cheap. Little surprises and lovely begonias. Remember when I was obsessed with begonias? I think that was a grandchild-substitute thing. Then I got a real grandchild and now most of my begonias are dead.
Too bad this doesn't work with small dogs.
Anyway, you can still get made-in-China garden gnomes at Target and I have nothing against made-in-China garden gnomes but garden gnomes, no matter where they are made are pathetic without plants to watch over.

Okay. I've rambled enough.

See you at the Mockingbird tonight?

As Owen would say, "Maybe!"

Love...Ms. Moon

Shoes Make The...Character

I think I did exactly what I should have done today.
I did not go to town. I did not go to Monticello. I did not even take a walk.
I watered my porch plants, swept my porches and then...began the task of trying to figure out my costumes for this play.
My character is a middle-aged (haha!), feminist-Romantic-Novel-Book-Publisher who lives in Santa Monica.
California, I am assuming.
Okay. Sure. Whatever.
She could dress in woman-suits or in jeans or in funky western/gypsy/Bohemian wear. Who knows?
Well, shit. I ought to know. Right?

Jan and Jack are very strong in the opinion that the actor gets to develop his or her character which includes costumes. I mean, if you ask for help or suggestions, you'll get them but otherwise, it's your oyster, baby.

There are going to have to be several changes which are going to have to happen FAST. I mean too fast to really change. Whip this jacket or shirt off, put on another and change shoes. Maybe for the shoes, maybe not. That's part of the equation I am dealing with. Another part is that I do not want to dress either too old or too young. Also, I am workin' with what I got here, folks, which is a body which is far from perfect. I have good legs. Other than that- forget it. I went to the Goodwill one day two weeks ago and found one dress and one pair of shoes. I wore the dress for a test run last night and it did nothing for me at all. Nada. I did not feel good in it. So scratch that one.
The shoes however. Well.
In real life I am a comfortable shoes type of gal. The shoes I wear at least 90% of the time look like this:

Let me just say that my goal in life at this moment is to buy enough pairs of these shoes to last my entire lifetime. There is, for my purposes, no finer shoe which basically means there is a very light sole attached to my foot with the smallest straps possible. You can wear socks with them if it's cold.
Plus, I think they're cute.
And if you don't, keep it to yourself.

BUT, when I am acting a part, I do love to wear shoes that I, personally, would probably never wear. I don't know. It just delights me to do that.
So when I was in the Goodwill and found these in my own personal size:

I knew I'd found my shoes.
They're sorta crazy, huh? And I got them for half price so they were like four bucks or something. And I am only going to wear them for one scene, but they did help me to formulate, as it were, an attitude of character. Not heels- platforms. Clunky, chunky and buckled.
And mostly red.
A little hard to walk in but what the hell?

So. With those as a start, I spent all afternoon trying on everything in my closet and making outfits.

My bed looked like this:

I dug out things I'd forgotten I'd owned and it dawned on me once again that almost all of my clothes either come from the Goodwill or from Lis. And that I own clothes which I have owned for decades.
I tried on this with that and then with that. The opening scene should make a statement as to character, right? The outfit I came with for that is one that Jan and Jack are maybe going to look at and say, "Try again." But you know what? I like it. Well, I liked it this afternoon. My character, Harriet Copeland, is going to wear silver all the time. Silver bracelets from wrist to elbow. Silver earrings. She doesn't have time to change that shit, y'all, so silver is going to be her jewelry of choice.

I am wearing no pants. Although I will wear panties. Skirts. Some shortish. There will be tights and stockings. Also, one pair of leggings. I tried and tried to get my red cowgirl boots in there but they're just not going to work.

I will have a small screened area in which to change so undergarments need to be universal. There are no slips involved. Yes. I will wear a damn bra.

So that's what I did today. I changed clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. Over and over again.

And do you want to know what Mr. Moon did?
He went to Monticello and helped with the sets.
He is...well.
My hero.
He is the darling-est man I know. I didn't ask him to do that. He did it on his own. Called Jack himself and came home early from work and put on his overalls and took his tools down to the Opera House and built and painted. And he's going back tomorrow morning.

Jesus. Just when I think my life is one big sobby fest, one big whoa-is-me, something happens to remind me that I am not just loved, I am supported.

Have I told you that Jessie and Vergil are coming on Thursday? And that one of my oldest and darlingest friends is coming to stay on Wednesday night? And that we are going to go see Lon and Lis play tomorrow night?

Well. Now I have. And who knows? I might just rob Harriet Copeland's wardrobe to go out to see them in.

Or at least a pair of her shoes.

Gotta get my four bucks worth out of those.

Happy Saturday night, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

It's A Funny World

I have written and written this morning and I realize it is all stupid and worthless and incredibly depressing and so here- two camellias.
The chickens are out. Elvis has such a bountiful rear these days- tail feathers so heavy and dark and green and gorgeous.

The drape, the shape, the whole sweet ass of him.

There. That's what I have to say.

This is all part of it.

Enough for now. Good enough.

No Title

It's too late to write and it's been a hard, hard day including ugly crying, like Gradydoctor says, and then a rehearsal that was so bad, so bad, so bad. I have chiseled these words and lines into my brain with a dull-edged tool and yet still, some of them come slowly or not at all and all of us are like this and we haven't worked with sound effects or costume changes and there was an opera going on upstairs or something like it, great crescendos of voice and piano and crashing down again and we all faltered and lay panting on the stage like great whales without their voices.

We have two more rehearsals before we open.

Two.

Two.

Two.

More.

Rehearsals.

It's too late to write and it's too late to go back and get it all right from the get-go and the dogs pushed me over the edge today and don't even give me any advice because none of it is going to work. You have dogs, they are like children. What? You just stand on the street corner of Craig's List and give them away?

I think of all of the completely wasted time I have spent in the last eleven, twelve? years walking these dogs and cleaning up after them and getting them groomed and giving them their flea medications and today I washed them with flea shampoo and then I found a flea on Owen's face when I was reading him Are You My Mother?

He held me tightly, that boy did, when we got to the scary part with the SNORT and he reassured me that the baby bird would find his mother (we have read this book about ten thousand times) and when the baby bird DID find his mother, he hugged me even tighter. See? See? His mother came back.

"Once upon a time," I tell him when I am softly rubbing his back, "Once upon a time there was a very old turkey named Mr. Peep."

And I tell him the story until we both fall asleep and today, when he got here, he pulled a chair up to the kitchen door. "Wait for Bop," he said. "We have to take a nap first," I told him. "Bop will come after we nap." And that was okay. He believed me and it turned out to be completely true.

It's all okay. I am just overwhelmed, over-filled.

It's all okay.

I don't remember how to just be but being is something we can't avoid and that is something to hold on to.

So I am, holding on and this is nothing, just a play, just a life, just dogs, just...yeah. Life. And not a bad one at all but a marvelous one and it is time, thank god, for sleep.

TechFuckingNology

Why the hell is it easier to drive a car from here to Chicago than it is to operate a damn remote?
Okay. Yes. I am swearing today. I'm just full of swears. And cusses, too. Which makes me think of this:




which has almost all of my favorite actors in it, albeit (am I using that word too much?) in voice only.

So anyway, this morning I decided to use my super-dooper iPhone to download audio books from my local library- awesome! right? and I went through about fifty steps to get to the point where I could start "browsing" and used my tiny Barbie fingers to get the proper app and then type in passwords and library card numbers and had to sign up for an Adobe account- why?- and then when I DID get to start browsing, they didn't have any damn books I wanted to listen to and none of them were available anyway.
What the cuss?

Jesus, y'all. Figure this shit OUT.

But the thing that really makes me shoot flames out of my head and butt (at the same time) is the remote at Lily and Jason's house. They have this big-ass TV and I can't figure out anything on it. Nothing. They have all this fancy stuff that I don't even know the name of but that's where the good stuff is- the stuff Owen likes to watch like movies on demand, yeah, I guess that's what they call it, and I can't figure it out and he's all, "Panda, Panda!" and I'm all, "I know you want to watch the Panda movie but I can't do it, Owen!" and he's trying to grab the remote from me because he can probably do it but I can't and I just want to cry and I try Page Up and I try Page Down and I try everything and nothing works and so we go outside and he slides a ball down the slide over and over again and tells me to go and get it, which I do until I've had enough of that and boy, do I wish I could get that Panda movie to work.

I'm not stupid. I swear to you, I am not. I can do things on the computer. I can download and I can upload. (I say that but I'm not really sure what the difference is and please- don't try to explain it. Does it matter?) I can embed videos. See above for proof. I am not completely inept at all things technological. I can operate a blender, a food processor and my new washer and dryer. I can program my coffee maker. I CAN DRIVE A PRIUS! Driving a Prius is easy to tell you the truth. Put in the key thingee. Push Power, put it in gear. Go. Done. I could quite literally drive to Chicago. But I sure as hell can't find the fucking Panda movie on Owen's TV for the poor little child.

Okay. I think I will, in fact, get in the Prius and drive, not to Chicago, but to Tallahassee where I will visit the library and get some audio books on CD because obviously I ain't gettin' 'em via the iPhone. I could even pick up a few DVD's for Owen who is coming over later and we could sit on the couch together and watch them but I have no real idea how to operate the DVD player because it involves THE REMOTE in ways in which I am not comfortable and so forget it. Do you have any idea how ridiculous it makes me feel to have to tell my 2.5-year old grandson that no, Mer does not know how to do it?

Mer can make dough and Mer can tell the Mr. Peep story and Mer can find Dinosaur Train on the regular TV at HER house but Mer can't find the Panda movie at Owen's house and Mer feels like a big, fat idiot and thank-you, Techfuckingnology for making my world a better place.
Sometimes.
Like now, when I'm writing these words and sending them out to the world which I am quite sure is waiting with bated breath to receive them on their technological devices of which there are an endless supply, some of which I know how to operate and some of which I do not.

All right. I'm done.

Happy Groundhog Day. We should all curl up on our couches with a nice down comforter over us and watch this wonderful movie. Which has Bill Murray in it. Of course.




Love...Ms. Moon

Big Wheel Keep On Turning. Proud Mary Keep On Burning.

Good Lord.
What a day.
I thought it was going to be my "off" day. No rehearsal and Owen wasn't coming out.
But.
Things change. Jason had a deer to clean and then wanted to make sausage and he needed Mer to watch the boy while he did that. It was a vague plan. I moped around this morning and then took a walk and when I got back, I found Jason and Owen in the dining room, playing Scrabble.




They'd already had a game of chess.

Owen refused to stay in the house and help me make spaghetti sauce and instead, demanded to go out and help his daddy cut up the deer. And so he did. I busted ass in the kitchen, making the sauce and the dough for two loaves of bread. Owen came in to help me with that one- he likes to pat the dough and poke it and lick his finger and pronounce it good.

At this point, it was nap time. He did NOT want to take a nap but needed one desperately. He wanted his daddy to lay down, too. His daddy washed his hands and laid down on the bed with us and Big Bear and Zeke and listened to a few books and then Owen kissed him and hugged him so that he could get back to his work and then he and I settled down for the Mr. Peep story and he was out.
I slept too. Hell yes.

We got up and smashed down the bread dough which had risen lovely and then the games began and there was playing and greens-gathering from the garden and goat-feeding and Jason was grinding deer meat in the kitchen.

You know, back when I was a young woman, having a man grinding deer meat in my kitchen was just not something I ever thought would happen.
And yet.

Bop came home and I finished up the supper-fixin's and everyone had bread from the oven with butter and here's a picture of Owen after I said, "Show me how you eat bread."

He's an expert.

Bop ate his dinner and Owen had a few noodles of his own.

And juice. He loves to drink juice out of that tiny coke glass. I think he can drink about forty of those. Or at least thirty-nine.

Tom came over to meet up with Mr. Moon as they were going to a basketball game in town. He had a slice of bread too. Who can refuse bread from the oven? No one I've ever met.
Gluten is our friend.

Owen entertained us with massive burps.He would burp and then laugh like a hyena and then say, "Excuse me." Tom said, "Could he be a little more cheerful?"

There was a lot more. Animal pictures on Youtube. Owen is obsessed with Spirit, who is some damn cartoon movie horse. I have seen enough of Spirit to last a lifetime. But...we watched some more. Spirit being born. Spirit in the snow. Spirit being captured by white men. Spirit running through the prairie with an eagle. Spirit jumping off a fucking cliff. Spirit nuzzling his wife, another horse whom I believe is named Rain.
Jesus.

Here's my idea to make a million bucks: Make movies about the deaths of all of those horrible creatures which children love. Barny Bites It. Spirit Becomes A Spirit. Elmo's Eternal Rest. Etc. Put them up on Youtube so that parents and grandparents can show them to their tiny darling ones and say, "See? Spirit is dead. No more Spirit. Let's watch reruns of The Honeymooners!" And if they insisted that they needed to watch animal videos, we could just show them The Crazy Nasty-Ass Honey Badger, over and over again.

Not only would we not have to watch these abysmal films anymore, the wee tot would learn about death. An important lesson we should all learn before the age of three.

Okay. Just a thought. From a tired old grandmother.

Time to go clean up and tidy up. And eat some spaghetti. And the rest of that apple which Owen started and did not finish. Those apples are $2.49 a pound! I ain't wasting that apple.

No. I never thought I'd marry a hunter and I never thought I'd have a hunter-butcher-sausage maker in the family and I never realized how much I could love a grandchild.

You just never know. That's all I'm saying.

Which is probably a good thing.

Thank god I have rehearsal tomorrow. It'll be restful. Like a walk through fields of lavender.

Night, y'all.
Love...Ms. Moon

Sometimes People Do Change Their Minds

And it can be a beautiful thing. This made my heart feel good.

A Brown Study

I am so tired of brown already. Brown leaves carpet the ground, brown sticks in the pots where once flowers and green plants grew. Brown branches, stark and naked. Even with dots of bright fuchsia, too much brown.

And gray. The sky is gray today.

Brown and gray.

Oh boy.

There is promise, everywhere. Buds tightly holding themselves with fleshy petals, more color.


But not nearly enough to overthrow the brown. The gray.

One blue egg. I held it in the palm of my hand and took its picture.


Ms. Flopsy has decided to abandon her experiment in egg-setting, I suppose. Perhaps it was nothing more than a sudden whiff of an urge or a practice session. A playing-with-dolls.

Owen cradled the orange juice bottle the other day as if it were a baby. "Love it," he said tenderly.
Oh yes. Orange juice is good. And it is...orange.

I crave to be back by the water.

I mean really- how can you compare that to this


and not see exactly and entirely why the brown is just a little too much for me right now and why one pale blue egg really has no hope of lifting my spirits to any great degree?

There is nothing wrong with brown except that it is the color of winter-death and shit.
Nothing wrong with it at all.

Or gray, either.

Just...I miss blue. I miss it a lot.

Even as I am grateful for this place here which I do love which right now happens to be framed in brown and gray.


There is beauty here, even though. Even though.

The sun suddenly breaks through the clouds and I look up and see the gray interrupted with bands of blue. Like the buds of fuchsia, pink and red-and-white striped, it is promise.

But in Cozumel, it was more than promise. It was the reality I woke up to every morning.

Well. Time for a walk in the brown woods. Time to quit whining and be glad I had it. All that blue and green and purple. But I tell you something- it is not ungrateful of me to miss those colors. It's ridiculous to even think that. It is just reality. Why in this world shouldn't I miss them? What sort of idiot wouldn't?

The dogs need baths. Fleas are brown too, you know.

Tired of brown.

Too bad. So sad.