Sorry

I have added that stupid thing you have to do where you type in the squiggly letters to post a comment due to spam comments.
Damn it.
I apologize but really- who needs that crap?
Not me and certainly not now.

Four Days and Counting: Goodness Gracious (Not Me)

All right. We knew it had to happen. Last night something inside my brain cracked open letting out all sorts of toxic poisons, which, until then, had been safely encapsulated like some virus in a shiny shell, just biding its time for the perfect moment in the perfect host to shatter and go forth and multiply in evil.
Can't you tell just from that paragraph how far over the line I've gone?
I've lost my sense of humor about it all.
Okay- Here's a secret:
When Lily started planning this wedding sometime last year, I had harbored the dream that a comet would hit the earth before the actual event, killing off all lifeforms and thus preventing me from having to do things like put Jordan almonds in tulle bags.
Yeah, well, dreams don't always come true.
And it's time to put the Jordan almonds in the the tulle bags.
This is not the kind of mothering I'm good at. It's not the sort of womaning I'm good at. I know womaning is not a word. I don't care.
Given a choice between planning a wedding and digging a drain field I would say, "Let me go find my shovel."
My friend Lis who is coming over today keeps saying, "Oh! This is going to be so much fun!"
This is the same woman who can't believe I don't have a pastry bag and piping tips to make deviled eggs with.
I am not that kind of woman.
I am the kind of woman who can cook over an open fire. I am the kind of woman who can dig a drain field. I am the kind of woman who can receive a placenta in a bowl and examine it for missing parts. I am the kind of mother who can breastfeed and cook dinner over an open fire at the same time and then receive a placenta into a bowl and check it for missing parts. Right after I dig the drain field.
But planning and executing a wedding?
Not so much.
I keep saying that no matter how the wedding goes, the bottom line is that Lily and Jason are going to end up being married, which is the whole purpose of all this tulle and almond-wrapping and shoe-hunting. So when she called me yesterday and said that they'd forgotten to go get a marriage license, something within me died.
They still have time. They'll get it today and when they say their "I-do's" on Sunday, they will be well and legally wed. However, there is a three-day waiting period in Florida after the license is purchased, which means that they have really pushed the envelope on that one.
Do you know what that would have meant? If they really hadn't remembered in time? It would have meant that this whole thing was nothing but an exercise in some sort of tulle-wrapped illusion.
It's all going to be okay, even if the almonds don't get wrapped. Or even if they do and we forget to take them. Even if I'm barefoot at the wedding. Even if I'm barefoot and my toenails aren't painted a pretty shade of peach to match my dress.
Even if I have to walk around the reception, barefooted, with my toenails untended and bearing a clashing shade of red on only two toenails because I haven't painted them in at least three months and have to pass out the almonds directly from the box to each and every guest.
It'll be okay. I swear.
Right? Right?
As long as they get married and live happily ever after. In which case, it will have all been worth it.
Are you listening Lily?
Happily ever after.
I mean it.

But First

The wedding is in five days.
Once again I ask- are we ready?
Once again I say- no, we are not.
And I should be doing something to further the mission RIGHT THIS SECOND and it might involve Jordon almonds and tiny tulle bags or pink and white impatiens and tiny clay pots or coordinating something with someone but....
first I need to take my ailing daughter some books to read because she's sick and HAS NO BOOKS and we're junkies and we must have books but....
first I need to tidy up the guest room because my dear friend/wedding cake baker/sanity maker is coming to town tomorrow THANK GOD but...
first I must wash the sheets and quilt on that bed but...
first I must get the beans for tonight's chili boiling and punch down the rising bread but...
first I must clean up that dried dog puke in the living room but...
first I must round up the medications to take to my daughter, Sudafed and Benadryl but...
first I must take a walk because I am not getting any skinnier and I need the sanity that comes with my walk but...
first I need to push the publish post button on this and
CAN YOU TELL I'VE HAD TOO MUCH COFFEE???
And speaking of but(t)s...half of mine is still black.
Thank God humans wear clothing is all I can say about that.
Thanks for listening.

Walk, Darlings, Don't Run. You'll Get There Soon Enough

Sunday morning and it's gray here and still. We got some good rain yesterday and last night, and the air is cool and damp. I can feel the trees breathing, it seems, with their brand new leaves.
Everything changes so quickly this time of year. Last Sunday the wisteria arbor was full-purple, today there's a carpet of tiny violet petals on the wet, soggy ground beneath it and the vines are leafed out with brave new green.
It's just me and the dogs here today. My husband has gone down to south Florida to visit with his sister who lost her husband in January.
Seems like I've been spending a lot of time alone lately, something that even five years ago would have seemed impossible. I still had two children at home then, still lived in town.
But in the past few years, things have changed so much. We've moved, the kids have grown up and moved out, my husband's sister died, and then his brother-in-law and my friend, Lynn, too.
And I'm not grieving, just wondering and being in wonder that so much has happened in so short a time.
It's like spring, in a way, or fall- those seasons where the changes come quickly, overnight sometimes, while in the long months of summer and of winter, it almost appears that there are no changes, that the heat or the cold will be with us forever.
When the children were little, it was like that. Every day was the same. Get up with them, change diapers, get laundry going, make breakfasts, plan my day around everyone else's schedules, whether of school or lessons or appointments or projects. There were changes, but they were so slow as to be unrecognizable.
Yet now, it's hard to remember all those years of the long summer of my life. I look back and it's fuzzy. Did we really live in one house for twelve years? I can barely recall where the refrigerator was in that house. I look at old pictures and I almost swoon at the memories. I would say it's a bittersweet experience, looking back, but for me, it's more bitter than sweet. Where did those babies go, those darling little children who let me cuddle them on my lap, read to them, their warm bodies close to mine, fat little fingers pointing at the pictures, those tiny faces raised to mine with questions, or ready to receive their good-night kisses?
I have boxes of pictures, unorganized and guilt-producing. I hate going through those boxes. Not only are my babies gone, but my beloved in-laws, my friends Sue and Lynn, both of whom are in so many of those photographs because they were in so much of my life.
And it's not just them- I look at pictures of me and my husband from years ago and I wonder where those two beautiful people went. My God! We never saw the changes and yet, here we are, suddenly old, or at least so much older.
I watch my husband walk across the yard, coming in from the garden and he walks just like his daddy did. He's not a boy anymore, although I still see the boy in him sometimes when I look into his eyes, when he holds me close.
I look at myself in the mirror and am amazed at the lines in my face that don't go away when I'm not smiling, not frowning, just holding my face still to examine it.

Strange to have all these thoughts on a day in spring, one week away from my daughter's wedding.

I wish I had some advice for her and her man, some wisdom to impart about embarking on this journey they're about to vow to make together.
I guess if I do, it would just be to try and take the time to pay attention. To be here now. To realize that within every second there is an eternity that will never reappear. That each day is one that no one can go back to, no one can do over.
Slow down. It goes so fast. They are in the spring of their lives, so much going on, so many changes. Don't try to speed it up. Don't try to race towards the summer-part. That will get here soon enough and then, it'll be gone too.
One day the wisteria arbor is filled with life so thick that you can hear it, smell it, touch it. The next, the blossoms have all dropped, the bees have disappeared.
One day the house is so filled with life that you would give anything for an hour of peace and solitude. The next, it's empty and solitude is what the day is filled with.
I'm not complaining. I still enjoy being alone, still revel in being able to plan my day around my own needs and desires.
But it's strange. And just as I can't reattach the wisteria blossoms, I can't go back to those days when the children were little and life was one frantic breath, inspired when I woke up to the sound of someone who needed me, let out when I finally was able to lie down at night.

So quiet here today I can almost hear the oaks breathe.

Another season, another part of my life. Breathe in, breathe out. The train that runs through my backyard rushes by, in a noisy hurry to get from one place to another. I observe it, I let it pass, I am going nowhere today and I am in no hurry now.
I know how swiftly it all goes.

If I know anything, that's what I know.

It goes too fast.

How To Get An Ass Like Jennifer Lopez's

So yesterday evening the husband got home with a huge bag of dog food for our huge pack of dogs and he brought his gym bag and lunch box (yes, Ms. Moon packs a lunch for her man every day) up to the kitchen porch, then went back to the car to get the dog food which he proceeded to take in via the back porch.
I went out to pick up the lunch box and gym bag to bring inside, being the good wife that I am, and somehow, in reaching for the gym bag (which must have not only rocks in it but perhaps fetal elephants), I lost my grip and tumbled backwards, landing on my ass against the bottom wooden frame of the screen door.
I'm still not exactly sure how this happened as I am no wuss, no lightweight, no Olive Oyl-armed lady. I lift weights. Not huge weights, but still.
And as I was falling, I had enough time to think, "This is so absurd. How is this happening?" which is the human response to falling prey to gravity (no pun intended), which we occasionally do.
I made a huge thump as I landed, startling the dogs into silence but of course the man heard nothing because he was in another part of the house and also his hearing is not what it used to be. You try working in a tire shop for half your life- see how much you can hear after the age of fifty.
Anyway, I sat there for a second, doing that thing where you check your bod to see what's broken or bleeding and I was happy to find that nothing seemed to be, although I knew I'd given the old ass a good whack. I got up, moaning a bit and feeling sorry for myself as well as embarrassed although no one but the dogs had witnessed my fall, grabbed the gym bag and lunch bag and hobbled inside.
In the next hour my usually flat butt became a thing of wonder, and all I could think of was that half of my ass looked much like Jennifer Lopez's celebrated and glorious bottom, although of course mine was turning colors that we really don't like to see on our own bodies and I would certainly never wish on Jennifer.
I iced and went on with the business of making supper (focaccia with tomatoes and basil) and was in very little pain. Somehow I managed not to twist anything as I came down and for that and the fact that I landed on my ass and not my tailbone I am most grateful.
There is no moral to this story. I wasn't drinking, I wasn't doing something crazy, I was simply trying to get the gym bag in the house which I would not have had to do if it hadn't been for the dog food and so I am going to blame the dogs.
Why not?
The swelling has gone down today and hopefully, by the wedding it will all be gone but if it's not, I certainly know which is my best side- the right side of my backside, to be precise- and that is the side I will turn to the camera when it is necessary to be photographed.
Dolly Parton has a new song out called Jesus and Gravity and I am now wondering if that cute little ass of hers has more to do with Jesus or gravity although I am thinking that in her case it has more to do with modern surgery, but that's a matter for another day's discussion.

It Must Be Spring

Golly. Yesterday's post was so grim. Sorry. Really. I don't know what came over me.
But today's another day and I'm not thinking about death as I sit on my back porch, the dogwood by the train track still in full-bloom glory shining through the mist.
It's spring here for sure and the mosquitoes are back in full and the last few nights I've heard the deepest rumbling chorus of frogs in the swamp behind us. It SOUNDS like they've got enough members in that men's choir to eat every mosquito on earth but I guess they don't because every night before bed my husband spends at least ten minutes, jumping around the room with a folded-up newspaper whacking the hell out of the ones on the wall who have crept in and are waiting to suck our blood as we sleep.
Last night he got so sprightly with that newspaper that the smallest dog, Zeke, ran out of the room and hid in the hallway, thinking that surely the giant man would come after him next.
Ah- the rituals of spring. The birds mate, the flowers bloom, the goats next door give birth and my husband whacks mosquitoes.
It's all good.
The wedding is now only ten days away and I'll say it again- we are not ready. I still haven't bought shoes. At the bridal shower, I told my daughter's future mother-in-law that if she went barefoot, I would too.
I believe she thought I was joking.
But no, I wasn't. I was drinking, however. Which doesn't negate the fact that I was trying to broker a no-shoes deal for real.
Of course shoes aren't the only things we haven't gotten yet, but we're getting there. My second-oldest child who is a bridesmaid just found her dress yesterday. I made the mistake of calling her and asking if she had a glue gun while she was shopping for the dress. We needed the glue gun for a whole different project that Lily was coming out to work on that night which involved one-hundred flower pots, ribbons, and heart charms.
"No, I don't have a glue gun!" my daughter said with a bit more hysteria in her voice than lack of a glue gun might require.
I made the mistake of asking if she could go buy one and she said (screamed), "Yes, yes! I can go buy a glue gun!"
"Honey. You sound stressed out," I said. "Are you okay?"
"No. I AM stressed out. And you are stressing me out more!"
For this child, that was like a full-on-breakdown Mama cussin' but it just tickled me that she'd come back at me the way she'd done.
"It's okay," I reassured her. "Don't worry. We'll get along without it."
"Okay!" she said (screamed).
She called me back about a half hour later to apologize.
"I'm so sorry. I'd been trying on dresses for three and a half hours and..."
"Say no more," I said. "I'm surprised you didn't reach through the phone and rip my throat out."
And we laughed and I pondered the way this wedding has got every one of us caught up in the whirlwind of planning and execution and if we don't keep a sense of humor about it, we're all going down.
So Lily and her man came out last night and I fed them and they finished up the flower-pot project and then my husband and her almost-husband went outside and kicked the bamboo which is another spring ritual. We have some terrible-bad bamboo and if you don't kick those new sprouts coming up they will turn into fourteen foot stalks overnight. It's like a horror movie.
I'm really developing a huge respect for this fella, this man Lily's marrying. He ties bows on flower pots and he kicks the bamboo and he really, really loves my daughter and they're being so pragmatic about plans for buying a house in a good school zone and besides that, he has really pretty eyes, sort of like Elvis and maybe I'll get a grandchild with eyes like that.
It's spring. We're having a wedding. Some of us may not be wearing shoes but that's okay.
Lily's got a man who is willing to take on the responsibilities of marriage and future children and I've got a man who smacks the mosquitoes and kicks the bamboo.
Who could ask for more?

That Which Offends Us

When did people get so easily offended?
Yesterday on the Dooce blogsite, Heather Armstrong linked a site that very artistically showed portraits of people before and after their deaths. One of her readers had been deeply offended by the link and wrote Ms. Armstrong to tell her that. By the time I read the blog, there were over five hundred comments and what amazed me was how many of the people who'd taken the time to go to the site had never seen a dead person. Most of them were not offended- the pictures were, if anything, way too artistic and the dead had been composed to look peaceful and hardly dead at all.
But it really got me to thinking about what offends us and why.
Then this morning I read Jonah Goldberg's column in the local paper wherein he stated that he was deeply offended by those little Darwin fish on the backs of cars. Instead of interpreting them, as I do, as witty responses to those Christian magnet fish, he finds them evidence of religious bigotry.
Good Lord!
It seems to me that we find everything offensive these days from Doonesbury comic strips to the sight of a woman breastfeeding her infant and I think it's because we are so removed from the very realities of life that make us human beings. Somehow one person's take on current events or the idea that yes, mammals feed their young with their breasts makes some of us squirm. We don't want to think about things. We find them offensive.
Like death.
Why can't we grow up and quit being offended by the truth? Or even someone else's version of it. If it's not true, why should it bother us? If it is, let's face it.
"You can't handle the truth," Jack Nicholson said in that stupid movie with Tom Cruise. And I admit that there are many truths I don't want to face and can't handle. This doesn't make me a better human being though, or a deeper thinking one or a more compassionate one.
It makes me a dumbed-down ostrich willing to stick my head in the sand.
But at least I know that. And I'm sick and tired of do-gooders trying to censure anything from print to TV that might offend someone because the truth is, we're a big bunch of pussies as a society and it's getting to the point where everything has the potential to offend someone. I am not advocating cruelty here. I'm just saying that taking offense at a bumper sticker is a big fat waste of time but looking into the face of a dead person is facing a very real truth and makes us realize how very short and precious life is which shouldn't be offensive at all.
Words that can sound offensive must be used if we are to deal with the very real problems of homelessness, racial discrimination, poverty and sexual abuse. Trying to eliminate these words actually eliminates our being able to discuss them and do something about them.
So I guess what I'm saying here is that I am offended by people being so damn offended by stupid things. Or what I consider to be stupid, anyway.
As one nurse commented on Heather's blog, we come into this world pretty funky and we go out the same way. As far as I can tell, life itself is a pretty funky business and although we may not want to think about that, it's just the truth.
Let's quit being offended by the funk and get in there and clean it up. Let's quit being so squeamish and silly.
Let's try to save our getting offended by the things that deserve it.
We all, in our hearts, know what those things are.
The life and death things. Not the bumper sticker things.
Let's quit getting distracted from the things we should be offended by. It's a waste of time that we don't have.
Want to be reminded of this? Check out the web site and read the text that accompanies the pictures.
Unless you're offended by the stories and pictures of the dying and dead.
In which case, please don't. It's really okay to go on believing you'll live forever because if you do, you'll have plenty of time to be offended by anything you want to be offended by. Including bumper stickers.

With My Friend's Permission

Here's that handsome Marine.
Bless his heart. Oh yeah.

What a weekend. From a beautiful Friday night date with my husband to the parade on Saturday that I watched from the vantage point of my son's front yard, to house-cleaning and party preparation. We had my daughter's bridal shower here yesterday. The weather was perfect and we set up outside so that the wisteria was the centerpiece of the decorations. The mosquitoes politely stayed away and even the dogs behaved themselves.
There were lots of friends, little sandwiches, and presents galore. There was crepe paper and fold-out wedding bells and flowers and a cake.
And there was an epiphany.
I was in my kitchen, cutting up fruit for the fruit salad and I was nervous and a little bit stressed and a tiny bit resentful, too. As I worked, I could hear my daughters giggling outside as they put up the decorations and part of me wanted to scream- "Y'all stop having so much fun! This is serious!" I wasn't having fun. All this work- cleaning and shopping and cooking and planning and here I was, in the kitchen AGAIN, and for what? Why? Why me?
And then it struck me. I was resentful because no one had ever done anything like this for me.
Over the years I've probably thrown hundreds of family parties- the Christmases, the Thanksgivings, the birthdays.
I've often joked that as soon as I was able to throw a turkey in the oven my mother passed the title of "Matriarch" to me and I have taken that title seriously.
But there's always been a little voice inside me saying, "Why doesn't anyone ever throw ME a party?"
I think that little voice belongs to a little girl who lives inside me.
On the outside, I may look like a woman old enough to be a grandmother, but on the inside, I am still a little girl who wants to wear a tiara and have her favorite meal and blow out the candles on the cake her mama made her.
Isn't that odd?
I realized all of this and it made me feel a little sad. But it helped, knowing where these feelings come from.
And I think I'm a little clearer now on why I go to so much trouble despite my bitching and my moaning about all the work I do to make nice times for my kids- it's so that they don't ever wonder why no one did that for them. And that's all part of the decision I made years ago when I realized that buck would stop right here with me when it came to the sort of dysfunctional families that had produced me. Or at least as much as I was humanly able to achieve.
It's March 21st and my daughter is getting married in one week and six days. It's going to be a beautiful wedding and I am so grateful she's found the man who makes her happy and that they're starting their new life together.
The whole thing has been a terrific amount of work but honestly, it's all going to have been so worth it. And this is what families do. They make the birthday cakes, they gather the friends, they put out the tablecloths, they plan and execute the weddings. My other daughters are bridesmaids, my son is officiating at the wedding, my husband is paying for things with as much goodwill as he can muster about it all and he's going to wear a tux and be the handsomest man in the universe. We are all coming together to plan and do this thing because we love our Lily and we want her to have the wedding day she dreams of and deserves.
We are going to celebrate. Together. Joyfully.
It's spring. My daughter is getting married. My life is filled with wisteria and birds and bees and all things bridal.
And that's what life is all about and if there's one thing, one thing in this entire world that I've ever wanted it's been to have a family that is loving and joyful and cares about each other to the bone, to the blood. A family where there are no big, scary, dangerous secrets. To be the mama of the children who giggle and laugh as they string up the banner that proudly proclaims BRIDAL SHOWER. To cut up the fruit, to cut the cake, to have the house where the wisteria grows and the birds nest on the porch.
And I do.
And it's amazing.

And Then There's This

Four hungry maws, open and demanding to be fed. These new children live in a pot on my kitchen porch.
Aren't you glad you're not a wren parent?
I am.

Mystery Solved Right Here In Lloyd

Remember all those bees that went missing this year?
I've found them.
They're all in my yard, getting drunk on wisteria nectar.
And I'm a bit tipsy myself from the perfume of the blossoms, the way they look hanging from the arbor and the oak trees, and the sound the bees make as they buzz and dip and sip and hover, flying from blossom to blossom. They sound like a small and very efficient machine, these bees, and I wish that I, like them, could nestle in the soft purple petals, sipping nectar and coating my body in pollen.
Lucky bees.
I want to eat their honey.

Because

I'm supposed to be doing something like, uh, cleaning, my posts for the next few days are likely to be quite short. Which is not necessarily a bad thing.

I'd just like to say that being a housewife would probably be the best gig in the entire world if it were not for the fact that there is actual cleaning involved now and then.

When this actual cleaning is required though, I have developed something which makes it SO much easier. I call it the Housewife's Speedball. It goes like this:

Take one shot of espresso. Drink it black and drink it down.
Take one beer. Open. Drink.

Okay. Since it's only 2:18 in the afternoon, it's way too early for that sort of folderol so I suppose I best get back to it, sans any little mother's helpers unless you count the Amazing Power of Bleach which should never be underestimated. We all know, however, not to mix bleach with ammonia, which is another potent cleaning product. Ever. You will be sorry. After you wake up.

And let me say that it's the most beautiful day here I've quite possibly ever seen in my life and darn it! I wish I had my hands in the dirt.
The kind in the yard and garden, that is. By the time it's reached the surfaces of my house it has lost 100% of its enchantment.

Side note:
After doing a Google-image search for "Housewife", I have to say that there are a lot of housewives out there doing their part to keep the entire world very, very happy.
Whoa. Excuse me while I swoon.

Further Troubling Signs

I've been reading the Dooce again. I'm up to November, 2005. Part of me feels wretchedly ill about this soul-sucking, time wasting activity and part of me is just so happy that she wrote so many blogs.
But this, this is the worst: The picture I posted of my dog a few days ago? I totally confused that dog, who is DOLLY, with my dog ZEKE.
Dolly is a mostly poodle mix. Zeke is a Yorkie. They look just alike, don't they?
Hello? Can you hear my brain? It's sizzling.
Thankfully, I can still find my way to Publix, buy groceries, come home and cook them.
Today.
Tomorrow may be a different story.
Stay tuned.

Am I Insane Yet?

So instead of cleaning the house or making food for this shower on Sunday, I decided that the best use of my time this week would be to strip and refinish a dresser I've been meaning to get around to for about...oh, thirty years or so.
Does this qualify me for meds?
Hey! I've got two more days. Come on. I can do this.
And the dresser's refinished!
Mission accomplished, that's what I say.

What's Important

Most of what I write here is of such little importance in the world that I myself can hardly believe it. And it's not that I'm not aware of what's going on in the world to some degree. I read the newspaper. Sort of. And I listen to NPR all day long, but I think I long ago realized that I am not ever going to be any sort of political beast. There are some issues that I feel I HAVE to take a stand on and they're usually of the sort that involve human-rights and equal rights. But the only time I ever demonstrated was to walk in a huge parade of people down Apalachee Parkway for the ERA and that was in about 1975 and let me just ask you this- has it passed yet?
Nah.
I read things in the paper or hear things on the radio that make me want to scream. It's our right as Americans to take our guns to work? And having them locked in the car is going to make us safer how? They're trying to pass a law to make sure that kids are dressed properly for school? We're making war-talk towards Iran? We can vote on making sure we protect "real" marriage by denying the rights of gay folks to marry?
Oh, come on.
But I never feel like I can do anything about these issues except once in a while peep up and make a little ineffectual speech from this tiny soapbox. I am certainly never going to run for office to try and change anything.
So I live in my little world and I try to do the best I can and I write about shoes and dogs and dogwoods and rain and babies and birth and death and collard greens and our old buddy Jesus- just the stuff I'm thinking about randomly for one reason or another.
But yesterday I got an e-mail from a dear friend whose son has been in Iraq as a Marine for the past six months and it was just the most joyful thing because he's home. He's safe, and as she puts it, with all his fingers and toes, just like when he was born. She sent pictures and I'd love to post one here but haven't asked her permission so I won't but let me just say this- the kid is gorgeous, alive and handsome as a rock star and grinning from ear to ear with his family around him, his gal on his arm. And I am so happy for her that I can't talk about it without crying because for six months this woman, who loves her son as much as any mother on earth has ever loved a son, has had to live with the knowledge that her baby was in jeopardy every minute of every night and day and I'm not sure how you live with that but she did, and she did it with such grace that I am in awe.
Every month on the full moon, she held a gathering for folks who love her and her son and there was always food and something to drink and at one point everyone would gather up under the moon and hold hands and send good thoughts and energy to her boy, all the way across the world. I don't know how I feel about that sort of thing, that sending energy, but I know it felt good to do it and it felt like if nothing else, it was one way to help my friend feel like she was doing everything she could do to protect him.
And she's going to have a rip-roaring party in May for him with all those people who have held him and her in their thoughts for all these months and I plan on being there. It's going to be a big time, a very large time.
I don't support this damn war. I haven't from the very beginning. And of course you always have to follow that up with the statement, "But I support our troops!"
Well, I do. I say let's support them by bringing them home.
Last weekend, one more did come home. He's safe. He's sound. He's enveloped in the love of his family and his friends on a real and physical level. I celebrate that with all my heart and I am joyful.
But even as I write this, there are so many other people, both American and Iraqi, whose lives are in peril because of our presence in a country that was no threat to us and I can't help but think of all the families who are carrying on their lives with a constant, very real sense of fear and apprehension because their sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, are off doing a job that isn't ours to do and because they are in danger doing it. I honor them and the ones who are fighting and I say, BRING THEM HOME.
Bring them all home, dammit.
There's a lot more I could say about this and the idiots who perpetrated the myth of the Iraqi threat but I'm not going to do that now. I'm just going to say that I'm happy as hell that my friend's boy is back. He signed up for the Marines against every wish his mother had, he went to war, he did his job, he's home, and she couldn't be prouder or happier. As are all of us.
And I say Welcome home, Sargent. Welcome HOME.

Yes, He's Cute But He Scratches Incessantly

I am overwhelmed to the point of paralysis today. I can't focus on anything more complex than doing the dishes and even figuring out what to do with the coffee grounds is a bit more troublesome than it should be for me.

I am having a bridal shower here in five days. In this house. This house that is dusty and cluttered, and what is it about having guests that makes the spider webs suddenly begin to glow like phosphorescent Silly String under a black light? I don't notice the webs until...a guest walks into the house at which point I see them, glowing like neon in every nook and cranny and corner of the house and besides that, am I supposed to clean the mold off the walls too?

And the wedding- it's in two weeks and five days. I keep having nightmares about my house not being clean and there not being clean sheets on the beds for all the many people who are no doubt going to be staying here. One night recently I dreamed that I had arms-full of sheets to wash and there was an entire Laundromat at my house but ALL THE MACHINES WERE FILLED WITH OTHER PEOPLE'S LAUNDRY.
In my own house.

Last night I dreamed the the guests included Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Angelina asked me to examine her pregnant belly (which is actually something I know how to do) and I did, but it was terrifically stressful for me to have to tell her that she was not actually pregnant. The poor, self-deluding movie star!

God, she was beautiful.

But really- should I be having dreams like this?

I don't think so.

Meanwhile, my four dogs need flea preventative which costs as much per dog per month as it would to send four hundred children in Somalia a month's worth of high-protein gruel. I don't even like my dogs, which makes me think perhaps I should just kill them and send all that money to Somalia.

But we know that's not going to happen although what probably WILL happen is that during the bridal shower, during the let's-make-the-bride-a-dress-out-of-toilet-paper portion of the proceedings, people will start scratching their ankles because I haven't bought the flea treatment and before long, there will be blood running from my mother's ankles because if she so much as touches her skin firmly, it bleeds and the blood will get all over the toilet-paper-wedding dress and that will be a bad, bad omen and Lily will cry and everyone will leave before we can play pin-the-boutonniere-on-the-big-picture-of-the-groom game and I'll have cleaned the house and made cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches for nothing.

Okay. Now let's talk about shoes. I ordered the most beautiful dress off of E-Bay for me, the Mother of The Bride, and it got here and it's so lovely and it fits, mostly, but the way I've been eating lately it won't come close to fitting in two weeks and five days and then what will I do? And shoes- what sort of shoes does one wear with a peachy-pink gossamer gown that looks as if it might have been made by magical nuns who cast spells on spiders to harvest their silk to make this thing?

Or rayon. Rayon spiders. But still, magic had to have been involved. And nuns- the color is that innocent, that shy, that demure and chaste.

What kind of shoes goes with that?

Frankly, I think that going barefoot would be the answer and I'd promise to paint my toenails but I don't think Lily would buy that and besides, what would the groom's family think?

Okay. I need to take a breath. I need to go for a walk. I need to start dealing with dust and clutter and spider webs and mold and sheets.

I need to go buy flea treatment.

And shoes. And cucumbers and cream cheese.

And vodka. I need to buy vodka.

Can Someone Tell Me

How the wisteria can be this full-bloomed and gloriously purple and yet, the temperature is going to be down in the thirties tonight?

We've been trying to run out of gas for about two weeks now. Seriously. We have some major gas tank and gas line issues going on and so we're going to have to dig the whole mess up and replace it and that requires the tank to be completely empty. We use gas for hot water, cooking, the clothes dryer and...heating.

And I've been paranoid for two weeks that it would run out at any moment and I'd have to go without hot water, the stove, and heat. The clothes dryer I can live without. I have a dandy clothesline that is hidden by the wisteria in that picture.

And really, I haven't been worrying about the heat so much since...it's spring and that means it's...warm and so who cares about heat?

Haha!

Well, at least the man is on his way home so if tragedy does befall us I'll have someone to yell at about it.

Wait! I mean, I'll have someone to snuggle with and keep me warm.

Yeah. That's what I meant.

We laughed so hard we shook the ground.
What a beautiful day.

The Cruelty of Crucifixion, The Cruelty of Myth

I have spent quite a bit time lately wondering why I am so suddenly just fed up with religion. I've never been religious. I don't think I have the gene. I tried at one point in my life because I needed help badly but it just didn't work out for me.
And tomorrow is Easter and I have SO many problems with that one. Why we need to worship at the foot of a cross with a corpse hanging from it is just beyond me when we have the holy sweet sap of life rising all around us.
I know that the message of Easter is not supposed to be about Christ's death, but instead about his resurrection but it's not tiny empty tombs that people wear around their necks or have put up in the front of churches- it's the cross- not the symbol of life at all but the symbol of how hideously man can act towards man.
The cross is such an ugly symbol. If Christ had come to earth during modern times and been tortured and executed as per God's will, I suppose that little girls would wear delicate silver electric chairs around their necks or the Pope would wear a huge golden syringe across his robes as Christ would not have been crucified on a cross but killed in a more civilized manner such as via Old Sparky or lethal injection.
And it's not just that all of that. It's not just the fact that we focus on the death of a man but it's all the so-obvious lies and mythology that people take so seriously.
"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son..." or so says the Bible. And I have always wondered why it was that God only had one begotten son when he is GOD and could, theoretically, have had as many begotten sons as there are stars in the sky so why the emphasis on this only part? Is it that difficult a procedure to impregnate a teen-aged virgin? I suppose it must be.
And why would a loving god determine that the best way to bring mankind salvation would be to send this only begotten son to live among people and then to have him tortured and killed? Why did this god make man so obstinate to begin with? Why didn't he just CHANGE everyone? Why, in fact, did God make such a flawed product to begin with? What was he thinking?
But of course the Bible is filled with such mysteries and it all boils down to faith, which is ridiculous to me. I could have faith in any damn thing in the world but it wouldn't make it true. And tomorrow preachers across the world will be telling this old story about Jesus rising from the grave, the stone being rolled away from the tomb and how he lived and then died to save us all from our sins but for the life of me, I can't figure out how that would work.
"NO GREATER LOVE WAS EVER SHOWN" says a flyer that I found on the ground this morning when I walked to the post office. It shows Jesus, his crown of thorns piercing his delicate forehead, blood running from his wound, tears running from his eyes and I think, nah.
People show their love for their children in lots of ways that are greater than sending them to be killed, every day, every second. They sacrifice themselves (and some would say that in sending Jesus to be sacrificed, God WAS sending himself, but I don't buy that) instead of their children.
I think that the absurdity of the resurrection story is beyond my comprehension. I think that perhaps it is comforting to many who fear death because if you believe in Jesus, you believe that truly, there is no death.
But I don't believe that. I believe there most certainly is death and that's as much a part of life as birth and I think that most truly thinking people would agree.
So why do we hold on to this myth? Why do we continue to cherish the idea that Jesus was sacrificed for our sins and that this proves God's love and our eternal life and why does anyone running for office in this country have to at least convince everyone that he or she believes it too in order to get elected?
I don't know. And I don't know why it offends me so much but dammit, it does.
I'm sick of wars being fought over religion and children being told that if they tell a lie it makes Jesus sad and I'm tired of legislation being made based on myths like this and it makes me want to scream when I am told that when a loved one dies he or she is up in heaven and that somehow this makes it all right.
It doesn't make it all right. And it shouldn't.
And it makes no sense that any sort of loving god would try to fix the ills of mankind by letting them kill his own son.
So thank you, no. No crosses for me. No weeping Jesus, no rolling away of the stone.
I'll stick with what I can see to celebrate and there's plenty of that around me and I'll spend my day tomorrow not in church in front of a statue of a corpse but in praise and celebration of what the Pagans celebrated which is the holy egg, the holy blossom, the holy spirit of love that we sometimes know if we are very, very lucky. I will celebrate the birth and the baby, the amazing capacity of the human heart to hold a loved one even after death, the act of love, the act of charity, the act of dance and the fact that the light is longer as the earth turns in its orbit which it will continue to do after I die, after you die, after we all die.
Even if we are never resurrected. Even if we don't believe.

The Friday Round-Up

When Diane Rhem does hers on NPR, she has a panel of experts. I have a panel of me. There may be "language" in this post, so be prepared.

Although I have a neurosis about making phone calls to almost everyone these days (it used to just be "official" calls like making appointments but it has progressed to dreading even calling friends) I had no problem yesterday calling a new local church which has sent out at least a dozen fliers announcing their opening on Sunday for an Easter service. They guarantee child and youth services and "genuine relationships" among other things. After I got the one yesterday with a picture of the white-man hippie Jesus arising from the tomb with wings on the back of his robed body, I called them and got their answering machine. I left a message with my name telling them that if I wanted to go to their service, I probably would have been alerted to the time and date by the first two or three fliers and to stop already. I got a call back from the pastor this morning and he said he'd take my name off the mailing list, which I thanked him for. I wanted to say a lot more, but was in a rush getting my husband out of town and so I didn't and the son-of-a-bitch got me by muttering a hasty "God bless you" before he hung up the phone.
ACK!

I have an entire weekend to myself and am looking forward to it with great glee. It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful time of the year here and I intend to spend most of my daytime time outdoors, weeding. This may not sound like much fun but for me, it hardly gets any better. I put a book on tape into the antique Walkman and wreck my fingernails in the warm dirt. To me, that is heaven and no promise of freaking angels sitting around playing harps or sitting at the right hand of God can compare. God's side must be pretty crowded and I'm going to have my yard all to myself.

My daughter's wedding is in three weeks and WE ARE NOT READY. We went out twice this week to get stuff and I have ordered a dress on E-Bay and dammit, it better fit and it better look great because I am having a terrible time with this shopping thing. When I put on real woman clothes I feel like I'm in drag and I don't want to feel like I'm in drag at my daughter's wedding. She and I have such diverse taste in clothing that if she wasn't born at home and wasn't the spitting image of her father's sisters, I'd think she'd been switched at birth for my real child. But really, we're having a good time although she's getting stressed out as the date approaches. She called me today from work, weeping because more of the groom's family is going to be there than ours and she doesn't know them. My husband asked me what was wrong when I got off the phone with her and I said, "She's a bride. She's supposed to be freaking out and she's doing her motherfucking job."
"Oh," he said.
I do understand her anxiety and I have a bit myself but as I keep assuring her, all will be well, and she will end up married. At least she gets to go on a honeymoon.

I think my kids are going to come out on Sunday to dye Easter eggs. This has nothing to do with the resurrection of our Lord and everything to do with childhood memories and a table full of coffee cups with various shades of dye in them and the joy I take in seeing my kids, adults all, doing a childish thing and having fun doing it. I will make some food and we will eat outside under the blooming Bradford pears and that, my friends, is my idea of a holiday celebration.

I'm sure I'll soon find a few words to say here about Easter and religion and how I have no tolerance for any of it. I am becoming the very worst sort of out-spoken heathen and I feel a need creeping up on me to speak my truth as they say somewhere (where they probably also say things like "thinking outside the box" so you know that's a stupid thing to say) but for right now, I believe I'll just glory in being alive on this, the second day of spring, 2008 and living in a place where it all looks like a picture painted by Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light and I'm not kidding.

Happy Spring.