Chickens And Eggs And Birds And Flowers And Juliette Gordon Low

I swear to GOD, y'all, that if you could see my house right now, you'd fall over laughing. There are Owen nests all over the house and unmade beds and laundry in stages of being done and no, I have not mucked out the chicken coop and no, I have not taken pictures of the peas or done any of the fifty-jillion things I have should have done today but what the hell? What the fuck?
Who cares?

Owen is cutting his top teeth. I can tell because his gums are all swollen. My new name for him is "Top Gum." That's him. Mr. Cranky Boy. Mr. Wiggle Monkey. Mr. Hold-Me-Please.
He was never inconsolable today but he was cranky if I didn't jump to it the second he wanted me to. So of course I just did. I jumped to it.

But now he's home with his mama and daddy and here I am in Lloyd and so happy to be. The birds are going insane. It's warm. The chickens are scratching all over the yard. Jessie just came by with two of her darling fellow-nursing school students and I gave out forty-two eggs to them. I am getting at least a half dozen a day from the Sister Wife Hens and I can't possibly keep up with it all. Life is just exploding here in North Florida between the birds (both domestic and wild), the azaleas purpling up, the dogwoods opening, the tung trees showing signs of life, the wisteria's fuzzy buds swelling visibly, the wild azalea making tiny buds at its tip and meanwhile, everything smells of tea olive and warm dirt. Hard to beat that.

But it is time for me and Mr. Moon to take off and we are going to do that this weekend. We have no plan, no reservations, and we don't even know what direction we're going to head in. This could be great or it could get weird. I feel surprisingly sane, which is strange and I'm not very anxious about anything, even the idea of taking off without a plan which is usually enough to put me over the edge. But nope, I don't. I'm not. Whatever. Owen is going out of town with his parents so he doesn't need me and Jessie's going to come stay with the chickens, dogs and cats. Everything will get along just fine without me and I feel that it's just time for me and the man to remember who we are when we aren't Mr. and Mrs. American Gothic. Know what I mean? I mean, laying in the dirt in the garden is very fine, but hotels can lead to a different sort of pleasure and I am not one to disregard that sort of magic.

We're thinking maybe Savannah so if any of you (Mr. Bastard, Dear?) have any suggestions about places to stay, things to do, food that must be eaten, please let me know. We're not wedded to the idea of Savannah but it would probably be fun. I haven't been there since I went with the Girl Scouts in about 1968 to see Juliett Low's birthplace. I don't remember much about Savannah or the birthplace except for the fact that Juliette Gordon Low forged the iron gates herself and her biceps got so big they had to let out the sleeves of her dresses which I thought was awesome.

And now! Onward! (I've just had my espresso- can you tell?) I must muck and plant and water and tend! I must launder and tidy and make beds! Dinner must be cooked! I have an hour! Can I do it all?

Oh hell no.

Anyway, I just wanted to check in and tell you what's going on in Lloyd. Spring is. And Owen. Baby yoga.


You know. And a Big Person trip in the planning stages. Or the non-planning stages, as the case actually is.

And I have forty-five unopened blog posts in my Google Reader so wish me luck with that one.

I love you just same, even if I don't say a word. Okay? You know it! It's true!

Wish I could give you all a dozen eggs. But I can't.

Here I go.....

Good Night

Man. That Owen. He is one irascible boy. He just wants to go, go, GO! And even when he's asleep, he wants to be held. I can't even list all the things we did today but you can bet that many of them involved chickens and the stroller and that cereal box. And I don't know why he made that face in that last picture. He just did.
He's a character.
I went to a rehearsal tonight and another baby was there, young Colin, and he is a mellow guy. I did my funny tricks for him. The ones that make Owen laugh. And Colin looked at me as if I was an idiot. Like, "Excuse me. Who ARE you and why are you making these insane sounds and assaulting my abdomen?" And then he laid there in his seat while his parents acted. I was quite frankly amazed and wondered if perhaps we have over-stimulated Owen.
And then I came home and immediately began to do my stupid tricks again just to get another Owen smile. Over-stimulation. He had his mama are spending the night because Lily has to be at work at six a.m. again and it's just easier if he doesn't have to be packed up and toted somewhere in the early morning hours.
But now he is all bathed and lavendered up and his mama is going to nurse him to sleep. One of these days I have to have the camera ready when she gets here to record the smile he has when he sees her after a few hours of separation. It is...well, just the sort of smile you hope to see when you get to heaven.
Let's face it- our boy is a wiggler and a giggler and he is not mellow and he has worn his grandmother out today.
And I have taken an over-the-counter sleep aid and I am going to go to bed very soon.
And we will do it all again tomorrow.
The peas are finally coming up and perhaps I will take a picture of them tomorrow. Perhaps I will muck out the chicken coop because the guano in there is building up like something you don't want to talk about and I'm afraid the chickens are going to start sliding off the nests. And perhaps I will get the breakfast dishes washed tomorrow before three p.m.
Perhaps.
I'm not going to put any pressure on myself or Owen either. If he wants his grandmother to be down on the floor with him playing with a cereal box, then that's where she'll probably be.

So sweet dreams, everyone, and if you don't see my comments today or even soon, well, you'll know the reason why.
It's because I have a wiggly, giggly boy in my arms who does not want to be set down and when I don't, I'm exhausted.

Oh you mothers! How do you do this? How did I do it? I do not know.

And yet, it gets done, we cradle these babies, we do anything and everything to make them laugh and be happy, we hold them as they sleep, we listen to the sweet huff of their breath as they dream, never quite trusting that this sweet, still infant is really here, in our care, and we say amen and good-night.

Good Morning!

I'm Sorry

But excuse me?! I mean, EXCUSE ME!?
Why has no one informed me that John Corbett is on another TV series? Huh? I mean, I like Toni Collette just fine but John Corbett? He is, well, darling.
And I have missed him so.
Why did no one tell me? I feel so abandoned by him. So out-of-the-loop. He didn't call. He didn't e-mail me. He did nothing. He just went to work and got himself on a series and I DIDN'T KNOW A THING ABOUT IT!
Yeah. My feelers are hurt.

Yeah. So Call Me, 'Kay?

Man. I am tired. Like, to the BONE. And I have no idea why. All I did today was to go shopping at Target with Lily and Owen and then go to lunch and then come home and do a few measly chores. But fuck it. I'm tired.

We had a great time, Lily and Owen and I. We stopped by Pop-Pop's office to drop off a picture of Owen for his grandfather and were sorely disappointed to find that he was not there. We left the picture for him and we also let Owen sit in Pop-Pop's chair so we could take his picture, Lily right beside him in case he decided to do a dive for the floor which would not be unusual.

Poor. Pop-Pop, missing all the fun.

Then it was on to Target where Lily bought some clothes, which she needs badly, and I held the boy and we had a fine time. I showed him the shoes and the men's cargo shorts. "Thirty-four dollars!" I said to the baby in the sling on my hip. "No way!"

Here we are, shopping.

Too bad we're both in such bad moods, right?

So I didn't get any cargo shorts but I did get Owen a very retro Fisher Price toy- a telephone. The chattering telephone, to be exact. He liked it. When we got home with it, he played with it for at least fifteen minutes which is somewhat of a record for anything to keep his attention. Lots of stuff to suck on.



It occurred to me that he'll never even recognize this toy as a telephone. Why would he? Phones do not look like that any more. It also occurs to me that anyone born after oh, 1990, would probably have no idea how to use a phone if presented with one with a rotary dial. What do I push? they would ask. And when shown how to use it, would moan, It takes so long!

Now I have a question for you- do you realize that there are no official phone books for cell phone numbers and yet, we all seem to manage getting in touch with the people we need to get in touch with?

Just a thought.

Here's another thought: I found out today that a colonoscopy, paid out of pocket, costs $1800. Plus change. If nothing needs plucked and biopsied. Can I just say that I could not be happier that the health care bill got passed? This is an entire post on its own but I just needed to say that. And also, that if this is the first step towards universal health care then, FUCKING A! LET'S DO THIS THING!

And maybe by the time Owen has children the nightmare systems of what we call health care in this country now will be, like the rotary phone, a thing of the past.

You can always hope.

Anyway, now I'm home and I've mopped some floors because we've crossed the line here from dirty to nasty and Owen's coming tomorrow and I just needed to do it. It was time. It's still a bit chilly here, but it's nice to have the doors open and the house smelling of Fabuloso and white vinegar. (When is Fabuloso going to start giving me a kick-back? I am waiting.)



And I'm TIRED! I think I will be in bed by nine tonight because my grandson is going to be here before the sun comes up. It's odd. Up until about six months ago, there was nothing in this world that would make me get up at five-thirty in the morning unless it involved getting on a plane to Mexico. How times have changed. And I am downright cheerful at the prospect.

Well, Owen has made a new woman of me. It's the damn truth. One tiny boy with one tiny smile who laughs out loud when I say, "Butt! Butt! Chicken Butt!" and tickle him and kiss his tummy.
Cracks him up every time. I feel like the stand-up comedian I always wanted to be, even if Owen's mama shakes her head and pretends she doesn't know me.

Not really. Owen's made a new woman of her too. He's pretty powerful for such a young sprout.

Ah lah. Dance on. Call me on the telephone. We'll chatter about chicken butts. It'll be fun. You'll laugh. I promise.

Beautifying My Home, One Dump Load At A Time

Yes, that IS a ginormous (possibly Pooh) bear hanging from my clothesline. Why do you ask?

And please, DON'T ask.

Let me just say that it is a result of Mr. Moon making a trash run. We find such fun things at the dump. This bear is wearing camo and has binoculars around his neck. I think perhaps Mr. Moon thought that Owen might get a kick out of the beast but of course, even I would not give my grandson something acquired at the dump without a thorough washing, plus, it would scare the holy hell out of him. And of course he would not fit in a washing machine. Not the sort of washing machine one might have in one's home.

So I said, "Hang him on the line." I suppose I was thinking that a few days of rain and then sun might sterilize the poor, dumped bear.

Or at least, give me a few days to try and figure out what the hell to do with it.


Kathleen was here when Mr. Moon brought it home. We both almost fell out of our chairs, laughing. Buster proceeded to bark at its butt frantically.
"Good dog," Kathleen said.

So that is what my back yard looks like today in Lloyd, Florida. I am about to leave the property, though, to go get Lily and Owen. We are going to Target. Be still my heart. Owen AND Target? At the same time?
Well.
I think that might be the very opposite of having a giant birdwatching or hunting bear hanging from my clothesline.
Which is to say- divine.

So is this:

Nom-nom.

Happy Monday, y'all.

Love....Ms. Moon

Self Portrait. Unadorned.

Owen Report

This is Owen today. He is still cute, despite the fact that he is getting old and now has three teeth and can sit up like a pro and eats violets.
Lily gave him two purple violets and I gave him a white one. He ate all three with happy baby relish. I love Lily for being the kind of mama who will pick a violet in the yard and give it to her baby to eat. We also gave him melba toast. He loved that too.

And that is the Owen Report for March 21, 2010.

The Sundays

Oh sigh.

Ms. Moon has The Sundays.

The Sundays is a technical term, referring to a state of Ms. Moon's mind which appears before she fully wakes on a Sunday morning, causing her to groan inwardly and turn over and wish to stay in bed for the entire day but at her stage in life she knows that in doing so, she would be wasting one seventh of her week and as the years grow shorter, she knows that this is not a wise thing to do. Not at all.

So she gets up (and really, the main reason she gets up is that the seven-pound Yorkie is under the bed, scratching himself on the frame and this is another mystery- how, with that tiny body can he can shake the entire bed making further sleep impossible?) and realizes it is raining, or rather, drizzling, which is just as good as rain, or as bad, in that the dogs will take this as an excuse to stealth pee and shit, and she is right.

All right. Enough of that third person stuff. I am Ms. Moon and we all know it. And I do have The Sundays and it is drizzling and gray. I washed two rugs yesterday because the dogs had puked on them and they are on the line, far more wet now than they were last night when I went to bed. I am going to hang those damn dogs on the line and let the hawks have at them. I swear.

I cooked a breakfast and we ate it, Mr. Moon and I. Not pancakes. We are having a syrup problem here because we are out, I keep forgetting to buy it, and when I asked Mr. Moon to pick some up on his way home from work on Friday, he bought maple-flavored SUGAR-FREE syrup and I will not eat that. I am not sure what he was thinking but I imagine he wasn't thinking at all, but was in the syrup aisle and when confronted with the price of real maple syrup he grabbed this sugar-free crap and ran for the cash register. Mr. Moon hates the grocery store the way I hate the hunting channel.

Sigh and sigh again because I spend half my life in the grocery store and he spends half his life watching the hunting channel. Lust is a powerful thing, my darlings. And so is heart-attraction. They must be because honestly, how a six-foot, ten-inch tall former basketball player/manly hunter and a five-foot, five-inch tall hippie got together in the first place is beyond me some days. He does not ask me to watch the hunting channel and I should not ask him to go to the grocery store.

Anyway, we had our eggs and grits and bacon. Yes! Goddammit! We had bacon! And it was good! and then we took yesterday's balancing egg out and tried to balance it. I CAN still balance it on the dirt but I will tell you truthfully that it does not seem as easily done as yesterday and that's all I can tell you about that. I have no measurements and no scientific process to back this up. I am merely reporting what I have experienced in a fair and balanced (haha!) way.

We moved some of the plants outside last evening which have been wintering in the house. They are mostly the worse for their sojourn indoors but at least they are not dead. Most of them. Mostly. The one I am happiest about saving is the giant begonia. Now some of you may remember the story of the giant begonia and its beginnings which is that nearly two years ago (or has it been three?) near my birthday, which is in July, I went to a nursery and was given (honestly- I didn't steal it) a few leaves of this amazing plant to try and start a plant of my own. Which I did. I stuck the leaves in the dirt and after oh, about three months or so of watering and watching, the baby leaves came up and it was so thrilling to me that I've not yet gotten over it.

Here's what that plant looks like now after having sat all winter by the front door, yearning and reaching for the meager sun it could detect out the front window.


Mr. Moon cut off all the dead leaves and even the dying ones and although it hurt my heart, I let him, knowing that the plant is better off saving its energy for the leaves which are healthy. It looks to me as if it is smiling now that is back outside where it loves to live.

And last fall, when I brought the begonia in, I decided to start a new plant, just in case. So I stuck another big, juicy leaf in the dirt and watered and watched and just a few days ago, two tiny leaves poked their heads up through the dirt and today there is another.


See? I put the dime there so you could get some perspective. Duh.
And when those leaves are mature, they will be as big or bigger than Mr. Moon's hand and he has a hand built to palm a basketball in.

So on this Sunday I am trying to gain at least a dime's worth of perspective about life and Sundays and nurturing and patience and waiting out winter's weariness and so forth. And it's working, I suppose. I do not feel as if I might like to slit my wrists, merely as if I'd like to go back to bed but I have STRIPPED the bed of its sheets and they are in the laundry queue right now, awaiting their turn in the hot soapy water. They will not be dried upon the line but in the dryer but that's okay too. Bacon-eating and dryer use. You see? I am pathetic today. Just pathetic.
But at least I will not be going back to bed anytime soon.

And Lily just called and asked if we'd enjoy a visit from her and Owen and you can only imagine the joy that brings to my heart. Mr. Moon had already asked if he were coming out today and when I told him "no" he was sorely disappointed but now we shall get Owen AND Lily and if any of you other kids wants to come out too, that would be fine with me. More than fine. Of course May being on the other side of the country, I doubt she'll be visiting.

So yes, I have The Sundays but there are begonias and there will be a baby and so I have no real complaints. As I was falling asleep last night I had a great idea for a blog post and spent quite some time going over it in my head but I don't remember a bit of it now. Perhaps it will come back to me as the day progresses. Or perhaps not. I am old.

I will tell you this- that show? Man VS Food? Do not watch it after you have eaten a very large venison burger, more meat than you ever eat at one sitting, already feeling slightly nauseous. I say this from experience, having done just that last night. I do not like this show or anything about it one bit except for the part before the show starts after each commercial which shows a boxing-gloved-fist punching a chicken leg. For some reason I find this hysterical. It never fails to make me laugh. Anyway, if you eat a giant venison burger and then watch that show, especially an episode where the stupid guy who seems to think that his job in life is defeating food eats a burger smothered in the hottest peppers on the planet in order to get his picture on the wall of some restaurant in New Mexico, you may have to lie very still in bed later on so as not to vomit. This is my experience, anyway. I realize I have lived in this house for almost six years and I have not vomited here once!

I hope to keep it that way for as long as possible.

All right. Run along. Go hum a hymn or something. I'm sure I have something disgusting to clean up which has come out of one orifice or another of a dog before Owen gets here.

Sigh.

Can You Really Balance An Egg On The Equinox?

Can you really balance an egg on its end on the vernal equinox?

I have heard this all my life but I have never tried it. Since I am now in possession of more eggs than anyone needs, I decided to try it today as the equinox approached at 1:32 p.m. and here is what I discovered: Yes. You can.

It's easy-peasy.

But only on dirt.

I took an egg all over the yard and had fun setting it on its end and watching it balance. It took no patience or manipulation. I would just set it down and boom! it balanced.
But when I tried it on a piece of wood or Mr. Moon tried it on the big metal heat pump thing or when I tried it on the wood of his work bench or the rubber of the mat there (even though it is ridged), no way.

But every place I tried it in the dirt, it balanced easily.
I did it on soft dirt which some may say had something to do with the ease of the balance. Perhaps the dirt supported the egg.



And then I took it out to a slanted place in front of the garage where the dirt is hard-packed clay. So hard that it's like brick. And it sat up and begged for attention.

This makes no sense to me at all because dammit, that clay surface was slanted and the surface was far less grippy than that ridged rubber mat.

Finally, just for fun, I set it in the garden between two heads of lettuce.

And yes, the dirt there is soft but I brushed it flat and sort of patted it down with my hand. I left it there and a few hours later it had fallen over.
"The wind," said Mr. Moon.

It is not a windy day.

And then I took it around and tried to balance it in the dirt again. The exact time of the equinox had passed. I could still do it, but I swear to you on the Bible of the Church of the Batshit Crazy (whatever book I am reading at the moment which I adore) it was not as easy.

And tomorrow I'll take the same egg out and see if anything has changed.

The internet assures me that the egg's ability to balance on its end on the equinox is a myth which began, quite possibly with the Chinese.

And Easter, of course, is the Christian take-over of the Pagan celebration of spring which had everything to do with fertility and lust and the joy of the coming-together of the sexes to create new life. I really wish I could have been present at Stonehenge during a Pagan equinox celebration. Or hell, Chichen Itza for that matter. But what represents all of this better than the egg? And what does the Easter Bunny bring? And why did that egg which one of my chickens laid this morning balance like a little trouper in the dirt all over my yard today? And will it do the same tomorrow? And if so, does that make the miracle any less miraculous?

Stay tuned. We shall see what is what tomorrow. I promise you I will report faithfully and truthfully. Because that is what you expect here at Blessourhearts. And that is what you shall receive.

Meanwhile, if you have not celebrated Spring with a fertility ritual, I beg you to do it now. It's not too late.

I have done my part and I hope you will do yours.

As Always...Ms. Moon

Springtime Perversion

Ah. Cozumel. Cozumel. The island of my heart. The place where the air is the softest I've ever felt, where the water is the clearest and bluest and greenest and teal-est and purplest I've ever seen. Where the people's smiles are the sweetest and where I've been quite possibly happiest in my entire life. Where I was with my husband who loved me only for me and my very own charms, and not for ironing his shirts or shoveling shit on the garden or cooking his venison or raising his children.

Just. For. Me.

And why am I talking about Cozumel on the first day of spring, the Vernal Equinox, a day when it is bright blue and clear and the fat buds of the flowers are bursting as we speak?

Oh, because I am perverse I guess and also because in some strange confluence of events, my beloved Garrison Keillor is docking in Cozumel this morning with a cruise ship full of people who also love him and who, in fact, love him enough to pay the big bucks to cruise the Mexican Caribbean with him and his cast of characters, his musicians, his actors, his sound effects guy. Garrison Keillor is in Cozumel as we speak!

Perhaps on a ship like this one:

I took that picture seven years ago when Mr. Moon and I were on the island, staying at a place downtown right across from the damn cruise ship pier (or one of them) and the boats were so big that they blocked our view of the sunset. That's big, people. That's really big.
But still, it was a wonderful trip.

Sigh.

And despite the fact that I adore Garrison Keillor, I wouldn't really want to be on a cruise ship. I am not a cruiser. Did it once. It was not me. So not me. And I'm pretty sure that if by some strange reason I found myself on a cruise ship and it docked in Cozumel, I would get off that boat and I would not get back on. I would just go down the street until I found a cheap place to stay and I would give them my credit card and I would go to my room and I would take off my bra and my shoes and I would lie on the bed and be happy, just smelling the air and knowing I was home. Or, some parallel universe of a home and I wouldn't get off that bed until the cruise ship steamed off without me.

Even if Garrison Keillor was on the ship. Even if.

But all of that is fantasy and I am in Lloyd where I walk around with my camera and take pictures like this:

of my blooming Buckeye and my peeling, beautiful old house and this:


the opening oak-leaf hydrangea and I will work in the garden today and that will all be fine but there's part of me which is here:

Doing this:

And there are no weeds to pull, no meals to cook, no floors to sweep, no worries or schedules or even Garrison Keillors. And I do not wear denim overalls.

So there you go. I am being perverse today and it is spring and I am in Lloyd and Garrison is in Cozumel and Mr. Moon has been turkey hunting and is now helping a friend build a rabbit trap and I haven't even seen him yet today except in my dreams after he left the bed to go to the woods and at six o'clock tonight I will turn on the radio and listen to Prairie Home Companion which was taped on board that cruise ship which brought Mr. Keillor to the island I love and which I know, because I read a Cozumel message board, that a technician named Thomas uploaded from an internet cafe near the cruise ship dock to Minnesota for my listening pleasure and I'll probably be on my ass in the garden, weeding, weeding and I'll listen through my head phones and the world will be even stranger than it is already, Garrison there on my island, me here in my garden, my heart who-knows-where and none of it mattering at all when you take into account the vastness of the universe, the vastness of the neurons in my head, a universe unto themselves, really.

And I'll be confused and I'll feel the earth spinning and I may grow dizzy with it all.

Happy Spring, y'all. Wherever you are in this world, I wish you happy spring.

What The HELL Is Going On Here?

I went out to the garage to check Miss Carol's nest on Mr. Moon's workbench for her daily egg and this is what I saw.

Elvis is standing right by the nest which Carol is hunkered down in in her usual egg-laying position. He's not only standing there, he's in that zoney state that chickens get in when they're on the roost at night. His eyes are open but he let me get extremely up close and personal which he is not usually apt to do. He's not unfriendly, but he doesn't usually let me get THIS close:

There was no telephoto lens involved in this picture.

He even let me take a picture of his extremely soft-looking fuzzy buttular area:


And then he let me indulge my fantasy of actually touching the buttular area to see just how soft it is.

It's really soft. Really, really soft.

Which is all very nice but I have never seen a rooster hovering over a hen in the nest. Do any of you know why Elvis might be doing this? Is he going to try and destroy the egg when Carol gets off the nest because she is not part of his flock, even though, as I said, they have been having sexy times together?

Chickens. They constantly amuse, amaze, and surprise me. And they make me learn something new almost every day.

WTF?

Does she really think this is an improvement?

May Called

She's safe and sound in Bellingham after living through the world's longest night and a flight from Memphis to Seattle wherein she sat behind a constantly crying baby and in front of a grown-up baby man who kept kicking her seat and saying, "I hate babies!"

Bless her heart.

She says it's a beautiful day in Washington and all is well.

Just An Old Dirty Hippie

It is the perfect day before spring and you can see from the picture above how blue the sky is above the fuzzy bud of wisteria.
Just fucking gorgeous and I am going to go take a walk and I've been to yoga where we talked a lot during our downward dogs, our forward bends, our twisting, stretching, breathing, holding, pushing farther.

Some days we just seem to want to talk in yoga and that's all right with me. Today we got to the subject of dirt and germs. Dirt and germs. One of the women in my class has had to spend a lot of time in hotel rooms recently because her husband had a terrible bout with cancer and they had to travel to get treatment for him. She hates hotels and hated them before her husband got ill and she admits she's germaphobic. The subject came up because my yoga teacher is going to go to St. Augustine at the end of the month with her husband and they are staying at a nice place on the beach with a good Brand Name because she feels that will be a clean place to stay.

As usual, I am not on the same page as the other women in my class. Dirt doesn't bother me and germs don't either. Okay, I don't lick toilet seats and who does? (Don't answer that.) And I know that studies have been done which show that things like the remotes in hotel rooms and the comforters are rife with germs and all sorts of things you probably don't want to think about but if you DO think about them- so what?

Well, that's my opinion and I stated it in class and my teacher said, "Well, that's because you're a hippie."

I looked at her and I knew what she meant but I had to say, "Hippies aren't dirty."

She backtracked and tried to explain what she meant but in a way, she's right. Not that I'm dirty but that dirt doesn't bother me. In fact, as we all know, dirt is somewhat sacred to me but I understand that what you find in my garden and what you find on a hotel remote are two different things.

And yet. Not really.

There's an awful lot of shit in my garden, which is a good thing to find in a garden. Horse shit and cow shit and rabbit shit and chicken shit all make great fertilizer and that's that. You can buy that shit at Home Depot in big bags and it has been sterilized but the shit in my garden hasn't been so I suppose it's full of microbes and other...shit...and well, so what?

I came away from the entire discussion just ever-so grateful that I don't have a germ phobia. I have enough phobias of my own, thank-you very much, but germs ain't one of them.

I mean, think about it- what is a germ? A bacteria? A virus? The best part of a plant? Things germinate. So do ideas.

I think the word "germ" really got a bad name during WW II when we were fighting the Germans. Maybe. Who knows?

Are there germs in pee? Actually, it's sterile but I don't want to drink it although Gandhi drank his own, I hear, and I don't want to sit on someone else's. Are there germs in shit? Oh. You bet. Especially human shit. But our bodies are pretty used to them unless you get ahold of one that's especially virulent which does happen, mostly in the produce we buy. Are there germs in ejaculate? I don't know. Germs in menstrual blood? I don't know. Again- what are we defining germs AS?

I think it's more of a yuck-factor than an actual fear of germs which might cause disease. We're so damn picky these days. And we go around with our hand sterilizer and our Lysol wipes, trying to wipe out the germs on surfaces and ourselves and really, it's impossible. Like the way they used to shave women before they gave birth because that made things more sterile. Well, of course it did not. In fact, the breaks in the skin caused by the shaving made infection more possible. You cannot sterilize a human body. And you're not supposed to! The bacteria in a woman's vagina probably plays a part in her child's immune system development. And it's a known fact now that denying children their inborn need to put every damn thing in their mouths is a good way to promote asthma. Our bodies are meant to deal with microbes and bacteria. They are not, however, designed to deal with antibacterial goop and wipes.

We just go crazy about this...shit.
And no, I don't take things out of the dogs' mouths and put them into Owen's mouth. And I even boil his bottle (it's glass) occasionally. I love bleach. To get my whites white. But what the hell good does it do to disinfect the INSIDE of the toilet bowl? I mean, how long is THAT going to last? And why would my hands be inside a toilet bowl anyway?

So we were talking about all of this and I brought up an article I read in the Oxford American about dirt-eating. Yes. People eat dirt. Not dirty dirt. Nice, clean subsurface clay. And we still don't know why. There are theories. And animals, too, seek out certain dirt and eat it. Yes, it may provide nutrients which are lacking and it may actually detoxify certain things in the diet. No one is sure. But what IS sure is that people, throughout history, have craved dirt. To eat. You can buy it packaged and labeled in convenience stores in Alabama. I have seen this with my own eyes. And no, I did not buy any and taste it. I have no craving for dirt to eat. Only to get my hands in, especially in spring.

I have ingested tiny amounts of loved-ones' ashes, licking my fingers after I tossed the ashes into the air. This was more ceremonial than anything else. I hear Keith Richards snorted some of his old daddy's ashes when he died. He then retracted the statement but I'll bet you anything he really did it. Good for Keith!
And let's face it- we've all had things in our mouths which make absolutely no sense if you think about it.

Look- nasty is one thing. I do not like nasty. But regular old human and earthly dirt is just part of it. You might as well go to the beach and start trying to sweep the sand up as to sterilize and disinfect all the things you touch throughout a day. And I am just so glad I don't worry about it. I think about one of the best meals I ate in Cozumel last year and it was at a lunch counter, open to every fly and germ on the island and a man was frying shrimp in a big wok-like pan and they toasted white buns and put the shrimp on them with tomatoes, sliced by a knife which was probably not washed after they used it to cut up meat products, and I slathered the sandwich with a hot-pepper mayonnaise sauce which was sitting out on the counter and who knew for how long? It was delicious and I wish I had one right this very second! With a Toronja in a bottle and I wouldn't be worried about the germs on any of it. I think of the tourists I see in Mexico (always American) who won't drink anything with ice in it, who ask if the pool has chlorine in it, who ask if the salad has been washed in purified water, who are afraid to eat anywhere but in the American chains, thinking that somehow the bacteria there will be safer than the bacteria in the restaurant across the street with a name they do not recognize.
Poor souls.

Well, I AM an old hippie and I do not mind dirt. Or germs, either, for the most part. Here is the spinach we are going to eat tonight:


It's not only growing in dirt, it probably has worm shit and bird shit on it somewhere. OH NO! But I will pick it and bring it in and fill up the sink (which is probably dirtier with "germs" than the garden soil) and wash the spinach in it and then put it on a clean kitchen towel to drain and dry. Oh. It is going to be SO good.
And I'll do all of this with my hands which will no doubt have dirt under the fingernails because I plan on doing some weeding today. YUCK!

And when I go to sleep tonight, it'll be on sheets that my Yorkie sleeps on and god knows that dog is filthy.

So yes, I suppose my standards of cleanliness wouldn't pass inspection for a lot of people but that's fine with me. As Mr. Moon says, "I ain't afraid!"

And Owen, who spends several days a week here and who has since he was quite young, has never been sick a day in his life. Okay, he's only six months old, but still.

He will get sick. That's the human way. We do encounter germs which make us sick. I am not denying that. I am just saying that going through life being afraid of them is a sorrowful way to go through life.

And that's what this old hippie has to say today.

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

P.S. Lagniappe:

Dogwood blossoms coming on today.


Tulips I got at the store, old tiny bird feeder I found in the woods, old typewriter Mr. Moon found at the dump. Dirty!


Redbud. Which, as Lily pointed out, should be called Pinkish Purple Bud.

Pictures And Too Many Words. Blame The Espresso.

What a day! Rock and roll, hootchie-coo!
Ms. Moon went to town! Ms. Moon got a pedicure! Ms. Moon saw people! Ms. Moon drove Ms. May to the airport! Ms. Moon went to Costco! Ms. Moon went to the New Leaf and the library! Ms. Moon went to Publix!

Okay. I'm done. Night-night. Go to bed.

No. You know that's a lie. I am never done. It was a fun day. It really was. I met Ms. May at the nails place and we did get pedicures. Here's how May looked, all beautiful and happy:

And you see that guy walking across the room? If he wasn't there, you would be able to see a picture of Professional Woman! My Mortal Enemy! Because she came into the nail place when we were there. It was quite unnerving.
Do you remember on Seinfeld how whenever Jerry would run into that guy he did not like and he would always say, "Hello, NEWMAN," and he'd say it with such disdain? Well, that's how I say hello to PW. "Hello, *******," I say, with the same tone of voice. That's what I did today at the nail salon. And then I ignored the fact that she was there and May and I used our raucous, happy voices to discuss our raucus, happy lives. Haha!
I'm so mean.
Anyway, here are my toes:


Aren't they beautiful? Instead of OPI "I'm Not Really A Waitress," which is the color I always choose, I went with "Cavier and Vodka" because that is what the Jezebels' official meal is. Along with Champagne, of course. I am thinking that when we have our first meeting (party) we should all paint our nails with this fabulous color. And can I also say that having someone massage your feet and calves with smooth, hot stones is about the most pleasure I can stand?
Thank-you. I tipped well.

From the nail salon I went to Lily's house to pick her and Owen up. We drove to the library. Owen was good at the library but he was not a happy camper today, mostly. He is on the cutting edge of cutting a new top tooth and he is not doing it with grace and submission. He is doing it with bitching and wailing. I don't blame him. But he was good in the library where Lily and I did NOT run into anyone we knew, thank god.

Then, on to the New Leaf which is where they sell the gorgeous produce and the bulk things like bulgar wheat and mung beans, etc. This was all fine and good until we ran into a Woman From My Past with whom my relationship with did not end well. I'm sorry. I am such a mean and bitchy woman. Lily pointed this out to me. She is right. But this woman. Well, I'm not going to get into it but I will say this- I think she buys her jeans at the Tall Baby store because they are not big enough around to fit a full-grown human who is taller than me. I don't even think that the Gap with their size 00 would have jeans to fit her. She is thin. She is beautiful. She has always been thin and beautiful. She always will be. She has always intimidated me to some degree, even when we were the best friends on earth.
BUT- I have a gorgeous grand baby now.


She has no grandchildren. Oh well. Sucks to be her. (I doubt it.) She wanted to know what Owen is going to call me. I told her I have no idea but that he will just have to name me when he's ready. That I refer to myself as Grandmama and as boring as that is, it's the truth. I did decide last night after I finished ironing Mr. Moon's shirts that I should be called "Old Mama." I was tired.

Anyway, we survived the New Leaf and we did get to see Aunt Tay-Tay. I wish I'd taken her picture. She was so beautiful. She cooks at the New Leaf for their deli section and she is a beaming woman with a giant tattoo on her chest that says, "Daddy."
I love Aunt Tay-Tay.
And unfortunately, Thursday is one of Billy's days off so we did not see him. Dammit.

Then we went to May's house to pick her up. She was finishing up her packing and scurrying around to make the place nice for Jessie who is going to stay in her apartment while she's gone and take care of her kitty cat. She even left chocolate on the pillow! Chocolate we got at the nail salon, I might add. They have really good candy there in a big bowl. When we were leaving, I took two small Reese's and a tiny Hershey's dark chocolate. "Hello, lunch!" I said. And I said it with honest affection and not with disdain.
Anyway, we loaded up the car with May's luggage and we drove to the airport and we dropped May off. We hugged her and kissed her and told her to have a wonderful time and she looked like she just might do that.

I took no pictures at Costco. I think they might arrest you there if you do. So you'll just have to take my word on the fact that I was there. Everyone flirted with Owen and he, being in pain and not too happy about the world, tried to smile back at everyone but Jesus! It's like a job, smiling at people who talk to you when you're Owen. I mean, really!

And oh! I forgot to tell you about when Lily and I went through the drive-through at Starbucks. The guy (Ryan) asked if we were interested in ordering the newest flavor, Dark Cherry Mocha. I told him no, that I had heard it tasted like Robitussin. (Thanks,Omgrrrl! for the head's up.) Ryan insisted that it did not but I never order fancy drinks at coffee places. Let's face it- they are milk shakes, even if they aren't cold and thick and I don't drink milk shakes so there you go. I ordered two shots of espresso over ice and Lily ordered something in the milk shake category. I was bantering back and forth with Ryan and the other girl who was talking to us on the speaker and Lily was so embarrassed. Let's face it- she may be a mother but she's only twenty-four and still young enough to be embarrassed to be in the presence of someone (her mother) who says things like, "I feel like I'm on TV!" to the people inside the Starbucks. I told her that I have, at this age, given up all worries about being cool which means that I am now completely cool. She didn't buy it and threatened not to let Owen hang out with me because I'm such a dork.
I gave her "the look." You know which one I mean. The Mother Look. Later, Owen gave the Mother Look to Lily and I asked her how it made her feel. She just took a picture of Owen with her phone and drank her coffee.

So that was my day in town. It was a happy day and I have the toenails to prove it. And now I'm home where shitfire, there is another damn bat flying around the back porch. Where I am sitting. How many bats can there be?
All right. It just flew out. Phew because Mr. Moon is in town playing poker.

When I got home I went out to check the garden (the peas are not up yet) and I took this picture:

There were about fifty other cardinals but I only got these three.
And I also took this picture:


Which is the only purple violet I've found so far this year. There will be more.

And now I'm going to make a cake and put fresh strawberries on it for the dessert I'll be eating after I eat my leftovers. The cake is one we used to talk about in Weight Watchers and it is so simple that I will now give you the recipe: (Allegra- please do not read any further. It's too embarrassing.)

Take the contents of the things in that picture. Mix them well. Pour the thick, white goop into a large baking pan. It rises a lot so make sure it's LARGE. Bake at 350 degrees until a toothpick comes out clean. That's it. And yes, you use the entire can of crushed pineapple. Don't drain it. Don't make this harder than it is.

Slice strawberries and put them on top of your piece of this cake. Enjoy. It's really good. I am not kidding you.

And now I'm done. Seriously. Go to bed. Night-night. Sweet dreams.

Etc.

What I Don't Know Could Fill A Book

I don't know. Basically, that should be the title of my blog.
I don't know.
You'd think by the age of fifty-five and over-a-half that I'd know something but if I do know something, it's called by the name of Jack Shit.

Not a great morning in the spirit department here and of course I'm second guessing my tapering off of the Lexapro. I am not feeling overwhelming anxiety and I keep reminding myself that I've had plenty of bad mornings while on the full dose of the drug and so I need to just keep on with what I'm doing but I need to pay attention, too. I keep thinking about the newest articles about antidepressants and how placebos seem to work just as well and how they're being given out like candy by GP's. I think about how yes, depression and anxiety are not an inappropriate response to today's world and how brain chemistry is really so poorly understood and how perhaps placebos do cause changes in the brain which can actually help.

But again- I don't know.

Owen just wants to GO these days. I find myself carrying him under one arm with him facing downwards. He twists himself into this position himself and he seems to want to get down on the floor and just GO. I put him on the floor and he lays there pissed off because he can't crawl yet and it enrages him. When you sit with him on your lap, same thing.

He wants everything. He wants to see everything, do everything, taste everything, and for all I know he wants to BE everything from a dog to a chicken to his grandfather.

He wants to talk, he loves it when you echo his verbalizations back to him, squeals and chuckles and syllables. That cracks him up. I am watching him become all the things that humans are which are explorers, and question-askers and communicators.
And of course, there is never a moment when there isn't someone right there to help him on these paths. He loves the stroller but only if it's moving. He loves to sit on the floor and play, but only if you're there beside him. He has figured out how to get what he wants and we, the Big Ones, are his adoring servants and assistants. We talk, we push, we sit, we protect, we feed, we change, we acknowledge each and every desire of his. That is Owen's life.

I think of him and I see the whole history of humanity in his eyes, his movements, his wants and needs and his desires. And I wonder when all of that- that holy fire to do- was extinguished in me. But maybe that's just me today. I don't know.

When did I start to feel that it is only at home that I would feel safe? When did I stop going to movies and when did I make my world so tiny?

I am thinking of this today not only because of Owen but because my daughter May is going to get on a plane this afternoon and fly out to Seattle to visit one of her oldest friends. She is too much like me, this girl, and I look at her with wonder that she is going to do this. She used to travel. At the age of nineteen she packed up her truck and got in it and went west and she stopped where she wanted and she drove where she wanted and I had to let her go despite every worry, every fear I had for her. And hell, at the age of nineteen, I packed up my Ford Capri and traveled by myself from Denver to Tallahassee. But I can barely force myself now to drive to Tallahassee from Lloyd. And May doesn't like to drive anywhere, either. She has become, like I said, too much like me, comfortable in her own small place with her own proscribed life.
And so I look at her about to take this trip and I am thrilled for her that she is doing it. I am cheering her on, I am saying, "Go."

Well.

So no, I hardly travel now, although right now I am craving, craving to go to Roseland, that place where I grew up by the river. I don't know why. This isn't the time of year I have ever gone there since I grew up. But still. I do. But I won't go. It costs too much to stay where I want to stay. The drive takes forever. (Florida is a very long state.) And besides- I'd have to leave here.

And usually it is at this point where I proclaim that here is a fine place to be. And it is. But sometimes I feel so much like my chickens who have wings but who forget that they have them. Who only fly when they forget to walk or when there is danger.

So I am so very happy that May is going to fly today. I hope she has a wonderful trip. I hope that being away gives her new perspective on everything. That she can see that she is stronger and braver than she realizes and that her world is not limited. That she has FUN!

And here are some pictures I took of my world yesterday. When the rain stopped for a bit, Owen and I went outside, he in his stroller and me with my camera and we explored this world (which is not a bad world at all, I should point out) and this is what it looked like:

This is not a tree which Owen is sitting beside. It is a wisteria vine. I can't even imagine how old it is.


An old fallen tree at the edge of the property.

Just...green.


More wisteria vine, this one made up of two which have twined together to form a rope. For some reason completely unknown to me I never noticed this until yesterday. How can this be?

I don't know.

I don't know much today. But I what I do know is that humans CAN fly. And they want to. Until they don't. And I know that as Owen learns to use his wings, we stand over him with one hand on him, ready to catch him if he falls. And that although I can not do that with my grown children, I will still try to encourage them to use their wings whenever they can.

Have a wonderful trip, May. But please come home when it's over. And tell us what it's like on the other side of the country. Tell us with your Florida Girl eyes. Tell us with your too-much-like-me mind. Tell us about where your wings took us. Remind us we have wings of our own. And then stand under the blooming wisteria again and let me take your picture with your sisters like I did two years ago before we even knew Owen, back when he was merely a gleam in the eye of god or his father or his mother. However that works. Because I don't know. But I know I love you. I know there is beauty right here. And that my children make it that much more beautiful, as does my grandson. And I know that you will all fly away at some point because that is what humans do and although you cannot see our wings, they are there.
And I don't want any of you to ever forget that.
And I don't want to forget it either.