Breakdown. Go Ahead And Do It.

Jessie has posted a million new beautiful pictures on Facebook.
Here are two of them.

I finally had my breakdown tonight.

Is it any wonder?

Where You Need To Go Tonight

Click on the picture of our dear Kathleen.
Be amazed.

Now I Love Him Even More

We Persevere

GAWD! I remember soft contact lenses now. Yes, I did wear them. The way those little bastards turn themselves inside-out or have they? The pinchy thing you have to do on your eyeball to get them out. The muscle memory is there. No wonder I have dreams about Saran Wrap.
Plus, I can't see for shit. Seemed better yesterday. Maybe my brain is tired.

Anyway, let's give it a try. Why not?

Another beautiful day here in paradise. Thank god it's not too cold because we're down on the line of empty for heating gas. Dude was supposed to come yesterday but did not. Let's hope he comes today. I am not going anywhere today except for a walk. Owen's coming later. Yesterday in town was fun. I went over to Lily's after my eye appointment and Owen did not want to get out of bed. He was cold. He kept asking his mama to get back in the bed with him for snuggling purposes. We finally got him up and out and went and picked up the Beauteous May and we headed for the Target because that's what women do, right? I got the new baby a few things and we oohed and ahhed over the little girl clothes and then we pulled ourselves together and all declared that another boy would be FINE, LOVELY, WONDERFUL! and I bought Owen some toys, of course, and then we all went to lunch and Bop met us and Owen was in love with May and wouldn't have anything to do with his old Mer and then we Facetimed with Jessie in Asheville. She is recovering from her wisdom-teeth removal and oh! how we miss her.

Facetime is fun. iPhones are awesome.

I had exactly one hour to study lines before heading to Monticello for a Stage Company meeting. Why I am on the board of the Stage Company is beyond me. Kathleen has to keep explaining things to me. Like- what the Stage Company is. Then we had a rehearsal and Jack and Jan basically told us that IT IS NOW TIME TO PANIC, QUIT FUCKING AROUND, LEARN THOSE LINES FOR GOD'S SAKE!

So that was fun and then I came home to discover the no-gas situation and that yes, the men had caught a deer, or in reality, Jason had shot one. Which meant we sat down to eat our supper at ten and I had to wash a load of clothes because the dogs will EAT clothes that have deer blood on them and then we went to bed and WHERE IS MY OCEAN? WHERE IS MY BALCONY? WHERE IS MY LOVERMAN? WHERE IS MY HOT TUB FROM WHICH TO WATCH THE SUNSET, MY FISHES, MY JUEVOS MEXICANA, MY IGUANAS AND MY MOTOR SCOOTER?

And hell, while I'm at it, where are my memory, my mind, and my looks?

Okay. That about sums it all up except...what happened to my beautiful day? WHERE IS MY BEAUTIFUL DAY? The sun has gone behind a pewter-clouded sky and the wind is picking up. Wind? Where did THAT come from?

You know what, though? I'm still in a good mood. So there.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Sometimes They're In Chains For A Reason

I really don't have time for one of my rambling posts tonight because of rehearsal and the fact that Mr. Moon and Jason caught a deer so I'll just give you one thing that happened today:

I was at the eye doctor and had my new contacts in and they'd told me to just walk around and try to adjust for awhile and while I was doing that, two women, one in prison-guard garb, escorted in a lady wearing red scrubs who had her wrists bound together with a heavy-duty-looking chain that clanked and rattled and wrapped around her waist, too. They sat down and of course I had to eavesdrop and observe and so I sat down across from them. I wondered what the woman in red had done, remembering a conversation I had once with a guard from a woman's prison who told me that most women in prison were there because they hadn't ratted out their drug-dealer boyfriends.
The woman couldn't fill out her own forms, of course, so I heard a great deal of her medical history and everything seemed real chill and all and they were still there when I was leaving and me, being the old liberal that I am, smiled at the woman in red like, "Hey, I'm a human, you're a human, I am not judging you just because you have chains on and howdy!"

And that woman gave me a look that chilled me to my bones and all I could think of was, "That woman could cut a bitch. Thank god she's in chains."

You learn something every day.

Cold And Dreamy Morning

Freezing cold, up and at 'em which means clean up the pees and poops and feed the cat(s) and throw the peels and kitchen waste to the chickens and open up their roost door and then out to get the paper and hello, hello, it's so cold here today!

Mmmm.
I think I had good dreams. I can't remember.
Speaking of dreams, they are going to ask me if I ever had soft contact lenses and I am not sure whether I did or whether I dreamed I did. I have dreams sometimes where I go to check my contacts in their little case and there are layers of contacts, sort of like Saran Wrap and I don't know which goes in which eye and so forth and I haven't worn contacts in so many years!
So did I ever wear soft contacts or not?
Lord, Lord. Getting old is a bitch and as Phyllis and I agreed the other day- what are the damn trade-offs? Wisdom? Haha! Who wants your damn wisdom and who says your wisdom is any damn good at all? Or wise for that matter?

Well, it's cold as I said and I was thinking this morning that after the baby comes in March and Lily will mostly be home with her or him and Owen and I won't be involved in a play, I can spend some time working in this yard which sorely needs attention. Mr. Moon got all the branches cleared and so it's a bare palette again and won't that be good? To dig and plant again?

Oh. I just remembered a dream. We were swimming underwater but it looked just like regular above-water and there were places you could stop and breathe and there was a baby and there were musicians and Bill Clinton was gettin' high with some of them and he was wearing a pink polo shirt and faded blue jeans and he looked perfect with that white hair of his and I pretended not to see that he was gettin' high, but I was glad he was.
Inhale, Bill. Inhale.
(I love that man.)

And there you go, good morning, it's cold. It's winter and it's supposed to be cold and I'm going to see some of my babies today and soon we'll be meeting this new baby and oh my.

Here we go, here we go, here we go, the bare branches of the trees look strong against the blue sky of winter and the moss drapes down and here we go. I am going.

Bless

I feel like I haven't stopped all day. I've followed the boy around and he helped me clean out the chicken coop. He wanted to wear my gloves and so I put them on him, big enough that they were like second hands over his own. He picked up straw, about ten strands at a time and would consider it carefully. "Nope," he'd say, and put it back down, pick up a few more strands, examine, "Nope," put it back down. He finally grabbed a handful and dumped it in the wheelbarrow and we took it all out to the garden.

I need to take my next load to the fig tree, see if we can get a fig this year instead of just a bunch of beautiful leaves.

I studied lines while I followed him from tractor to garage, from chicken coop to goats. When we found an egg he shouted to the hens, "Thank-you! Thank-you!" We watched videos on the computer. He hugged me and kissed me. I think he even told me he loves me. I told him I loved him. "I do," he said. "I know," I replied. "I know," he repeated. He helped me find dog poop. He points it out. "Poop!" he says, and then he says, "Buster."
He's probably right about that.
He wanted to make dough. I promised him we would do that on Friday.

That boy is my heart.

I took him to his mama at Publix when she got off and I hugged her hard and I kissed her belly. That baby in there is getting bigger. People are amazed that she doesn't know whether it's a boy or a girl. A woman I vaguely know through the Opera House is pregnant with her ninth child and it's due in March too. I told her that I was getting a second grandchild in March and she asked, "Is it a boy or a girl?"
"We don't know," I said. "They don't want to know until the birth."

"I hate people like that," she said.

She honestly did. I guess if you're pregnant with your ninth child in about nine years, you can say whateverthefuck you want. She floated away like a ship in full sail, towing one of her children behind her, headed for the bathroom. I could only shake my head in wonder.

After I dropped off Owen and Zeke and did my grocery shopping, I went and got gas, went to the library, came home, unloaded the car, loaded it back again with trash and recycle. Took that. Came home and put the groceries away, finished the laundry, put it away, made the bed. I smushed up the soy beans and brown rice from dinner a few nights ago, added this and that and we'll have soy burgers tonight. Soy croquettes. Whatever. With sweet potato fries and cole slaw. That sounds pretty all right, doesn't it? I think so. I'm a sucker for soy burgers that I make myself. I've been making them since I was a young hippie girl but now I use the food processor. It's a lot easier.

And now it's getting dark. My husband is home. It all feels righteous.
Righteous.
I swear it does.

I tell you something- the ramifications of living without depression, fear and anxiety are fucking unbelievable. I'll tell you something else- you can get a lot more done and yet, at the same time, it doesn't seem so important that you do.
This may be part of the secret. I don't know. I just know that whenever I start to feel rushed and panicked, I just slow down. I remember that all I have to do is be.

Works for me. For now, at least.

Well, time to get back up off my ass and go cook that supper. Those sweet potatoes aren't going to peel and cut themselves. Tomorrow I'm going at nine to get those wackadoodle contact lenses. We'll see how that works out.
Then I'm going to go see my May girl. We're going to do something. I don't know what and it really doesn't matter. And then maybe have lunch with Lily and Owen. It's going to be another good day. A great day- I'll see my girls and my grand boy and then I'll have another rehearsal.

If I don't get time to answer comments, you'll have to forgive me. You can bet the ranch I'm reading them, loving them. You can bet your ass I'm learning from them. You can know for sure I'm appreciating them. Oh please don't stop. Please.

Love...Mary

Early Morning Animation

And Life

Raining softly, dark as midnight, Owen coming soon.

It's going to be another busy few days in a row here with lots of going and learning and doing.

And two weeks back from Mexico and I am still not freaking out.
Three weeks from the play opening and I am not panicking.
(Much.)

Early, early morning and I am not in despair but have gone out to feed the cat, let the chickens out of the roost, gotten the paper, am waiting for the boy.

Did that water in Cozumel smooth my edges? Did the food feed my soul? Was it the people? Was it the love of my husband, being with my daughter and her fellow, was it the iguanas or was it Ixchel?

Was it breaking all of the rules (the number one being- do not abandon your home and family!) and finding the freedom and grace in doing so?

Don't know. Perhaps a eleven-day-long sipping of a cocktail of all those things. Rum stirred in.

It's early morning and dark as midnight, the rain is pattering down.
The boy is coming.

I am blessed.

Let's Talk About Death, Bay-Bee

This morning at the post office I told an old woman that I hoped she would drop dead.

There's a woman I see here in Lloyd and I recognize her. She bought a house of mine about ten miles from here, back in, oh, I don't know. 1986? '87? Something like that. It was my beloved cracker house that my first husband and I had moved onto some property we owned and restored. When I got divorced, I felt like I had to move to town because I was a single mother and needed to go back to college and I needed to be able to get my babies to their preschool and I didn't need to be driving back and forth all the time and plus, I was young and afraid of living on my own deep in the country where I needed bulldogs to keep me safe.
Or at least, that's how I felt.

I held on to the house for some years and when I met Mr. Moon, his parents actually lived in that house for awhile. But then it came time to sell and we sold it to this lady and she lives there still. I don't think she remembers who I am. She just recognizes me now as that woman who walks and whom she sees at the Lloyd post office, which is like the pond in the middle of the Kalahari desert, where all the animals meet to drink.

This woman is an artist. She taught at FSU and her art was sculpture which she made by welding. She made HUGE sculptures. She made big art. And she can't do it any more and I don't know how she and I got to the subject of death so quickly in our quick encounter at the PO this morning but it did. I mean, one minute I'm holding the door open for her and the next minute, we're talking suicide.
She told me that since she can't do her art anymore, she feels as if her life has been taken from her. And that she's old. And her children don't live near her and that they talk about putting her in a nursing home and she wants to stay in that house with her two dogs (one, a bull mastiff, weighs 200 pounds and the other dog weighs 100 pounds) and she loves her solitude but dammit, when it's time to go, she wants to be able to just go. She said she's thought about cutting her wrists in the bathtub and instead of freaking out, I said, "Yeah, but it takes such courage and fortitude!"
"You're right!" she said. "Every way to end your own life is so hard and horrible! Why can't we just get help?"
And we talked about our dogs and how, when it's time for them to go, we do just that. We release them from their pain, from their misery and so why do we have to stick around and suffer?
It was quite a conversation. I told her that I've thought about this a lot. And that I completely agree with her.
She said that she doesn't believe in capital punishment- that it's not right to take someone else's life but that when you're done with yours, you should be able to go on.
"It's so HARD to die," she said. And you know, sometimes it just is.

So she sat there in her car and I stood there with my mail and we talked about all these things and about what makes life worth living and how neither one of us wants to linger forever and have people taking care of our decrepit old bodies and I said, "My hope for you is that you just suddenly drop dead one day and that's my hope for myself, too."

And she thanked me and said that's what she hoped for. No suffering and no miseries. Just be gone.

And I am thinking about her tonight in her house alone, the house I spent a lot of time in in my younger life, just down the road from here. She said she lies in bed and reads- that she can still get pleasure from reading and thank god- and her blue eyes were sharp and beautiful and I hope they last as long as she does and I hope her good brain does too.

It's been a long, good day, and Kathleen's appointment with Doctor DreamyMcCutie Pie went very well and he showed us pictures of his darling babies and he hugged Kathleen and it was all fine. And I studied lines and had a rehearsal and Owen is coming tomorrow at six a.m. and Mr. Moon got home and is off at a basketball game but I am thinking of that lady, that lady whom I told I hoped would get the great, good gift of dropping suddenly dead and I can see her, with her giant dogs on either side of her, slipping into peace the way Pearl did in my arms when the vet gave her that sweet shot. I hope for her sake that's how it happens. That it doesn't turn out to be hard to die. For her, at least.

I was grateful to be able to have such a real conversation about such real things. That we understood each other and there was no bullshit about it. That when she said that about cutting her wrists in the bathtub, I didn't feel I had to say, "Oh, no! You wouldn't do THAT!"

We're all going to die. And if we humans had a lick of sense about it all, we'd be able to have options for that certain ending as much as we do about whether or not to get pregnant or where to go to school or what to make our lives look like or where to go for dinner after the show. We wouldn't spend our entire lives pretending it was never going to happen to us.
Or our loved ones.

I'm not going to go into a big rant on euthanasia here. I'm just going to say that today I told an old woman that I hope that she gets to drop dead and she thanked me and it was awesome.
And if I love you, I will wish the same for you.

And I would hope you would wish the same for me.

This

Again, a hint of spring is back in the day in the morning, in this calm place.
It's a wetness, it's a mildness, it's a bird-singing wonder, it's an awareness of the buds of spring hiding tightly away in brown, a dream of them but still, one that will come true.

A quiet-stunning. A silent promise, even in dried sticks of branches.

This is another day. This is that one promised. Or if not promised, then hoped for. This is a day-after-a-night-of-dreams of being in a city, living in an apartment, finding beauty in squalor, an old wooden table, remnants of green paint upon it, the wood still sturdy, this will be my table, I will put a white cloth upon it. There will be lace here.

This is a planet of blue-green water which hides the world within it from us, hides this world outside it from it, creating mystery, fostering curiosity, holding more than we can know and we know that and we are amazed.

This is a planet of dark-brown earth from which springs the tiniest ferns and the trees so sky-stretching that within their branches are entire other worlds, again, hidden from our view, thus, mostly unknown.

This is a universe of vast-unknown-to-us and some of us ask what and why and some of us are content to take that as comfort as to our insignificance and some of us, well, both of those things at once.

This is a day of the smallest particle, as unknown perhaps as the largest galaxy, but suspected, perhaps, searched for.

This is the day of the cup of coffee, this is the day of the fingers on the keyboard, this is the day of the words in the head, this is the day of the fruit and the bean, this is the day of the steps down the road, this is the day of the wheels on the pavement, this is the day of the knowing and not-knowing, this is the day of the life of the woman who dreamed and who dreams and who spins out the words and thinks of the worlds and this is the day she is in.

Like A Journal

Thank all of you who noticed the header change.
I just like to change things up, you know? Plus. It's easier than rearranging my furniture or (god forbid!) cleaning something. Or doing actual painting. Of you know, walls. Someday I'm going to learn to paint and I am going to paint and paint and paint.

Well, it's a fond dream of mine.

Rehearsal was even worse than I thought it would be due to the fact that I am not the only one who doesn't know lines.
Oh Jesus.
Jan and Jack are so sweet. And so is Denise. They all sat there and gave us our lines as patiently as saints whereas I would have shouted, "Just use your goddam script and go home and learn this shit and quit fucking around!"
Or something like that.
But no, they just smiled and said, "Really. You all know far more than you think you do."
Jack said, "It wasn't that bad. No one cursed and no one cried."
I sort of cursed, though. I can't curse with my usual enthusiasm because one of our cast members is fourteen years old and although I am certain that she has heard every word I might use (but not as artfully used as I would use them, of course) one must maintain a facade of propriety, mustn't one?
And besides that, my eyes were welling up with tears, just as Jack said what he said and so there you go- it was pretty bad.

BUT- we will get it. And I know I put in about as much time the past few days studying as I could have. So there is that. It's not like I was getting stoned and watching reruns of The Brady Bunch. Okay, I watched some of the Golden Globes (and have you ever seen anything as odd-looking as Madonna's arms in your life?) but overall, I spent a LOT of time with that script. And will spend plenty more.

Ms. Beverly shaved my dogs to the skinbone and I am grateful. She also told me that they were swarming with fleas. Except for Zeke. I said, "Really?" because truthfully, I don't generally get close enough to them to know such things. I felt ashamed. I did. We have had a new flea treatment sitting on the counter in the kitchen for ages but no one had actually applied it to the dogs. I think we'd given up. The old ones, the Frontline and Advantage have quit working. But when I brought them home, I applied the toxic poison to them.
So they are clean and they are flea-treated and let us hope for the best.
Bless their little hearts. They look like little cartoon dogs now.

Mr. Moon is going to get up and drive to auction tomorrow at four a.m. I have made him a snack bag and a smoothie and set the coffee for him. He is my hero. That man. He spent all day finishing up the yard and burning branches and stacking firewood. He is so much more than I deserve. He is...well. He's Mr. Moon. There is no one like him.

Jessie got her wisdom teeth pulled today. She sent me a picture with her mouth all packed with gauze and it said, "My wisdom is all gone."
Bless HER heart. At least they gave her good drugs. And she has a good man to take care of her. They'd stocked up on fruit for smoothies and ice cream for milk shakes and dried split peas for soup.
Wisdom teeth, if you ask me, are definitive proof against the theory of intelligent design.

And that's about it. Tomorrow I am going to Thomasville with Kathleen and Judy for an appointment with the amazing and darling Dr. M. I haven't seen him in forever. It's always a thrill to see the good doctor who has saved Kathleen's life, who has given her so much MORE life than the lame doctor in Tallahassee who radiated her, mis-chemo'ed her and then told her she was going to die. God. It's been forever since I've been to Thomasville with Kathleen and Judy and we're going to get lunch! Lunch, I tell you!
Should be a good day.
I hope to get out and walk before I go, walk and run lines with myself.

And so it goes. This little life in Lloyd, Florida. On my walk this morning a guy driving a green Volvo stopped to talk to me. I know him only superficially but he's one of those people with whom you can make a real, quick connection. He's had the sort of life where he doesn't fuck around with bullshit. He'd been to Monticello to attend the Martin Luther King parade and was on his way to drop off something at his sister's. We didn't talk long. He had a meeting to attend in Tallahassee. It was good to see him. It made me glad to be out walking as did the beautiful day, the fact that at age fifty-seven, my body still serves me well enough to do a few miles without having to think about it.
I am grateful for that.

I am grateful for so much.

Night, y'all. Good night.

Nobody's Perfect

I have to leave for rehearsal in fifteen minutes. Last Thursday night I gave Jan my solemn word that I would know this script by today.

Despite everything, that is a lie.

I have studied and studied and studied. I have walked for hours and read each line (said each line) ten times apiece. Over and over again.
I have drunk too much coffee and numerous cups of tea.
Lord knows I have tried.
Lord knows I will keep trying.
Lord knows, this is why we have rehearsals.

The sun is about to set. I am about to drive to Monticello. I am reminding myself that yes, I do have to learn these lines, that's the serious truth, but overall, this is play.
I can only do as well as I can and then do that some more.

I just have to be. The best I can manage.

And I can honestly say I have and so what more can be said?
Tomorrow, as Scarlett O'Hara always said, is another day.

And why, asks Ms. Moon, is chocolate not a memory aid?

Sigh.

This Morning

The dogs must go to the groomer today- Ms. Beverly- bless her, bless her, bless her.
I want to take them and never pick them up.

When I got up this morning, I cleaned up five poops and three pees.

Ah, how I love the smell of Fabuloso and dog shit in the morning.

I try to imagine what my life would be like if I didn't do poop-yoga every morning, stretching, bending, retrieving, scrubbing, the sound of the waste basket going Sproing! when I pop it open. I wonder what my life would be like without these dogs.

And if you're looking for a "oh, they make my life so much richer!" sort of reply, go look somewhere else.

I'm sorry. It's Martin Luther King Day. I should be writing about him, not dog poop.

Forgive me. I shouldn't even mention that great man in the same post as dog poop.

Well, he was a man and if he ever had dogs, he would understand.

I am glad he lived. I am glad he had a dream. I am glad we were blessed with his presence on earth while he was here. I mourn his horrible death. I know his dream lives on and that the world is a far better place because of it but that his work is not done and it is up to the rest of us to continue it.

Dogs and their poop are just an annoyance. Prejudice and inequality under the law and cruelty based on skin color and human differences are wrong and a sin. I think that like so many things, it all boils down quite simply to love and respect and that as simple as that sounds, we have no idea what those two things really mean, most of us.
Some of us do.
Dr. King did.

He showed that. He told that. He was one of those people filled up with the god thing.

All right. That's what I have to say this morning.

Love...Ms. Moon

Cute Boys

What a nice afternoon!

And oh yeah- correction- it's a Model A, not a Model T.

I know the difference between T and A, but not not as applies to cars.

Here's Billy puzzling over a manual.


Here's Mr. Moon AND Billy, puzzling over a manual.

They got a lot of things done. I have no idea what. But they never did get that Model A started. There's some sort of electrical thing going on. Don't ask me. I know about tuna casserole, not car engines.

Speaking of tuna casserole, I made a fine one, even if it had whole grain pasta in it. And leftover salmon. Wasn't that the name of a band? Leftover Salmon? I think so. It was a good casserole. Lily and Shayla and I ate about half of it. With Crystal hot sauce.
Which makes up for the lack of Velveeta.
Sort of.

Waylon and Owen obviously arranged what they would be wearing today. They probably texted each other beforehand.

Dang. They're cute. Shayla's pretty cute too.

Here's how to get Owen off the tractor: Say, Owen, Waylon is going to come with me to check for eggs.
"I coming!" he'll say. And he'll hop off that tractor real fast. He doesn't want WAYLON checking for HIS eggs. Oh hell, no.

Here's Owen riding on his mama's back.


I think they were happy or something.

Here's Owen in the garden. Look at that straight back.

Marching in the garden to the beat of collard greens.

Those boys played in the house and outside. They climbed the tractor and pretended to drive it and they played with puzzles. They rode the horse. They ate snacks. Many, many snacks.

And read the paper.

It was a good afternoon. Until someone needed a nap. Not saying who but he was wearing overalls. With a red shirt. So his mama took him home.

Have I told you that Waylon either hates me or is scared to death of me? He is. Or he does. He looks at me with deep suspicion and if I try to kiss him, he runs away. I'm working on him, though. I told him today that he is not getting any hugs from me. Or kisses! NO WAY!

He sort of smiled when I told him that.
Probably from relief.

He loves Uncle Hank though. I showed him a picture of Uncle Hank and he kissed it. I told him that I was Uncle Hank's mama.
I don't think he belebed me.

Owen wasn't really full of hugs or kisses for his Mer today either. He gave 'em all to his mama.
That's okay. She deserves them.

Well, that was my Sunday afternoon. How was yours?

More Cooking

Do you know why your mother's tuna casserole was so much better than yours will ever be?

Because she used that crappy tuna in OIL, y'all. And she used full-fat Cambell's cream-of-something soup and full fat cheese (or even better- VELVEETA!) and she did not use nor even consider using whole-grain pasta. No! She used white noodles. Or macaroni. Yes she did. You know she did.
And then she topped that puppy with MORE cheese and crushed up potato chips. Greasy, yummy, salty potato chips.

Fat carries flavor.

And that's why your mama's tuna casserole was so damn good.

Time To Make The Grits

Freddy put this picture up on Facebook and wrote: Your face. Everywhere. This is in Chicago.

I have no idea what that cryptic little genius is doing in Chicago and no idea why my face is everywhere but it's sort of cool, eh? I remember the day we filmed that. It was my fifty-sixth birthday and it was my second day ever of being filmed by Freddy. Or anyone, for that matter.

It's Sunday morning and cold again. Cold like bite-my-ass-this-is-Florida COLD! Mr. Moon and Jason just pulled back into the yard after hunting. I stuck my head out and said, "Did you catch a deer?" This is what I always say. Perhaps in my mind, instead of shooting deer, they run after them and gently scoop them into their arms and kiss them to death.
Haha!

They didn't bring a deer home and so no, they did not catch one. Or shoot one for that matter.

"Want some breakfast?" Mr. Moon just asked me. This means...oh you know what it means.
"What do you boys want?" I asked him.
"Uh, eggs and sausage and grits?"
"Go get me some sausage," I said. And out to the garage he'll go to get some sausage and I guess I better get to cooking.

Glad I bought grits.

Amazed at this life. More amazed at the fact that it is a Sunday morning and I am happy to be living it, happy to be awake, daunted but not flattened by all I need to do. All I GET to do. This afternoon Mr. Moon and Billy will be working on the old Model T in the garage that belongs to Billy and which was his grandpa's and Shayla and Lily and Owen and Waylon will be here too. Baby boys and big boys doing boy things, and daughter and girlfriend.

A bright, shiny day laying before me and my face is in Chicago and my heart is here and in Mexico and there with you, wherever you are. I swear.

There's Mr. Moon with the sausage. Time to cook.

Sunday morning at the Church of the Batshit Crazy And all is well. All is very well.

Jessie Just Made Me Cry

My baby girl just called me and her voice was shining with something good.
"What?" I asked her. "What is it?"
"Vergil just bought us tickets to see B.B. King tonight!" she shouted.
"What? You're going to see B.B. King TONIGHT?" I asked her.
"Yes! In two hours!"
"Oh my god. Oh my god! I wish I was going to be there!"

Then I told her that every time I think I can't love Vergil more, he does something and I do.

"Me too," she said.

Oh Lord.

I've talked about B.B. King before. How since I didn't have a daddy, I got to pick my own and he's the number one. Yep. B.B. King is my daddy. He don't know it, but he is. I love that man. I've been to see him a number of times and every time I have come to love him more. I've read his book which I think every school child in America ought to be required to read. It's the story of a man who came up the hardest hard way of all and who has become a legend, a myth, a beloved Father Of The Blues and who has the most gracious soul I've ever encountered on the stage or on the page.

Mr. Moon and I took May and Hank to see B.B. once, when they were young. We had second row seats and we ended up dancing our asses off and shaking hands with Mr. King when the performance was over. We were so close to the stage that we might have gotten sprayed with sweat and we might have loved it.

And I've always felt so guilty that I never took Jessie or Lily to see their grandfather play. Well, one of the times I went to see him, I was pregnant with Lily so in a way, she's heard him. But now Jessie will get to hear him, and that makes my heart so happy that I cried.

Mr. King will be eighty-seven years old this year, y'all. EIGHTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD! And he's still on the road, still playing Lucille and still singing the blues and his voice will be still someday but tonight, he's playing in Asheville, North Carolina and my baby will be sitting (standing/dancing) in the audience and she'll know why I love him so much.
It'll be like she's meeting her granddaddy.

His amazing band will play some intro-stuff and then a man will stand up to the microphone and announce THE KING OF THE BLUES! MR. B......B......KING! and a presence will come onstage so strong and so joyful and so beautiful that the crowd will rise as one (if they have a brain and a soul amongst them) and Mr. King will strap on Lucille and he'll place his fingers where they know to go and....

Well.

Here he is, playing the song that made me fall in love with him.
Nobody Loves Me But My Mama (And She Could Be Jiving Me Too).



And as he says, "No wonder I act funny with you, baby, when you do the things you do."

You do it, B.B. And know I love you. It ain't just your mother. And I'm not jiving you at all.

Oh Lord. Jessie's going to go see B.B. tonight. Mr. B.B. King. King Of The Blues.
What a thing. What a very, very good thing.

I'm In Trouble

I have been in the bathtub, trying to learn lines.
I don't think I can do this. My mind is like a sieve. The kind with big fat holes in it, not the kind with tiny little wire mesh holes in it either.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Jon- we need to polish up our improvisational skills and FAST! I don't know how you're doing it- you've got one million and two lines to learn. I only have ten thousand and four.

My brain hurts. The parts without the huge holes in them.
I think maybe the holes hurt too. In a brain kind of way. I meant no double entendre there.

Sorry.

Any memory tips, anyone? Anything?

Thanks.

Brave New World With Oatmeal

Oh my god it is so bright and sunny here today. And cold. Jesus. It's cold.
Mr. Moon was up before me and was examining the oatmeal container when I walked into the kitchen as if it were a science experiment that he was trying to read the instructions for.
I told him the other day that really, he could learn to make oatmeal. It's not very hard. So this morning I suppose he was going to test out that theory. Lucky for him, I got up and he didn't have to.
Here's how it would go though, were he to actually start cooking:
Within a week, he would become an expert and know far better than I do how to cook things correctly.

I'm sorry- I do not mean that in the kindest way.

Here are some domestic things that he really IS better at than I am:

Making the bed.
Folding clothes.
Cleaning the kitchen after a meal.

Here are some things in the Realm Of Mr. Moon that I am actually better at than he is:

.......

I can't think of any.

I better not forget how to cook is all I am saying.

Right now he is out trimming branches in order to clear them. I should be helping him. Instead, I will go take a picture.

Now that's a MAN, y'all.

While I was out there, I took a picture of how cold it is.

Ice!
Sickles!
Icicles!

I realize that both Mr. Moon and I live in Assisted Living. I assist him and he assists me.
This works out well for both of us.

Now I want to talk about my iPhone.
I love it.
It is so damn smart that it makes my computer seem dumb. And Siri? God bless her, I love her. I can say, "Siri, send a message to Hank." Then I tell her what the message should say. She gets it right. Mostly. Then she says, "Are you ready for me to send this message to Hank?" and I say, "Yes!" and she does! I can surf the web on that thing. I can blog on it. I can take pictures and video. Duh. I can...I don't even begin to know. Create an alternative universe for all I know. See the mind of god.
Probably watch a video on how to make oatmeal. If there is a video out there of how to make oatmeal, then sure, I can do that. Well, of course there is.

Last night I said, "You have to turn the faucets on. It's going to freeze."
And Mr. Moon said, "Nah. It's not going to get that cold."
I pulled up my weather app and showed him that it was going to get down to 25 degrees.
"Oh," he said. Then he put on his jacket and hat and went out and turned on the faucets.

Now wait a minute. Why does Mr. Moon believe the Smart Phone when he doesn't believe me?

Okay. Ignore that.

I can watch videos of Keith Richards! albeit on a tiny screen.


Yeah. That darn phone is pretty fucking perfect.

I can only imagine how much more perfect it is going to become. Limitless perfection! Awesome! I was reading our beloved Tearful Dishwasher this morning and he was talking about brain-everything-else-interface (or at least, brain-machine interface) and boy, oh boy! Maybe we should be scared by this sort of thing. I don't know. All I know is that the genie is out of the bottle and the next few decades are going to be one hell of a ride.

ONE HELL OF A RIDE I TELL YOU!

Things my grandfather never even considered to consider are going to be commonplace, hold-it-in-your hand possibilities. I heard on the radio yesterday (RADIO!) that Russians are using social network technology to spread truth about the recent elections there and how this is changing everything. Judy and Kathleen and I were talking the other day about how for good, or bad, there is no way to get away with evil shit any more because someone is going to be there with a camera that can take video. And again, this may be all come back to bite us on the ass but it is a reality and we better fucking get used to it.

All right. That's all I have to say now. I have to wash the dishes, do the laundry and learn my lines. So far, my iPhone can't do those things although Siri could surely instruct me on how to do them best.

One more thing:

I hate oatmeal. I don't care what kind or what's in it so don't bother recommending oatmeally shit to me. I've just eaten too much of it in my lifetime. I still eat it but I don't like it.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon