Going To The Birds

Sometimes when I sit down to write here I have no idea where it's all going to lead.
Okay, to be truthful- mostly that's how it happens. It's like there is some part of my brain that knows but it doesn't reveal itself until I put fingers to the keyboard. And if it has a really good idea, I get that itchy feeling. Sit down. Write. We have something to say.
My brain is not feeling that way this morning. It's still trying to figure out that dream I had last night where an almost-dead Pearl turned into a feral monkey child I had to take care of for a week.
"I'm calling child services!" I kept saying. But somehow, I never did and the feral monkey child kept clinging to my hip.

Last night while I was pretending to be a server, Mr. Moon and Lily and Jason and Owen and Jessie went out to dinner. I hear that Owen was practicing his moves on his Aunt Jessie. He reached down her bosom. He bitch-slapped her and then hugged and kissed and nuzzled her and patted her nose as if she were a cat.
I think he's been watching old movies.
He cracks me up. But he's not allowed to bitch-slap. No, he is not, no matter how sweetly he apologizes.
It's got to be hard to be a nineteen month-old boy what with all that testosterone pulsing through his veins.
What? You don't think nineteen month-old boys have testosterone?
I do.

Okay, not to change the subject but why is there a fucking helicopter circling us here in Lloyd? Is there an escaped convict? A missing child? (Oh, please no.) Are they doing drug searches? Looking for evil pot patches? I have no idea but there certainly is a sense of urgency about it.

It's Saturday. This means that Mr. Moon has fourteen projects going on at once. That's the way he is. Gotta build a support for the cucumbers. Gotta go to Lowe's and Home Depot. All manly projects involve a trip to Lowe's and Home Depot. YOU KNOW THIS IS TRUE! He asked me if I needed anything at Home Depot. I wracked my brain.
"I don't think so, but thanks for asking."
He is also going to go help Jessie move all her stuff back from town to here so that next week we can move it to North Carolina.
Ay-yi-yi! La-la-la! Fingers in ears.

I've talked to Hank and May and Jessie today. I assume Lily is at work. Hank and May want to know what we're doing for Mother's Day. I THOUGHT I TOLD THEM! NOTHING! No. This is not acceptable.
Okay, okay.
Hank said, "Can't I even come out and see you?"
Ah-lah. Of course.
I think I'll go to town and get stuff to make pizzas. Why not? We have to eat anyway. Pizzas are good. Mother's Day pizzas. Jessie will help me. Hank, too, if comes out early enough. That'll be fun.

Last night at the Opera House when one of the owners of the catering company came in she hugged me so hard and said, "I can't stand it. Colin's not here."
"I know," I said. "I've been thinking about that all day."
"He's supposed to be here," she said. "He's supposed to say, 'Hello, love. How's it going?'"
We cried a little.
One of the actors, Jon, wore as a costume the same uniform that Colin wore in Casa Blanca. Same hat. Everything.
As much as I love Jon, it was hard for me to see. Colin wouldn't mind. It's not that at all. It's just...hard.
You know what I think? I think that when people die it's so impossible for us to believe that we say things like, "He's still here."
I don't think they are. That's just my personal opinion. Maybe the energy that was released when they died is. Somewhere. But they're not here.
That's what I think. It would be comforting to think otherwise but if you can't hear their voice, their hugs, what does it mean?

If I saw Colin, I'd bitch slap him like Owen did Jessie. And then, like Owen, I'd hug him to pieces. I'd pat his nose and nuzzle him. I'd say, "Colin! Where have you been? Dammit, don't do that again! Don't die again!"

Well. That's not going to happen.

Okay. My brain is still not really functioning. I'll go to town and buy tomatoes and pineapple and spinach and more bags of Eight O'Clock coffee (dark Italian roast). Its BOGO time. Tonight I'll go back to the Opera House. I'll act like a server. I'll tote trays and pour water and collect empty plates and say, "You are SO welcome," when someone thanks me. That's what I say. You are SO welcome.
I mean it, too.

And the helicopter's gone. Peace reigns over the land again.

I just talked to Lily. She made me cry. In a good way.
Have I told you lately how much I love my kids?

All right. I'm off to town so I can get back and put on my overalls and do some weeding.

Perfect.

Where's that feral monkey child? He'd probably like to go to town too.
Oh yeah, right here on my hip.

And really? He wasn't really a monkey, although he was feral. He was really "retarded" but I don't know if you can say that word any more. If not, I apologize.
And I'm not comparing "retarded" to monkey. Monkeys are not retarded. They are monkeys. And "retarded" kids are not monkeys. They are just slower at learning some things.

Fuck it. I hate trying to be politically correct. It was just a stupid dream anyway.


Love...Ms. Moon