Sittin' On A Porch Brand Homemade Soap

On Monday I went over to Kathleen's house and we made soap.
Now I had never made soap before. I mean...why?
They sell that shit everywhere.
I have, in the last few years, learned that there is a huge difference in say, a bar of Dove soap and a bar of French milled olive-oil, lavender soap and I have spoiled myself by buying and using the good stuff and have been gifted with even better stuff. And I have used and loved Dr. Bronner's soap since the early 1970's when all he made was Peppermint because it felt so good to wash my face and body with all that lovely tingliness although really, it did not work as well for shampoo or toothpaste and believe me, I tried. But just reading the label made me feel fairly holy.

All One, indeed!
So when Kathleen brought up soap-making I was not as excited as I could have been. But she was positively about-to-burst excited by the prospect and had bought essential oils and herbs and lye and fats and was ready, ready, ready and she'd been making and selling soap for many years and since I adore Kathleen and since it would mean I'd get to spend the day with her and learn something new, I agreed to join her and help out.
Kathleen is something of a scientist as well as something of a witch and I trust her implicitly and she measured out the lye and the water and carefully combined them and she let me measure out the fats. Coconut oil, shealoe oil, shortening, olive oil, sunflower oil, palm oil, I-don't-even-remember-oils and Vitamin E which acts to help preserve the soap's freshness. And those went into a big pan on the stove and were slowly heated until everything was melted and then she put the mixer to them and added the lye-water and the process of sopanification began. Really. That's a word.
And after about forty minutes of mixing the mixture got creamy and dreamy and rich looking. I wanted to eat it. When she started adding the lemon verbena and mint and lavender and jasmine and rose, I really wanted to eat it. She ground up oatmeal to go in the lavender mixture to make a face soap and she added ground mint to the peppermint/spearmint mixture to make a wake-you-up! soap and she poured the lemon verbena with lemon peel mixture over cut pieces of loofa that she had grown and cleaned and bleached herself to make scrubbing soap.
Whoa!
And then she set the trays of various mixtures in her guest room and covered them up with her grandmother's quilt and that was that.
Until yesterday when she brought the trays over to my house to cut and that's when I learned why making soap is such a good thing.
You can't imagine how my house smells.
And you can't imagine the way this soap with all its fats and oils lathers and bubbles and is creamy and soft and sweet on the skin.
If I had to compare the experience to something, I would say it's not unlike having your first slice of homemade, just-out-of-the-oven bread after a lifetime of eating nothing but what comes in a package at the grocery store. With real butter and honey on it.
After we cut the soap and washed our hands (a lot) we had a martini and started making plans for soaps and balms for our new pregnant lady. And her baby. I got a visual image of Lily washing her newborn in the purest, uncolored, unadulterated soap with maybe just a hint of lavender in it, and how it would feel to both the baby and the mama, that creamy soap smoothing over that creamy skin in the warm water, the white against the pink, the sweet against the sweeter.
And how Lily will rinse the bubbles off her baby and wrap him or her up in a fluffy towel and kiss her (sorry, I can't help but think it's a girl and I'm usually wrong about these things) belly and dress her and then nurse her, wondering and marveling at the tender, sweet-smelling skin of her fresh-washed baby.
Oh. Soap. Homemade soap.
Thank-you, Kathleen, for teaching me this new thing. For opening my eyes to this beautiful art.
I think my life is changed forever and I will be a better and cleaner person for it.
I said it before, I'll say it again- taking orders here for pure and perfect Sittin' On A Porch Brand Homemade Soap.

Here.

There we were, all my kids and a few dear extras, sitting in Lily's living room. I'd had to make myself come into town- the anxiety has been knocking my knees, pulling me down to the floor with the weight of its damn return and I had at first plead too much to do to come into town to watch the inauguration. But then I talked to a friend and she said, "Go. All that other stuff can wait. This is important."
So I went and there we were, in the funky old apartment almost across the street from where I'd lived when I got pregnant with my first child and I told the kids, and I was already crying, how although I knew this was a huge event to them, that I could remember, in my lifetime, when I could not have sat next to this man about to be our president at the movie theater. And then we watched that man walk down that hallway and then stand up in front of everyone in the entire world and accept the responsibilities that made his shoulders bow, the second his hand was off the Bible. We stood up for it and the cats looked at us like we were crazy. We sang the National Anthem with silly passion, still standing, and we whooped and cheered and made crazy sounds and then Lily had something to tell me and I shot up into another planetary system entirely and I cried on her bosom because she's eight inches taller than I am, this child that I gave birth to yesterday in my bedroom on a September afternoon, all ten pounds, two ounces of her, the midwife working miracles to get her shoulders out, to get her breathing and alive, her daddy and I calling out to her and touching her and telling her we loved her.
This child, grown up and married now, is going to have a baby of her own and all I can think of is the day she was born, her daddy and I so happy, amazed at this babychild we'd created with our love, the very blessed miracle of her life and now, now, she and Jason are creating another life and here we all are, sisters, brother, her father and I and mostly she and her husband, hurtling off into a new part of the journey, the whirlwind overtaking us and pulling us forward, the genes that stretch back to all the foremothers and forefathers continued.
And I think about this baby and how much he or she is already loved and welcomed and speculated over and talked about and wished for and how next Thanksgiving there will be a baby.
A baby.
Our baby having a baby.
Luckiest baby ever. Lily will be his or her mother. Jason will be his or her father. Hank will be his or her uncle. May and Jessie will be his or her aunts.
And Mr. Moon and I will be...whatever the baby names us because the first grandchild names the grandparents and it's fitting that this next step in life is so big that you get to have new names.
Mother. Father. Uncle. Aunt. Grandmama. Grandpapa.
I feel so sobered.
I do not have the weight of the world on my shoulders like Obama but I have the weight of the family, or at least that's what it seems like. But it's a shared weight. There's not only family but there are friends that are as happy for them and who want to be a part of this baby's life as much as family.
Oh Lily.
I love you.
I will be the mother of a mother. The best mother in the world, because Lily is the fiercest woman I know and motherhood is all about being fierce with love and with passion and with joy.
And this child, this baby of my baby will never know a time when a black man couldn't be president, when all things were possible, and he or she will be born into love.
Bless that baby. Bless our president. Bless us all, and let's pray for hope and for safe passages and for light instead of darkness and for the infinite promise of life.

Not Yet

Yesterday.
I have words but I can't put them out here yet. About President Obama (President Obama) and about something else.
Joyful.
Later today.
I'll talk about it later today.
My heart is bursting, my head is whirling.
Later.

Believe It

CAN YOU FREAKING BELIEVE IT?
Did you see Pete Seegar about to take off straight to heaven, his banjo in his hand, singing This Land Is Your Land?
Did you see that?
Do you see that beautiful couple? Do you see that intelligent man?
HE'S ABOUT TO BE OUR PRESIDENT!
Do you see that smart, gorgeous woman?
SHE'S ABOUT TO BE OUR FIRST LADY!
Within hours. Hours.
George W. Bush and his reign of terror will be ended. We can all show our faces in the world again. We can all feel pride in our country from the redwood forests to the gulf stream waters.
Purple mountains majesty above our fruited plain.

Yeah, yeah, I'm going overboard here.
I can't help it.
I can't freaking believe it.
Fourteen hours.
Let's all have sweet dreams tonight. Every one of us. From California to the New York Island.
Let's all wake up with a smile on our faces and watch history being made and then let's roll up our sleeves.
There's work to do and finally, a leader who will inspire us to do it.

I can't believe it.

This Too Is Love

That is what I look like after crawling around under my house and tacking up electrical wire to one hundred and fifty-year old beams.
I must be the craziest crazy person in the world because really? Crawling under the house and tacking up electrical wire doesn't frighten me as much as, oh say, going to Walmart would.
Or driving to Jacksonville.
Those things give me the heebee-jeebies just to think about but somehow I can slither on my belly like a reptile wearing an industrial-strength face mask over centuries old dust-fine dirt with shards of glass and metal in it underneath spiders and who-knows-what-all without worrying too much.

I'm not saying it's pleasant, but there are plenty of things I'd rather NOT do.

Like driving to Jacksonville. Or decorating for Christmas.

And I felt like I had to. Mr. Moon's been doing it for the past few days, trying to figure out and fix an electrical problem and since he's twice as big as I am, the space is half as large for him under there. And he really has a problem with small spaces so it's been one big getting-past-fear-fest for him. I didn't get too freaked out until I crawled into a space where only my head would fit in order to try and get a visual on a line. I was wedged between an old brick pillar and some ductwork and oh yes, there was some sort of animal burrow in there too.



But it was okay, although I couldn't see what I needed to. It's dark down there. And the dusty dirt rises up and gets in your nostrils and mouth, even with a mask on. When Mr. Moon blows his nose it's not pretty and there's blood involved.

It was almost exactly five years ago that I crawled under this house for the first time. Mr. Moon insisted I go under there with him to see all the old termite damage, the rot, the...oh, I don't know, proof that we shouldn't buy the house.
We slipped under the floor and into the dank darkness and he shown a light on all the beams we could get to and poked them with his knife to show me what was there. We slithered and we crawled on our bellies and we were under there for quite a while, poking wood and taking note of all the ductwork that had been destroyed by some critter.

When we got out and dusted ourselves off in the drizzly January weather he said, "What did you see under there?"

And I, being the optimist in the family for the very first time said, "I saw an awful lot of really good wood."

And I had. Acres of it. Beams of the size that they don't make anymore made from hunks of pine trees with the original axe markings still on it because they were hewn by hand. There was no sawmill in Lloyd when they built this house and there was no Lowe's in Tallahassee.

And that was when he gave in. He let out a big sigh and said, "Okay."

And he bought the house. And today I crawled back under there again today, five years later, as a sign of solidarity and to help him.

Because that's love, baby.

He loved me enough to buy this house and I love him enough to crawl under it with him.
After twenty-five years of being together and raising a family and having good times and bad times and wonderful, glorious, amazing times and crying together for joy and for sorrow, I find that just looking at him, covered in dirt and snotting out dust and blood, I love him more than ever.

Oh honey. If you had to promise to all the things you'd end up doing for love, standing up there in front of the person marrying you, you'd never get through it all. "In sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer...."

Those words don't even begin to scratch the surface of what all love will take you though together. You'll go into some deep places together, places you'd never expect to find yourself, both physically and emotionally. It's like becoming a parent- no one can tell you, no one can prepare you. Which is probably a good thing.



Do you, Ms. Moon, promise to love and honor and cherish and accompany your husband under your dream house and hammer tacks into beams to hold electrical wire?"

"Uh. Hmmm. Let me think about that."

And do you, Mr. Moon, promise to love your wife so much that you'll buy her a house that you'll have to crawl under despite panic attacks and a bloody nose to keep the electricity on?"

"Not sure about that. I'll get back with you."

Yeah. That's how it would go.

But you do it. You do things you'd never imagine doing because you love that person so much that you can't let them go into dark places alone. You love that person so much that you'll buy her a house that you know is going to take more work than you want to put into it because it'll make her feel cherished and loved.

And you feel lucky to be able to do those things. Because you're doing them with the person you love.

Hell. Anyone can sit on a beach in Mexico and drink rum and be grateful and in love.
It takes a couple well-seasoned and aged to crawl under a house together and be grateful. And more in love than ever.

It's a crazy path, this love thing, this marriage thing.
And I may be the craziest crazy person on earth, but I know what I have and I have the awareness to appreciate it and the sanity to celebrate it.

And that's what I'm thinking about on this Sunday evening as the rain drizzles down outside and the electricity is working in the house where I live with my love.

Why I Have Four Dogs

I often mention my dogs in passing and when I do, it's to vent my frustration about something they do or will do or have done or are doing.
To hear me talk about them, you'd think they were the banes of my life.
Well. They are.
I used to be a cat person. I had cats as a single woman and then as a young mother-person and I suppose I've had dogs for almost that long too but still, I don't really think of myself as a dog person. Dogs are too much trouble. They require constant supervision and they have needs that are expensive. They constantly want to be let in and let out. I seem to spend at least a quarter of my day responding to my dogs' demands. They have trained me well.
I am a dogwife as much as I am a housewife or a wife-wife.
So why do I have four dogs? How did this happen and why do I allow it to continue?
There are four dogs in this house and there are four stories associated with how we got those dogs and why we can never get rid of them.


I'll start with Pearl. She's what I call my "real" dog in that she's bigger than a breadbox and she looks fierce and she has a short, lovely brindle coat. She's a boxer and we actually went out and bought that dog as a present for the family one Christmas. She was a cute, tiny little bundle of joyful licks and kisses when we got her and we've had her for thirteen years now. Which means she's getting old. And I do love Pearl. She grew up with my children. Lily was ten when we got her, Jessie was only seven.
But from the get-go that dog was a mess. It took about six years to housebreak her. I was broken long before she was. And when she got the chance to run, she ran like the wind. Once she ran down to the local little league field and joined in a game, running the bases joyfully until someone managed to get hold of her and we could retrieve her. She was the bad dog of puppy class; the dog all the other dogs were afraid of. She was big and dumb and sweet and she finally turned into a fine animal and we do love her but she's getting so old. No matter how full her food bowl is, she kicks it until I put a few more kibbles in it. And if I just get tired of the whole routine and put all the food up, she looks at me with a face of such sorrow at the ignorance I have displayed by misinterpreting her signals that I have to harden my heart against her. She's deaf now, and I don't think she can see very well and she spends half her day wanting in and out of the house and a quarter of her day pawing her food bowl and a quarter of her day standing under some philodendron leaves so that they just barely touch her back.
She's old, she's odd, and she drives me insane and I really don't know what I'll do when she dies.



Now this is Buster. Buster was in a litter of pups that was born from Queenie, Best Dog Who Ever Lived. Queenie was a yorkie-poo and came to live with us sort of by accident but we soon realized that having her in our home was one of the biggest blessings we'd ever received. Hoping to further the genes of such an animal, we mated her with a toy poodle man-stud and she had four babies. Buster was the third pup born and he was HUGE. We actually sold Buster off into slavery when he was about six weeks old but soon after we let him go, Queenie got murdered by a car and we were so emotionally wrecked that we decided to see if we could get her son back. The people who had bought him were not loath to let him go (we should have suspected something then) but did demand the full price back for him as well as all the money they'd spent on food, toys, a crate and whatever else they could think of to charge us. We cowboyed up and paid their ridiculous asking price and got the boy back.
To this day I do not know why. He barks all the time, he, too, demands to be let in and out fifteen times an hour and he serves no purpose in life except for that one time when he killed a nest of baby mice.
And he's a real good snuggler.
He's grown to be twice as big as both of his parents put together and I still don't understand that. Some sort of genetic quirk, I suppose.



This is Dolly, Buster's sibling. She was the runt of the litter and the one we originally kept. Dolly is the least trouble of all the dogs. She lives mostly to have her belly scratched. Of course she wants to be let in and out all the time too but she doesn't make me crazy about it. She's more polite than persistent. And she's our singing dog, possessing as she does, a fine soprano voice that she raises in song whenever someone she loves comes home.
I'm not sure how smart she is, which is saying something when compared to the rest of our dumb beasts. Let me just say this: My friend Lis told me this morning that when it was time, in her black lab's opinion, for her to get up, the dog brought her her slippers. Now my dogs? If they brought me my slippers because they wanted me to get up, I would call the Vatican because it would be an unprecedented miracle. Oh, my dogs think. It's just that they think things like, "I believe I'll shit in front of the fireplace now." Or, "I don't think I'll poop outside because I might get my tushy wet." Or "I think I'll try and kill Zeke because suddenly, I hate him."




And this is Zeke. We got Zeke from Mr. Moon's sister. She had paid the big bucks for him because he's a real-true Yorkie. Soon after buying him, though, she discovered that she was deathly allergic to him. She was the recipient of a kidney transplant and her health, always tenuous, had to be protected and so she tearfully had to get rid of him.
Which is where we came in.
We took the dog and now we'll have him forever because Dee Ann died a few years ago and Zeke is a living, breathing reminder of her and the love she had for all creatures.
Zeke is a fine animal. I can barely call him a dog. In fact, sometimes I look at him and think, "This is descended from the wolf?" and no, I can't wrap my head around that one. He's small and he thinks he's bad and he's a mess. His one, real, true goal in life is to get his entire head and body into a human's mouth. He tries to hump Dolly and she, being about six times bigger than he is, completely ignores him. He constantly tries to get the other dogs to play with him and sometimes they do and then sometimes, as I said, they spontaneously decide to kill him instead and someday, if we're not around to reach into the middle of the gnashing teeth and raking claws, they will.
I'm sure this is some sort of pack behavior- trying to rid the pack of the weak and unfit or something- but it's scary when it happens and he spends a few hours under the kitchen island until everyone has calmed down and then he comes out and starts biting at their ears again, hoping for some more play time.
I'm telling you, these dogs are NOT smart.
In fact, since I started writing this, I have gotten up at least seven or eight times to open the back door for them to let them in or let them out. And right now, excuse me, it's time to do that again. Buster is barking that bark which means, "Let me out because there is a monster outside and I must attend to his demise."
Mr. Moon and I frequently look at each other and say, "WHY do we have all these dogs?"
And we know why we have them so the more accurate question would be WHY do we KEEP all these dogs? and for that, we have no reason.
I personally enjoy having Zeke sleep at my feet. And if he were my only dog, I would probably groom him daily, dress him in tiny outfits and carry him around in my purse. Luckily for him, that's not the case. Luckily for me, too.
I feel certain that all the small dogs are going to be with us for at least another ten years. Pearl, who is getting quite old for a big dog, is not yet at the stage where we need to start asking the hard questions but will be soon. I can tell. Besides being deaf and half blind, she is starting to stumble. But she still gets frisky with the other dogs, she still runs and plays. She is in no pain that we can tell, and she eats like a horse. So for now, she's fine.
And I know that when these damned animals die, it's going to knock me for a loop, even the ones who are not Pearl. Because as much as they torment me and create chaos, poop, pee and utter frustration in my life, they are a part of my life.
And when I need them, when I really need them to snuggle with because whatever is going on in my life requires the warmth and comfort that only another living being can offer, they are here for me.
I am not fooling myself in believing that they love me. I have often thought that if Mr. Moon and I disappeared and another family took our place, they might be confused for about fifteen minutes but as soon as that food bowl got filled up, they'd be perfectly content with the new laps to sit on, the new humans to torture.
And really, they all love HoneyLuna best. Well, except for Zeke who has a complete and utter passion for Miss Maybelle.
And the appear to adore Mr. Moon.
Now me? Sometimes they can barely bring themselves to get up and bark when I get home.
They may not be smart but they know I feel a bit ambivalent about them.
To say the least.
But those are my dogs. The weird-ass creatures who share my life here in Lloyd.
Pearl, Buster, Dolly and Zeke.
Descendants of wolves, cousins of coyotes, replicas of stuffed animals.
My furry children.
The ones who will never fucking leave.

And I Didn't (Addendum)

I cried all through yoga. My teacher kept giving me kleenex and telling me it was okay. I knew it was but I knew I couldn't go to town.
I called Lynn's mother, the one person I really wanted to be there for and told her I was too sad to celebrate Lynn's life because all I can think about is her death. Well, I didn't say exactly that to her, but I told her I was too sad.
And I'm not going to do a damn thing today. I'm going to do something I never do. Lie on the couch and watch TV. Maybe embroider. Let the dogs pile all over me and keep me warm on this cold day. I'm going to light Lynn a candle and then I'm going to let it all fall where it may.
I have a husband, a son and a neighbor who have offered to come be with me. But I'm fine here, with just the dogs and the sun coming in the windows, even through the cold.
I'm tired and I need to rest.
And the rest of the world will roll on just fine without me as I think about how it's rolling along without Lynn.
As it will. As it always will.

I Don't Want To

Sometimes you can see the deer in the road ahead and you can swerve and miss it.
Sometimes you have no room to swerve or sometimes the deer takes that unlucky hop and crashes into you anyway.
I thought, I thought, I thought that I would be able to miss this particular deer in the misty road up ahead. I thought I'd missed the one that represented Christmas, the white-tailed deer disguised as one of Santa's reindeer, the antlers on its head, the big red nose stuck on, flashing red-red-red.
Ha.
Seems to me I must have hit that faux Rudolph, didn't even see it, came home with a bloody carcass on my car hood, didn't see it for weeks. Meanwhile, something about all those deer fluids have screwed around with my engine, making me totally unfit to miss the second deer, the one I was sure I could avoid.
Christmas wacked me out. And I knew the anniversary of Lynn's death was coming up. I knew it. I had my brights on, I had both hands on the steering wheel.
But here I am with not one but two major hits to my name, wandering down the road, unable to see out the windshield, unable to get out of second gear.
Or maybe first.
Or maybe the driveway.
We're supposed to meet for lunch today, Lynn's family and me and a few of mine. At a restaurant that I took her to back when it first became apparent that whatever she had, it was a hell of a bad thing to have. I was already having to cut up her food, serve her plate from the buffett. She didn't care a thing about the food, was trying to communicate how she was feeling but the words weren't there. The brain was already smoking from the tangled, broken wires.
I do not want to go. I don't want to go to lunch. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to go and remember that day. I didn't even want to be there that day when she was still alive. I didn't want to cut up my friend's food. I didn't want to watch her face twisted with fear. I didn't want to hear her scrambled words.
Listen- life is so far from fair that I can't even begin to tell you.
I can't even try.
I know I'm supposed to be thinking of her life and how joyful she was but instead, all I'm thinking of is that day and how scared she was.
Don't even bother to tell me she wouldn't want me feeling this way. She would want me to remember her dancing, not dying.
Because she's not hear to tell me and all I know is that she'll never dance again. Not on this planet, Bubba. Not under this sky. Not with me.
Goddam. I hit that deer square on under a bright orange moon on a country road. And there's no one around and I can't find a phone and the moon doesn't care. She just shines on, spreading her light on the bloody scene below.
Now I see. And I don't want to.

Another Winter's Day

Name the ten American presidents who were elected despite losing the popular vote.

And that was just the first question. You'd think that a trivia competition being held in a bar would not be so damn...demanding. As to actual real knowledge.

Anyway, it was fun, although I hardly think we kicked ass and took names. It may have been a little premature on my part to make THAT proclamation.

And we didn't lose. We did not come in last. The Drinkin' 'Bout It team did not come in last.
Phew!

Lily and Jason spent the night with us last night so that Jason and Mr. Moon could get up in the cold, cold darkness of pre-dawn to go hunt deer. Jason is getting into this hunting thing. I asked Mr. Moon the other day if he wasn't worried that he was turning Jason into a cold-blooded killer but Mr. Moon assured me that no, he wasn't worried about that.

So when they got in this morning (without a deer, sorry to say), Mr. Moon hemmed and hawed around, talking about such things as smoked sausage and grits until I sighed and said, "Okay, honey, go get some sausage out of the freezer," and he did and I made up some biscuits and cheese grits and cooked the sausage and fried some eggs and he and Jason were happy boys. Now they're going to go cut up and package the last two deer they brought in.

It's winter here in North Florida. Deer season is almost over but we'll have some meat in the freezer. We're talking about starting the tomato seedlings and I sure do hope we have a decent garden this spring. Meanwhile, the camellias, as you can see, are blooming everywhere although this arctic cold we're about to experience may turn them all into brown mush. I'm enjoying them while they're here.

And that's what I'm trying to do. Enjoy what we have in the season in which we have it. Be content with what we have. Realize it's all a miracle. The warm house, the garden plot, the animals who give up their lives to feed us, the giant camellia blossoms whose faces are things of beauty and glory, the friends and family we can play games with, the tiny birds that come to the feeder, the satisfaction of making the men a big breakfast. Loving arms, sweet words, hot food, cold mornings, soft sweaters, smiling faces.

Tomorrow is the first anniversary of Lynn's death. I can't believe it's been a year since she took off. It seems like I've barely drawn two breaths since she died.

But it's true.

A whole year she hasn't been here to share in the glory of the world she loved.

But I'm here. I'm trying to love it for her. I can't really do that, but in her honor, I can honor what she loved.
Which is all of it.

We may struggle with the answers to the hard questions, y'all; the ones about presidents and generals and rock bands whose names start with the letter B, but we can submit to the sweetness of trying. We can submit to the joy of the game.

Which makes us all winners. Every damn one of us.

Housekeeping (Bloggity, Blog, Blog)

Like a silver shimmering fish, I can feel myself rising out of the deep dark river, breaking the surface of the water which is shot with moonlight. It's so weird. How do these things happen? What makes me dive back into the darkness, what causes me to rise again?

Hell if I know. And I think I'm a fairly well self-examined person. Probably WAY too over self-examined, if the truth be known.

But whatever, I'll take it and since I've done nothing but whine and moan here for weeks, I've decided to talk a little about the positive things going on so bear with me or just skip it. There's nothing earth-shaking here today.

The Play: I find myself going through the lines for the play at the weirdest times and get frustrated when I get stuck. During yoga this morning, I tried desperately while in Savasana to concentrate on the breath and nothing else, but damn, those lines kept inserting themselves into my consciousness. I can't wait until I can say them quite literally in my sleep, freeing me onstage to slip into my characters the way I want to. I am already finding myself creating little bits of business onstage which come from somewhere else. Not from me, consciously. And this feels good. I don't know how I'll be in the performances, but I do love cracking the directors up during rehearsal. The weirdest thing about this play for me is my interaction with the guy who plays opposite me. In one of our character scenes, we do a bit of cuddling and handholding and it's odd enough that he's younger than two of my children but add that in to the fact that this is the most physical contact I've had with another man besides Mr. Moon in twenty-five years and well, it's just strange. It's also scary how well we play an old Jewish couple. I mean, we must have been an old Jewish couple in another lifetime.

Doing New Things: Tonight Mr. Moon and I are going to completely break out of our rut and go to Tallahassee to play trivia with Downtown Guy and his merry band of misfits. Read about that here. I'm so excited! Mr. Moon actually knows sports and I know...well, I certainly know Jack Shit. It'll be great just to hang with DTG and Billy and whoever else shows up.
And my friend Kathleen is coming over this afternoon and we're going to discuss soap-making. She's been making soap for twenty years and she's going to teach me how this weekend. SOAP! I'm going to make soap! Could there be a more godly endeavor? She's ordered all sorts of essential oils and healing oils and age-preventative oils and we're also going to make lip balms and I don't know what all.

Place your orders here.

The New Stove: I LOVE my new stove. My bread is better baked in an oven that works, my soup is better, simmered on a burner that simmers. Last night I went crazy and made a butternut squash soup and chickpea-and-sweet-potato samosas. My house smelled of curry and garlic and ginger and Mr. Moon said of the samosas (which of course were baked, not fried), "I like those biscuits!"

The only real cloud on my personal horizon right now is that it's going to get cold, cold, cold here. And, yes, I say that as a person to whom anything below forty degrees is frigid. But seriously, it's supposed to get down into the teens which calls for some major plant protection. And which also means I have to keep the back door shut so the heat will stay in which means I have to go let a dog in or out about every fifteen seconds. Bah!

And one more thing- my free hit counter is NOT working. Dammit. Instead of numbers it just says Hit Counter, Hit Counter, Hit Counter. Any suggestions there?

So that's that. I'm going to go take a walk on this brisk, blue day and then get back to work on my memoir/cookbook which I have not felt like doing in over a week. I have black beans simmering on the back of the stove and I'm feeling fine.

Not manic-fine, like I want to go out and buy thirteen pairs of shoes.
Just fine-fine, like I've been given the gift of a beautiful, calm day and I can appreciate it with an open heart.

And so I am.

I hope you are, too. Because feeling fine is a glorious thing, especially when it's been awhile and it would feel mighty good to know that others are feeling the moonlight shimmer on their backs, too.

Give It A Rest

So my daughter Lily was over the other night and we had dinner ready and were waiting on the men to come in from hunting to eat and I settled on the couch with some embroidery and was flipping through the forty thousand channels to see if there was anything on and yep, there was Larry King (how old IS that man?) with a hot show.

He had Oprah's personal trainer, personal doctor and personal spiritual expert in the house.
Yes. That's what it said. Her spiritual expert.

That's a picture of the guy, whose name is Michael Beckwith although he looked even creepier on Larry King. In fact, Lily kept saying, "He looks like someone on Star Trek. He's scaring me, Mommy."

But the point is, these three men, led by Larry, were discussing the world-shaking news that Oprah has gained weight again!

No. Tell us it isn't so.

But yes, yes she has. She's ballooned up to 200 pounds again and she's ashamed and her entire life has no meaning because she's fat!

Look. I'm not making this up. Although Oprah herself was not there on the show, there were many interviews with her and magazine covers and so on and so forth where she discussed, once again, her struggles with weight.

Now listen- I am not making fun of Oprah's or anyone else's struggles with weight. Been there, done that, worked with hundreds of others struggling with their weight. I have compassion.

And I understand that Oprah's weight is a topic which fascinates and captivates the entire world. And I understand that it sells advertising time on television and magazines and is probably responsible for about one-quarter of the total income of the vast Oprah Empire and has made more than a few chefs, personal trainers and Spiritual Experts rich and famous but this is getting out of hand.

What tore it for me was when these four men were discussing Oprah's appearance with Tina Turner and Cher in Las Vegas and how completely humiliated and embarrassed and ashamed she was because she was FAT and they were not.

In fact, one of the men, okay, Beckwith, had this to say about how humiliated she was: "She was twice the size of the other individuals."

WHOA.

If my Spiritual Expert said THAT about me on Larry King Live and I was Oprah, he would be one kicked-to-the-curb spiritual expert motherfucker.

Because here's the deal: Oprah may weigh two-hundred pounds but I guarantee you that neither Cher nor Tina weighs one hundred pounds. Tina Turner has always been a full-bodied, strong woman and the perennially anorexic Cher has recently done some ballooning herself.

So what's my point here?

My point is that this is insane.

Yes, it makes us all feel better to know that even Oprah, with the vast resources she has, seems to be as incapable as the rest of us when it comes to controlling her weight.

And yes, it's so much easier to wrap our heads around issues like this than it is to understand oh, the Gaza Strip and the crashing economy.

But to have an entire hour's show with four grown men discussing the issue and to have one of them say that Oprah was twice the size of Cher or Tina makes me want to hurl.
I am certain Oprah had given this panel her blessing to discuss her like a piece of meat on Larry King, but that makes me sad because it says so much about how she feels about herself which is uncomfortably close to how so many women feel about themselves, which is rather unbelievable here in 2009.

I'm sure that in about four months Oprah will be back to her fighting weight and then Greene, Oz, and Beckwith can come back on and discuss how she did it and how once again she has conquered her demons with the proper diet, exercise, stress control and spiritual growth.
And Larry can lead the discussion with all the gravitas he would offer the president or the secretary of state and we call all feel good, knowing that Oprah is thin again, happy, and ready to lead us all into a state of spiritual and physical wellness.

After that, maybe they can deal with Cher.

Which would help them sell even more books. And she can go on Oprah and discuss her thyroid, aging, weight gain and sense of worthlessness due to being fat.

Perhaps Beckwith will point out that her ass looks huge when she wears red-sequined dresses. And she will cry and say, "I know, I know! Forgive me for having a fat red-sequined ass!"

But what I'd really like to see is a show where this powerful trifecta of women would line these men up in a row and kick them in the crotch with all the strength in their powerful and stout legs and then stride off into the sunset together, wearing whatever they felt strong and beautiful in, shouting over their shoulders, "Fuck you!"

And then they'd all go get Mexican food and margaritas and then take over some dance floor, showing all the skinny gals how real women dance.

That's a show I'd feel good about watching.

How about you?

I'm A Loser, Baby

I don't know. I just don't know.
I'm having a hard time of it recently. Just...nothing new, nothing big, just a hard time.
Nothing's lighting my fire and even at play practice I'm feeling low. My jokes come out lame, my inexperience shows when I say a line and then ask the directors, "Was that right?"
Mr. Moon's depressed too. The car biz, real estate, the mysterious electrical problems in the house.

Having a loser wife.

And I should be the good partner I want to be and go find a job which seems to me to be more than impossible. Just having to make a phone call for a reservation or an appointment is enough to freak me out for an entire day. Even going to Publix, my safe, safe place is stressful. I have to force myself to go walk, which I do, but it's hard.

In short, I'm heavily invested in feeling like the world's biggest loser.

Loser, loser, loser.

What am I good for? What is my purpose on this planet? Why can't I pull up my petticoats and be a normal human being who functions?

I joke about how Caroline Kennedy is being called a role model for returning-to-work mothers but I'm just as in awe, or perhaps more so, of women who go out and get a job at a library or a school or a Circle K convenience store when the situation calls for it and I feel just as inadequate and unfit to do something like that as I would to be a United States senator.

It's no joke, feeling like this.
It tugs at my heart to feel like I'm not being there for my man when he has always been so solidly there for me.
Everything just seem so overwhelming from trying to figure out the rest of my life to filing my fingernails. I remember once a friend of mine said it was a major life crisis for him when he ran out of toothpaste.

I laughed then.
I ain't laughing now.
Because it's not funny when it's happening to you.

And the worst part, the very worst part, is the guilt that accompanies all of this. The little guilt-worm lodged in the ear which continuously shouts, "What RIGHT do you have to be depressed? You're faking this bullshit so you don't have to be a contributing member of society."

And you know what? Part of me is completely convinced this is true.

And the other part of me feels like every day I've been set to plowing forty rocky acres with a dull plow and no mule and so what's the point of even getting up?

But I know that depression has its cycle and even with meds and even with doing all the other things that can alleviate it and make it not so miserable, it has to run its cycle.
Which it will do. Eventually.
I don't actually believe this but I know it to be true. There's a difference.

So. Until things lighten up a little I'm afraid I'm going to be the worst sort of self-involved blogger who offers only the most self-involved and ridiculous blogging. I honestly am not writing all this to get nice comments from the beautiful people who visit here. I'm writing it because it's what's going through my mind, day and night and night and day and it's honestly all I have to offer at the moment.

I SHOULD just shut-up but let's face it- I'm not that ready to give up.

And who knows? The way these things work, I could be filled with the joy and spirit of life by tomorrow and have something pithy and poetic to say about, oh, I don't know. Anything. Anything at all. Besides my own pitiful, non-poetic self.

I'll work on it.

I promise.

The Land Of The Mind, Unchained By Sleep

I did not get up until almost ten this morning which means that my maternal grandfather is in heaven, weeping over my sloth and probably Jesus, too.

But enough about reality.

I want to talk about my dream which I'm sure was punishment for sleeping too late because it was one of those dreams where you wake up with wet eyelashes and realize you've been crying for hours and this is not what they refer to when they refer to a wet dream but some of us, that's what we get. Tears not passion.

Oh well. There was plenty of passion. Just not the sexy type although in this dream, everyone was pregnant. I was pregnant, a woman I've known forever was pregnant. My mother was pregnant. And a huge flood came and we had to flee (to the island, of course, where all would be safe in a flood, right?) and I was living there with many family members and I became a bitch and told the woman I've known forever something that I don't remember but it contained curse words and she was hurt.

And we were all traveling in Mexico for awhile and that was horrible because my beautiful Cozumel had changed and was no longer beautiful but filled with ugly things and then I was back in the tiny trailer I was living in with all the family members and suddenly, I found out that my house, my house that I love and which I had believed to be swept away, was fine.

Fine.

I came back and yes, it was whole and sturdy. I laid on the wooden floor and wept with the betrayal of all those who had lied to me and then Mr. Moon's parents showed up and I was so glad to see them but then I knew they were going to have to die again and I wept some more over that knowledge.

And Lynn was there and she was wearing purple.
Or possibly blue.

What IS it with these dreams lately? Too many mother images and too much traveling and too much weeping and now floods, too?
And lying and betrayal and sorrow and more weeping. And people whom I love but who are dead?

Last night we went to Havana to hear Lon and Lis play and they did almost an entire set of Lis's songs and perhaps they were the key to the land of this dream. Not that her songs are nightmarish in any way, but they are dreamlike and they float through my ears and into my heart, her voice rising like an angel's and now that I think about it, when I went to sleep last night, I had the image of an angel at my breast, and I could feel the soft strength of its wings, folded as the angel rested there in my embrace.

And now it is daytime, really and truly, and Mr. Moon is shoveling dirt out of the back of his truck and I should get out and pick up branches and sticks which a real wind blew down and get my feet into the dirt of this place and ground myself, literally.
Because the dream is still here and I am not quite sure if I am there, in that land where all the mothers were full of babies or here, where the babies are raised and my house, my beautiful house, needs my attention and really, there is no reason to weep.

Not for me, anyway.

None at all.

If We Couldn't Laugh, We'd Have To Kill. And That Would Be Wrong.

Because I'm feeling a bit low today and because if I really started talking about how Florida is no doubt going to not pass the bills allowing "the gays" to adopt in Florida that have been introduced because we are a sick, sick society who can't get our heads out of our clean Christian asses, I would start weeping and screaming and perhaps end up rending my clothing and feather pillows, I am going to totally rip off a vid from Sara at Suburban Lesbian Housewife.

Enjoy.

Get the latest news satire and funny videos at 236.com.

Dang. Why Didn't I Think Of That?

Caroline Kennedy Seen As Role Model For Return-To-Work Mothers

Wow. Because being a United States Senator has got to beat the career I was thinking of getting down at the truck stop.
Where do you apply? Is there an online site, because I really think I could rock a power suit.

And Then... Getting Back Into The Bitch's Britches

So where were we? Coming to the end of my days at Weight Watchers. Besides being burnt out and having to deal with the corporation, my agent was telling me she could sell my book. WOULD sell my book. We had just moved to Lloyd. I was barreling down the highway towards menopause. Time for change, right?

It was surprisingly easy to quit except for that Thomasville meeting. I had women who had been coming to my meeting for five years. They never really lost weight- it was just a place to come and be social for a couple of hours every Thursday. But they weren't gaining weight either and they were learning how to eat well and get some exercise and so I never felt like I was failing them. And I loved the little old ladies I worked with although that was getting frustrating too. I couldn't leave the meeting until all the tallies were totaled and resolved and the money counted and accounted for and it was getting harder and harder and harder for them to do that. Sometimes I just did it myself after everyone else had gone because there was grumbling from the head office that these ladies had perhaps already given their best years to Weight Watchers and needed to move on and I was determined that would NOT happen under my watch.
But finally, I did announce I was leaving and I left. To live in my dream house in Lloyd and write and get published and garden and finish up my years of having children at home and gently settle into the next phase of my life.

The money certainly hadn't been a big consideration. I doubt I paid two weeks' worth of groceries on what I made a month at Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers knows it has its employees in its grip because here's the secret of why most people work at Weight Watchers:
To keep their own weight off.
To be employed by the company you have to have gotten to your goal weight on the program and remained there for a certain amount of time. And you have to stay there in order to be employed. In their defense, as I said, their ranges for goal weight are not unreasonable at all. You can be at the top of your goal weight and certainly not be skinny. But I had a problem with some of the regional managers who in my (now professional) opinion were way off the charts on the heavy side. I didn't understand how they managed to stay employed.
But that is neither here nor there. The point is, Weight Watcher employees are incredibly loyal because they know that if you work the program it works. And they're afraid if they quit, they'll gain weight. It's sort of like semi-paid volunteer work. Oh, it's all legal and you make minimum wage and if you have huge meetings and if you work a lot, you can make good money. I just wasn't dedicated enough to go those extra miles. I liked what I did- a few meetings a week- and that was enough for me. But the bucks weren't there by any means.

However, I, too, was pretty concerned that I would lose my own motivation and gain weight. I thought I could do it myself and perhaps if I hadn't injured my knee and was thus unable to walk for several months, I wouldn't have. But the fact of the matter is, that I did start to gain again. Slowly, but surely.

Until finally I decided to "do something" and what I did was order the new Weight Watchers program online which was something called The Core Program and that was the beginning of a whole new way of eating for me. It completely eliminated weighing and measuring of food and you could eat as much as you wanted of certain foods as long as you didn't eat ANY of others and some were restricted. The foods you could eat all you wanted of- beans, whole grains, most vegetables, etc., were foods I loved. Why not?

And I lost some weight.

Not as much as I wanted but I was going through menopause and I was happy with where I was, so no problem.

And then I went and got my cholesterol checked. It was high. My mother's is high, my brother's is high. So was mine.

And me, being stubborn as a mule, decided I could deal with the cholesterol issues on my own without medication.

Which I have done.

And kept my weight mostly under control for quite a while now. Because here's something that's not a big secret- the foods that are high in cholesterol are usually high in calories. And the foods that help you fight cholesterol are the very ones the Core progam stressed- mostly high-fiber, plant-based foods. And I got serious. I practically eliminated cheese from my diet. My dairy comes from fat free yogurt or cottage cheese. I never liked milk anyway, so giving that up was no problem. I switched to soy milk on my cereal. My low-sugar, high-fiber cereal. I mostly made my own bread with lots of oat bran and flax in it. I practically eliminated white sugar and flour from my diet. Not entirely, but almost. I ate whole grains. Brown rice, quinoa, whole wheat flour, whole wheat pasta. I did not entirely cut out red meat but cut down on it tremendously. My diet became much more on the vegetarian side. I learned to become content with a small bit of very dark chocolate every day. When I was hungry, I asked myself what I needed, not what I wanted. How much protein had I had that day? How much fruit? Vegetables? Any dairy yet? I got rid of almost all the foods that I knew weren't good for me. If they're not in the house, the opportunity to eat them disappears. Especially in Lloyd where you can't even get pizza delivered.

I realized that although your body will always tell you it's hungry for Doritoes, it doesn't have the same reaction to a bowl of beans and rice. Once you're full, you're done.

I exercised even more regularly.
My weight and cholesterol came down.
And that's what I continue to do to this day.

Now let's face it- I am not perfect. Over the holidays this year I lost my mind. I ate cookies and candy. I ate stuff I never eat. And once again, my weight crept up. I don't even want to think about my cholesterol.

And so, I'm getting myself back into the swing of it all. I'm remembering why I eat the way I eat and I'm not beating myself up about it and I'm not even getting on a scale. I don't have to. I know how my britches fit.

And here's the thing- Mr. Moon has gone along for the ride and he has, for the last several years, gotten up without complaint at six a.m. to go to a gym and work out and he has seen changes resulting from the way we eat and from his work-outs that are amazing.

Plus, I'm a very creative cook. I can make simple and good-for-you foods that taste great. My meals satisfy us on a lot of different levels. I am lucky in that my husband provides us with great low-fat, healthy protein sources- venison and fish. We garden. I want to get better at that and more serious.

And I am not obsessed any more about food or what I eat or don't eat and not about what I weigh. I rarely go more than three hours without eating something. A few nuts. A few slices of tofu that I've pressed and frozen and marinated and baked and keep in the refrigerator. Some fruit. I do not go hungry. Ever.

We still eat biscuits. Very occasionally. We still eat pork chops. At least once a month. But overall, I remember what Michael Pollan says: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.
I know that a bar you get at the health food store probably isn't as good for you and has a lot more calories in it than a few prunes and some raw almonds. I know that cereal in a box isn't as good for you as whole-grain oatmeal. I know that a glass of juice has far more calories and no fiber in it while a piece of the fruit used to make the juice is more filling and has fiber. I know that the smoothies I make for Mr. Moon and myself out of fruit and low-fat yogurt and flax seed meal are better and healthier than the five dollar ones you buy at juice bars.

And I know that when I eat that way, I feel better, I am eating closer to the earth and closer to the way our bodies evolved to eat.

It's been a long path, getting to this place. Almost fifty years.
A process.

One that's worked for me but that may not work for anyone else.
We all have to find our own way.

It's funny. I find myself dreaming about Weight Watchers more than you'd think. I always find myself at a meeting and I am having to substitute for the leader and I have no idea what that week's topic is (and they were SO lame, usually) or who any of the people are, but I find I love being back in front of a group again. In a way, that was such a great job for me. I got to be a combination preacher and stand-up comedian. I had a reason to dress up a little. I was out in the world. I got to help people and I got to talk about one of my favorite subjects in the world- food- a lot.

But I believe in real life, I've said everything I ever need to say about weight loss to a meeting-room full of people.

But I am very grateful for my years associated with that program. It helped me find my own path. A path which I don't feel is an artificial one or one of denial. AT ALL. Which I love. It introduced me to the knowledge that the best way to eat is a sensible way. To eat a wide variety of foods and to enjoy them. To eat the way the rest of the world mostly eats- beans, grains, vegetables, fruits, a little meat.

And now it's time for me to go eat my lunch. The other day I picked some greens from the garden and sauteed them in a little olive oil with red pepper and tomatoes and onion and garlic and then I cooked some quinoa and edamame beans with them. I threw in a little of my tofu and some sundried tomatoes and there was plenty left over for another meal. It'll taste better today than it did then and it was mighty tasty when I made it.

And in a few weeks, my britches will be fitting just fine. I'm not anxious. But right now- I'm hungry.

Time to eat.

Hating The Scale

I used to work for Weight Watchers. What started out as a whim turned into something like five years in the biz. And I am thinking about how this time of year, everyone and their sister shows up to sign up at meetings, desperate to finally do something about their weight.

I've always battled a weight problem. Food was my childhood substitute for all the stuff that I wasn't getting that I needed and which every child needs. Not only did I love to eat but I learned to cook and bake which was (and is) a very valuable skill but it didn't help with the extra weight.

Everyone who has been a fat child knows what a special sort of hell that is. The teasing and the taunting are something that follow you around forever in your mind, at least.

When I was going into the sixth grade I got something that down south we called ground itch but I think it is really known as creeping eruption. Although medically I believe it is called Cutaneous larvae migrans which is a far step from ground itch.
What this nasty thing is (and it is nasty, no matter what you call it) is hookworm. We used to run barefoot everywhere and every kid I knew down in Roseland got the damn thing at one time or another. These larvae would make their way under your skin and burrow tunnels that showed up on the surface of your foot or wherever you'd contracted it as red streaks that itch like a son-of-a-bitch. Like you cannot believe how much they itch.

Anyway, so I got this on my foot and the doctors and my parents got my treatment screwed up (and in those days, the treatment was freezing the tunnels with freon- I am not kidding) and on top of the hookworm I got infections and my foot was basically a puss-filled, itching mass of nastiness and I was on crutches and because of all of that, I managed to lose a lot of weight.

After that, I kept my weight down by various means, none of them especially healthy, although I never did go into any long-term eating disorder. I don't have the dedication for that. But I flirted.

After my third child was born, I discovered Weight Watchers for the first time and it was a major revelation to realize I could actually EAT and lose weight and not only that, I fell in deep love with my Weight Watcher leader who was a man and who was funny and serious and compassionate and hysterical and realistic and just a joyous person.

When he decided to quit leading meetings, I decided to start. I went through the training and I became a leader and also clerked at some meetings. It was work I mostly enjoyed, although there were things about it I didn't like. It was hard, at first, to get up in front of a group of people and try to be the leader I wanted to be. Being a Weight Watcher leader is like being a cheerleader, a counselor, a priest, a friend, a health-care worker, a comedian, and always, always a good example. You have to keep your weight at a certain level (and Weight Watcher's weight charts are sensible) and you really have to believe in the program to help it work for others.

And I did.

I loved the program. It seemed to me that it would serve anyone, whether they were overweight or not, because it taught you a sensible way to eat within your own preferences. You ate real food, you learned from the very beginning how to make good choices and how to eat in restaurants and I saw the program work for people who did all their own cooking as well as people who probably didn't know how to turn on their stove.

I was fired up. I was into it.

My favorite class was one I did in Thomasville, Georgia. Those ladies (and it's almost always ladies) were sweet. I had eighty-something year-olds and I had twenty-something year-olds. I had black ladies and white ladies. I had nurses and waitresses and ladies who wore diamonds so big they took them off before they weighed in.

Really.

The women I worked with there were great, too. Somewhat older women and all good Christians and you'd have thought that I didn't have anything in common with any one of the Georgia ladies, but somehow, they took this old hippie and embraced her and I fell in love with them too. Sometimes, especially this time of year, I would have classes with over a hundred people in them.

It was great.

I cracked jokes, I was slightly profane, I was sincere, I was funny and caring and compassionate. I was never as good as my old leader had been, but I tried my best to follow the spirit of what he'd done.

And it was all fine for several years but the business end of the whole deal started wearing me down. The corporation asked more and more of its employees with no increase in compensation. And I am not good with random rules and regs. I hated the conventions. I did not love all my fellow employees. There are all sorts of Weight Watcher leaders. There are the ones who shame you, the ones who insist on perfection being the only way to success, the ones who like to spend the entire hour telling personal stories. And for every leader, there's a whole passel of members who like their particular style. But frankly, some of them drove me crazy.

One of the women I worked with had been doing meetings for at least twenty years and she especially made me want to scream. She was a like a drill sargeant and her meetings were run like boot camp. She also did things like give away products which was strictly forbidden and she insisted on everything going her way. One time I told her it must be really great to know the right way to do everything in the world.

"It is," she replied, without a trace of irony.

And eventually, I grew weary of it all.

Not my ladies, so much. I never grew tired of seeing them rise above their struggles and when someone actually changed their life with my help- well, there's nothing to compare that to.
But I got to the point where I just did not want to hear one more excuse for a weight gain instead of a loss. First of all, our bodies aren't machines and we can't lose weight every week. Just doesn't happen like that. Secondly, I do not need to know how long it's been since you had a bowel movement, okay?! Really. Don't need to know, don't want to know.

I also did not want to hear why it's impossible for you to eat breakfast. Impossible. Or why you had to go out and drink four margaritas. Or how at Christmas you HAVE to put candy out because you have this bowl you love and that's what you do every year.

But what I really got burned out on was seeing how hard it is for anyone to actually lose weight. People desperately want to lose weight. They will cry when they sign up and tell you their stories and sometimes I cried with them. And they will start out with motivation and determination and even lose massive amounts of weight and then something happens and they begin to forget all their good habits and go right on back to their old ones.

Because let's face it- if it were just a matter of following rules, we'd all be thin.

But food and eating are complex. And it's not just a matter of learning new rules and following them. It's a process of changing your entire life.

Which takes more than a meeting, more than a dietary guide. More than I could give folks, a lot of the time. Which grew depressing and which made me feel inadequate.
"If you'd just do what I say!" I'd think. "Just follow the damn program!" But although it's a simple program, it is not easy.

Losing weight is not easy.

It requires changes that are sometimes almost impossible to make.
And the thing I hated the worst was the look that would come across my member's faces when they'd step on a scale and realize they'd gained weight again and to see the agony and the defeat and the shame and the sadness on those faces. No matter how encouraging I tried to be, no matter how much I tried to tell them that this is a process, a long process, that they could do it, I knew they could, they would become discouraged.

And so did I.

And that's all I'm going to say about this for right now. I have things to do and places to be but I want to finish this up. It's long. Might as well be in two parts (or three) anyway.

After all, it's a process.

What The Hell Have I Done?

So last night Mr. Moon was out of town and for some reason, my boyfriend, Anthony Bourdain, was in some country I'd already seen him visit and so I got on the internet and started wandering down one path and another and googling random people I'd forgotten I knew. You do this too. Of course you do. So somehow, I ended up on Facebook and then somehow I was all oh hell, why not and then next thing I know, Facebook (which is like God, I guess, they know everything) started giving me all these lists of people that I could be friends with and I'm not really paying attention to the rules because I don't know the rules and now I'm friends with a whole lot of people. I mean, people I already sort of thought I was friends with but not on Facebook and now I am.

Jesus.

But the cool thing, the really cool thing, is that within seconds of all this tsunami of my ignorance and Facebook Omnipotence, an old friend whom I had lost touch with years ago wrote me or walled me or I don't know, I don't know, I don't know! and now we're in touch.

See- I thought she didn't love me anymore and now it seems like maybe she at least doesn't hate me and this is a woman who has been more like an avatar to me, a goddess, an example of what a human being CAN be.
So her absence in my life has been a sorrow and now she's going to call me and so I guess it's all worth it, this Facebook madness.

And then I went to bed and dreamed about her all night, but mostly about how inferior I am to her and in my dream I had taken children (not mine- I have no idea who these children were) to her house who suddenly appeared to have Chicken Pox so I'd exposed her child to Chicken Pox and I knew I had to get out of there with these plaguey, obviously inferior children and this took hours and hours and that's how I knew it was a dream but I still wasn't exactly sure and when I woke up, I sure was glad it had been. A dream, that is.

Although I would love to see her.

But let me say something here- if you are one of my friends on Facebook, please know I do love you but I am not going to be hanging around there. It was sort of a mistake, okay? I'm not a Facebook kind of person. I don't think. I wouldn't mind viewing your profiles but I have to fill in a lot more information to do that and I'm not at all sure I care to. Next thing I know, I might have signed up for the Army or something.

I'm too old for the Army and I'm too old (obviously) for Facebook.

I love my little blog corner of the world here and am perfectly content with it and it alone. I figure my acid trip-like encounter with the Facebook portion of the internetal universe had its intended Celestial purpose fulfilled when my old friend got in touch with me and that is that.
I'd go back and try to delete my "page" but frankly, I don't even want to get that involved with it.

Maybe tomorrow. When I'm stronger. Or have consulted one of my children. Who, please be assured, should know that I will not be perusing your profiles or lives via Facebook. Have no fear on that account.
So carry on, world, as usual.

And I shall attempt the same.

Somewhere The World Is Busy And There Is Lots Of Noise

This is what I see when I go out to get my paper in the morning. Trees like this. And today, as you can perhaps tell, it is so foggy that it's as if a warm, moist blanket of quiet were laid over everything here in Lloyd.
The trees seem to be reaching up into the blanket's source and gathering dampness on all their limbs and the resurrection fern which grows on those limbs is glowing green, even in the fog.

It's the first Monday after the holidays and I feel like maybe now life can get back to itself. We can put aside all that hysterical the-world-is-ending-so-let's-party-up-and-eat-all-the-sugar-and-store-it-all-in-fat-so-we-can-survive-the-long-hard-winter-before-us bullshit.
That sort of thinking may have served the Pagans well but as far as I know, the Publix bakery NEVER runs out of cookies.

In a way, it would be appropriate if today were one of those winter bright-blue days. A day where you feel like you can get everything on your list done, propelled by sheer force of solar energy and great sky vibes.

But it's not. So we'll all just have to make our way through the quiet velvet of air so wet that the squirrels are probably all complaining about how they just can't do a thing with their hair. Silently.
Man, it's quiet. Even the roosters next door are silent. And the donkeys, too. No doodling, no heeing and hawing, no cockling at all.
Just the almost palpable sound of trees and plants inspiring and expiring the mist.

It's been the strangest winter here. We went from summer directly to winter, with freezing temperatures before December even got started and now it's been warm so long the dogwoods are starting to bud up and the little barn swallows are doing the real estate check on the back porch to pick out their nesting sights.
WE know it'll get cold again, but the plants and birds don't and I'm afraid they may be in for a shock and things are going to get nipped in the bud, quite literally.

And Mr. Moon and I saw several redbud trees in full flame yesterday in the woods when we walked.
I think I'll put on my walking rags right now and go see what those redbuds look like in this mist.
It's Monday. The holidays are over.
But glory- it's all right here. Still here. Wrapped in a quiet, warm dampness.
A sort of holy-day, right here on the fifth day of January in the new year and damn, I'll take a holy-day over a holiday any day.
Any day at all.

Phew. Crisis Averted. Long Sentences.

I woke up today in a seriously gray funk. I have been having these dreams wherein there is a woman whom I, upon first meeting, felt incredibly drawn to. She has appeared at least three times in my dreams now and I have no idea who she is but she seems to be someone I've never met and someone who obviously fills some need within me.

A mother?

I don't know.

But last night's dream was disturbing and there were characters abounding, some of them people I do know, some of them people I do not. There was a stepfather, not the evil one I actually have, but some white-milque-toast of a guy whom I referred to in my dream as someone I would not recognize in a line-up of two.

Disturbing.

And I actually looked in the mirror when I got up, which is something I try to avoid which is easy when you're as nearsighted as I am, and I have a zit on my face the likes of which you would never think to see on a person even one week past puberty, not to mention forty years past. And one crazy eyebrow hair which stuck out and up as if it were standing on its tiptoes, screaming for attention.

So then I got this vision of a nurse in a psychiatric ward and so I started a new blog and began to write on it and I enjoyed that tremendously but then I wondered where in hell THAT would go and if anyone would read it. I sort of wanted people to read it but I sort of didn't. So I deleted the blog but I felt a bit cheered up by the writing.

And then Billy and DTG showed up with DTG's car which may need a new alternator and Billy and Mr. Moon and DTG are going to attend to that in the GARAGEMAHAL which is what I call Mr. Moon's garage. I was so glad to see Billy, whom I haven't seen in way too long that I cried when I saw him and hugged him and I feel like maybe that unleashed some of the demons and they will now pack up their pillows and move on for awhile. I hope so. I keep thinking I'm telling them they can't crash on my couch anymore but somehow, they seem to ignore that and I keep waking up with them there, like party guests you didn't really invite and certainly didn't expect to stay the night and God knows you aren't going to lend them your toothbrush.

And the sun just broke through the clouds and so maybe things will get better here and the zit will go away. I already dealt with that eyebrow hair with the tweezers. All the guys are out at the garage and it's comforting to hear their voices drift across the yard and here's one more day I'm pretty sure I'll keep breathing.

Life Is Just A Rooster Full Of Roses

So how many New Year's resolutions have you already broken?
Really?
See. This is why I do not make any.
Hell no. I never was any good at long-term goals. Thankfully, Mr. Moon IS, otherwise I'd be living in a box under the bridge. I can't even think in terms of resolutions. The very word resolution sounds like something Abraham Lincoln would say. Not me. I have to think more in terms of goals and they tend to be moment-to-moment goals. Or at the very longest, day-to-day.
Mainly they consist of this important one:

Keep breathing.

Works for me. Has so far for fifty-four years.

I think if I have any goals this year it would be this:
To wake up every day (still breathing) and try to make several measurable and obtainable and achievable goals for the day.
They may be something as simple as

1. Shave legs.

2. Make supper.

Or they may be more complex such as:

1. Consume at least five servings of fruits and vegetables today of varying colors and no, a vodka and orange juice does NOT count. Although a Bloody-Mary might. I think that would be two servings right there. The tomato juice AND the celery. Although the vodka would probably cancel out at least one of the vegetable servings. This is confusing. Best to just not count anything associated with vodka.

2. Drink at least six glasses of water.

3. Make the bed.

4. Walk for one hour and fifteen minutes.

5. Write for three hours.

6. Scrub the toilets.

See? Those goals are obtainable and measurable. Goals and resolutions like "Lose a bunch of weight, help others, and become more at peace with my place in the universe" are not.

I might even write these goals down. I don't know. I haven't gotten that far in the decision-making process.

BUT, I do know that I better make it a daily goal of studying my lines for at least fifteen minutes. This is not an option. I am already having nightmares about going onstage and having no idea what to say or when to say it. The very thought of this possibility gives me a hot flash.

And get this- I have been telling everyone and thinking that we were going to be doing the play on January 23 and 24. Done. Over.
Today I got an e-mail which stated quite clearly that the play dates are January 30 and 31 and February 6 and 7.
WHAT?!
Did they change it or have I just been lost in space for the past month? I have put in a call to my friend Kathleen about this as she is the stage manager and would surely know but so far, she has yet to call me back to tell me. But it's sort of disconcerting to think that I have been so far off base about something so important.

Well, that gives me another week to get these characters into shape with all the words in their mouths and the costumes on their bodies and for that I am grateful.

Sincerely grateful.

As I also am that the DAMN HOLIDAYS ARE OVER and despite all the wonderful fun and frivolity that I certainly enjoyed with my family and my friends, I am overjoyed to think of getting back to a healthier routine which includes exercise and more low-key living. I have been depending entirely on my anti-depressant for sanity and believe me, it is not enough.

So. Back to it. Let's get back to doing the things which make us feel good about ourselves. Throw out the fruitcake! Get that fucking Christmas tree out of the house! Go take a walk! Eat your fruits and veggies. Make your goals measurable and achievable. Put roses in your roosters.

And don't forget to breathe.

Peace, Y'all

A pot of black-eyed peas, soaking on the stove
In the warm cozy house on
A New Year's Day