It's Saturday but Lord, don't it feel like Sunday? Everything is all screwed up, time-wise in my head. Mr. Moon is sort of wandering around wondering what it is he's supposed to do today.
Me? I'm just trying to figure out, as I do every morning, WHERE I am today.
Definitely not Minnesota.
Or Ohio.
Although I could, I suppose, be in Mexico. It's warm.
Oh wait. I'm in Florida. Land of the Loonies. Did you read about that doctor in Miami who was injecting women's butts with a mixture of cement, mineral oil and flat tire sealant?
And women were paying him? Her? She's possibly transgendered. The doctor. She did "plastic surgery" on herself.

Yeah. Florida. Gotta love us. Unless you live here and your governor is Rick Scott. Another family member of mine has been "let go" of her state job. She's going to be replaced with some woman whose daddy is a big campaign contributor.
Go figure.

Anyway, yeah, it's Saturday. I just went and let the chickens out and gave them some corn. Then I took a picture of one of the next-door banties who comes over daily to scratch in my yard. He's that gorgeous thing you see above. Now if that's not a pretty rooster. Jesus. You could wear him on your head as a hat. You could wear Elvis on your head as a hat but I think you'd have to be a member of British Royalty to get away with THAT fashion statement.

I think I'll go eat a bowl of cereal. The problem with this time of year is that there just isn't enough to eat. Haha! And then start working on the laundry again. As soon as the old washing machine heard we'd bought a new one, it started working again to a degree. It's back to handling two things at a time. Actually, I got CRAZY last night and tried washing a small rug in it.
Damn if it didn't handle it just fine.
I know, I'm pushing the envelope. I'm jumping the shark. I'm injecting my butt with cement.
No I'm not.
But I might take a walk.

Here in Lloyd, Florida. Where I am. I am pretty sure.

Love...Ms. Moon

I Think I Got Lost On The Space-Time Continuum Highway

 I tried to assuage (and that's one of those words I have no idea how to pronounce but which I can use the shit out of when I write) my guilt today by cleaning up some gnarly, hardened dog poops upstairs. I then cleaned some of the spindle things of the stairway. Not too many. I didn't kill anyone, I just didn't help with the clean-up last night.
Best not to get crazy.

Poor Owen is as holiday dazed as I am. The boy would not take a nap. He screamed at me. No want it! No want it! And when I tried to sooth him by rubbing his back he yelled, "Stop it!" I would have called the cops if I'd heard him. It sounded like I was removing his fingernails instead of gently rubbing his back.
I gave up. We watched some inane thing on public television for children. Syd the Science Kid. They were talking about shots. Not tequila shots. Vaccination shots. Owen didn't care. He just wanted to sit down and not move and NOT TAKE A NAP! I read Vanity Fair. That Scarlett Johansson! What a babe!

Now here's something in that magazine this month that really pissed me off: There was an article on the Amazonian drug, ayahuasca. Now I actually know a few people who have taken this powerful hallucinogen in the proper setting with the proper shaman and they claim that the experience changed their lives in very, very positive ways. I have seen the changes. And so I was excited to read the article but no, Ted Mann, the author of it, had to focus on some nutcase who went down to the Amazon and did a whole shitload of ayahuasca and ended up obsessed with building a floating pyramid and doing a bunch of other crazy crap.
Come on.
It reminded me of the fact that I have never in my life met anyone who tried to fly while doing acid, OR damaged their chromosomes doing acid OR had a fucking flashback.
I keep waiting for that last one.

Mr. Moon bought a washing machine today. He went out into the world and he braved the crowds and he took my mother her purse which she forgot last night and he picked up my prescription and he bought a washing machine while I stayed here and tortured Owen and scraped up petrified poop.
They'll be delivering the machine on Monday.
I tell you what- I have never taken having a washing machine for granted. Ever. Not when it was sitting by the side of the 10 by 50 foot trailer I was living in with two children and covered with a piece of tin precariously nailed to a tiny shed roof, and I surely won't be taking this new one for granted, either.

I realized today that although there are many, many things which create anxiety in me, doing the laundry is one of the few things which I actually find soothing. Laundry, chickens, weeding, cooking. Mostly cooking. Regular cooking. You know. These are things that calm my soul.
Obviously, I was not meant for this time period. I should have possibly been a Peruvian Amazonian woman who washed her family's clothes in the river and grew corn in a little plot and took care of the chickens and babies and cooked stews of corn and ground pig and drank a bit of ayahuasca now and then. Slept in a hammock with three or four grandchildren. And my man could have spent all of his time hunting and would not have to go to town on Black Friday to buy me a washing machine or pick up my prescription for anti-depressants because I wouldn't need either one.
I wouldn't need a damn bra, either. Hell, I wouldn't even need a shirt!

Well, this is not the way it turned out. I am neither a Peruvian Amazonian Woman or Scarlett Johansson. I wonder who washes Scarlett's clothes. Maybe she does.
She knows Bill Murray.
Damn.

She probably even knows Keith Richards.

Double damn. And she's only twenty-six years old.
Or twenty-seven. Whatever. An unformed babe. With pouty, sexy lips.

Time to put the chickens to bed. The sun is going down silver in the west.
I ain't got no ayahuasca nor shaman either one.

Not too worried about that. I got chickens and I'll be getting a new washing machine on Monday and I got Mr. Moon, AKA, Zen Glen.

That'll do. That'll crazy-good do.

Amen.

And Then

And then it got crazy.



This is what we had yesterday for Thanksgiving Dinner:

Turkey, with cornbread stuffing
Turkey, smoked
Oysters, raw
Pickles and olives and cheese and crackers guava paste and cream cheese and 
Deviled eggs
Green bean casserole
Spinach and artichoke heart casserole
Norwegian hot dish casserole
Broccoli casserole
Corn casserole
Sweet potato casserole 
German cabbage
Vegetarian stuffing
Greens
Cranberry relish
Cranberry sauce
Rolls
Gravy
Pecan pie
Chocolate pecan pie
Apple pie
Pumpkin pie
Real whipped cream

We were ten for supper, including Owen. Who took one bite of a turkey leg and pronounced it nasty.







Do you see the problem here?

By the time we sat down to eat, I had been on my feet since eight, mostly. May had been on her feet since the moment she got here. Everyone else had made and helped with things all day.

I went to bed before the cleaning up was done. DO YOU HEAR ME? I WENT TO BED BEFORE THE CLEANING UP WAS DONE!

Because I pretty much thought I was going to die and being in bed would be the appropriate place to do that. Take that whole day, add in the day and days before for the party and getting ready for the party and Owen-care and shopping and the broken washing machine and, and, and...

I just slept for eleven hours.

And the worst? I feel SO guilty that I went to bed before the cleaning up was done and everyone left. May and Matt were still in the kitchen and so was Mr. Moon when I went to bed.

They were cleaning up. They were figuring out how to put the leftovers away and washing dishes. I would have just thrown all the pots and pans and food in the yard. I would have let the wild animals come and eat all of it.

I washed my face. I brushed my teeth. I put on my nightgown. I tried to read for a little while. I couldn't. I turned out the light.

I slept for eleven hours. In a row. Waking up only to feel guilty and then go back to sleep.

Let me remember this next year. Let me put my foot down and say that if people want casseroles, they should make them and enjoy them in July.

I haven't gone to bed before the cleaning up was done since 1988 when I was pregnant with Jessie and went to bed before the EATING was done. I seem to recall that I just laid down under the table and fell asleep but I am pretty sure I didn't actually do it.
Pretty sure.

I am too old for all of this. Even if the children do more than half of it. I cannot deal with the guilt.
Which is stupid.
But it's the way it is.

The hell to you, you Pilgrims. Coming to this country and making up to the Indians so they'd take pity on your poor little white souls and teach you how to survive and than making a dinner and inviting a few Indians and then stealing all of their land and the hell to you with your Great Feast idea.

The hell to you with your little buckled shoes and your stupid hats and your religious freedom and your sucking up to Squanto and your Plymouth Rock and your Great Feast and your ideas of original sin and GUILT!

And the hell to whoever invented the casserole, too, if you want to know the truth.

Eleven hours of sleep. And Owen's coming soon and boy, do I hope he wants a nap today.

Your faithful correspondent...Ms. Moon

This is the most laid- back Thanksgiving of my life that I can remember.
So far today, it is just Mr. Moon and Hank and Anna here. I swim/dance around the kitchen and my hands fall to this chopping, this peeling, this mixing, this crumbling, this boiling, this, this, this.
Quiet. It is so quiet today.
I have been out to the garden and picked collards, mustards, a few cabbage and broccoli leaves, some of that oriental green I do not know the name of. They are all in the pot with tomatoes and onions and are saying to each other, "My, don't you look fine? May I sip your flavor for awhile?"
Uh-huh, uh-huh.
I made the cornbread with sage and celery seed and now there is stuffing in the bird and and the bird is in the oven and there is vegetarian stuffing and two types of cranberries and peeled eggs ready to become bedeviled.
Mr. Moon is smoking a turkey. The sun is shining down. It is not too hot. We are only going to be nine for dinner.
I am just...happy.
Wow.
May and Matt are here now.

And I am even happier.

Thanksgiving Is Not A Joke! (Unless You're Lucky)

Damn, it's a beautiful morning. Hope it is where you are too.

Time to get Kraken in the kitchen!

Not a paid placement.

Just another pun.

There were a million of 'em last night. 

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Party

Smaller than usual.
Lots of children.
Moments of great laughter.
Done.

QOTD: People are just not going to stop having sex and having children.

You can quote me on that.

Love...Ms. Moon

Thanksgiving Almost-Miracles And A Recipe

The pies are gorgeous although underneath, the crust is patchworked. I tried a recipe I'd never used before and I was supposed to refrigerate that dough for an hour. Haha.
Well, as humid as it was and as lousy as my pie crust usually turns out, I am not upset.

I actually tried getting the washing machine to work one more time. And it did. I was so thrilled. I washed one entire load successfully and slick as could be. I thought that maybe a miracle had occurred. A Thanksgiving miracle! Tried another load.
No.
No. Not at all.

Mr. Moon is already gone to fulfill his list and oh, maybe work. I don't even know. His list is like, "Oysters, beer, rum, vodka, dog food, washing machine."
My list, so far, is- flour, brown sugar, butter."

That's like one list saying, "Clean bathroom sink," and another list reading "Create world peace."

Well, I have other things to do, of course, besides buy those few things.

May called me from the grocery store yesterday.
"Wouldn't it be funny," I said, "if one Thanksgiving for the hors d'oeuvres part of the event we put out soda crackers and about five cans of spray cheese?"
"It's not too late!" she boomed.

Well. I better get to it. That bathroom isn't going to clean itself and that's the truth.

And it didn't really rain. Not really. Mist.
And I have sort of lost that feeling of This is going to be fun!
I really thought it was a real feeling. I wasn't even drinking when I wrote it.
Well, making those pies was fun. Doing that one load of wash was fun. Thinking it might rain was fun.

I don't have a real high bar when it comes to fun, do I?
Here's the way I make cranberry relish. You are supposed to make it a week ahead of time.
Oh well.

One bag of cranberries.
Two small-medium apples.
Two oranges.
1/2 cup pecans.
1 1/2 cups of sugar.
1/8 tsp. salt.

Wash all fruit well. Core and cut up apples into chunks. Cut up and seed oranges. Chunks. Don't peel.
Process in batches in the food processor all of the fruit until it is in small pieces but not pureed.
Chop pecans the same way.

Mix all the fruit and the nuts together in a bowl with the sugar and salt. Tuck away in the refrigerator until it's time to eat. Mix it all up occasionally.

It's fun to eat. I'm not kidding you.

Love...Ms. Moon

It's been windy all day, the leaves falling like rain, tumbling as gracefully as ballerinas as they drift and fall and scatter. Several times today Owen and I just stood and watched them, mesmerized by the sight of them.
And now, I swear to you- I think it might rain. Could we really be that lucky?

And I am SO not freaking out. I am sort of freaking out that I am not freaking out.
I think I just realize that there is no point. What the damn hell? This shit is gonna happen no matter what and I ain't worrying about it. In fact, it might as well be fun.

Is that a fucking epiphany or what?
Obvious, much?

I got to hang with Owen today and take a great nap with him. I've talked to Jessie and May on the phone and I've seen Lily. I'll be seeing Hank tomorrow. That boy of mine.
I have no idea who will show up tomorrow.
I've done a poor job of inviting anyone. I did talk to my sister-wife today. Well, she's not really my sister-wife. She's the wife of my ex-husband which means she's Hank and May's other-mother and they're coming. So that's good. If they're coming and the kids are here, it's a party.

I just spoke to Mr. Moon and he's in the store right now looking at washing machines. The way they do it these days is if you buy the damn dryer, they give you a washer for free. Just about. This is ridiculous! I don't really need a new dryer! But, hell, if you can get a washer AND a dryer for what a washer would cost...

Problems of the 1%.

I think I'll go make some pies. Yep. That's what I want to do. Make pies. It's too humid to mop and besides, if they bring in a new washer (and dryer?) tomorrow, they're going to get that kitchen all messed up anyway.

Okay. One more thing:
When I went out to gather eggs this morning I found that teeny-tiny one.



It's like the size of Mr. Moon's thumb tip. And it looks, in color, exactly like the GIANT eggs that I get these days.
Does one of my hens have a messed-up woo-woo? Is her egg-size-calculator all discombobulated? Is she in the process of refining things?

How cute is that? I sort of want to fry it and give it to Owen. As a meal.

Which, speaking of. Here that boy is:




He's on an orange-eating kick. I shared one with him today and he told me, "No choking!"

Pies. Pecan pies. Flour, Crisco, water, pecans, eggs, Karo syrup, sugar, salt. And chocolate for one of them.

No choking, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Yeah. Feels Like Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving countdown is going just as it should, meaning I have made one side dish, the dogs appear to be sick, my knee hurts, the washing machine is still sitting in there, broken, and the laundry is piling up and Owen is coming today and tomorrow and the party is tomorrow. And then, you know, Thanksgiving is the next day.

I went to the Costco yesterday and bought stuff for the party. I bought a turkey. I went to Publix and bought more stuff for Thanksgiving. I brought Owen home and we played for many hours and Lily came over after work and we all had supper and the fence in the backyard is draped with wet things that were in the washing machine when it broke and also two rugs, and the rug in the entry way to the house is going to the trash and so are those other rugs but I don't have a damn truck, I have a Prius, and Mr. Moon is on his way to work and to possibly buy a washing machine and he is driving the truck.

Yes, yes. I know. We have the money to buy a washing machine and for that, I am eternally grateful. I feel like the fucking 1%. I probably am.

Also, we have the money to buy food for the party and also beer and so forth. And we have a truck.

This year I swore I was only going to do the turkey. And the stuffing. Yep. That's it. The kids can do the rest. They agreed. Then all of a sudden I was thinking, "Oh wait. Gotta do the greens. Uh-huh." Then I found sweet potatoes tumbling into my hands at the Publix. And apples. And raisins. Why did I forget brown sugar? I did buy butter. And of course there are the two types of cranberries, the cranberry/orange/apple/pecan relish which May and I love and also, the plain berries kind which I mostly make because they are so beautiful in the bowl. And what about pies? The pecan pies. I have to make the pecan pies. The regular and the chocolate.

My knee hurts. I asked Mr. Moon who studied things like hurt knees in college what does it mean if it hurts here but is not swollen there? If it feels icky when you press on the knee cap. If it pops when you walk. He said something about patellar tendinitis. 
"Ice it," he said.
Well of course. You always ice it. Who has time to ice a knee cap?

My hand hurts too. Did I mention that? I slammed it into a door on my way through it the other day. Completely just slammed my hand by accident as I passed through a doorway. No anger was involved. When I did it, I said, "Boy, that hurts." Then I tried to forget about it.
Forget THAT.

Oh well. This is the way it is. It's okay. It's always okay. It's just a gathering (two gatherings) of loved ones. No big deal. For the party I'll make a big bowl of pasta and set out chips and dips. I have paper plates. I have plastic forks. I suppose that beer will show up somehow. I think that Mr. Moon will get oysters. Oh Lord. I forgot crackers and horseradish.

Oh Lord.

If only the dogs weren't sick. If only I had a washing machine. If only the rugs weren't draped over the fence. If only...

I'll light candles. If the dogs die, the dogs die. We'll get a washing machine.
Bruce Springsteen is coming out with a new album next year. CD. Collection of songs you can download. Whatever. I am going to Cozumel for Christmas. We're getting a new grandbaby in March. I have hot and cold running water. I have the four most wonderful human beings in the entire universe as my very own personal children. I have a husband who, well, I want to die in his arms. Not any time soon, but eventually. I do not need embroidered samplers to remind myself to be grateful.
Hey. I'm grateful for THAT fact.
And it's not the kind of grateful where you have to huddle around a fire made of cow chips and eat gruel and say, "Thank god we have cow chips!" and everyone chimes in to say, "Bless us every one!" and I take up my crutches and hobble outside to wash the gruel pot in snow.

So yeah, the Thanksgiving countdown is going well and just as it should and just as it goes every Thanksgiving and there are still about fifty percocets or some sort of pain drug in the freezer leftover from three years ago when Jessie had her knee operated on and if I'm really, really lucky, I'll get a bottle of anejeo rum and won't screw up the gravy and the dogs will die.

Just kidding about that last part!

Love...Ms. Moon

The Moment Darkness Falls

Owen is crunch-crunch-crunching some Chex Mix in the third course of his mid-afternoon lunch. Or whatever meal this is. The first course was two containers of yogurt, the second a carrot and now two (so far) servings of Chex Mix.
And I forgot about that chomping of the collards in the garden he did. I don't know that he actually eats any of the collards he chomps like a mule but he does chew them up a bit before he spits them out.
Of course by supper he won't want a drop of soup but whatever.
I do not care.

And now the sun is setting and the sky and light are orange, that sad last-ditch-effort orange and it's funny how sunset can be my favorite time of day or my least-favorite, depending.

Sirens go by, splitting the air with shrill hurry-hurry-hurry and I wonder who is hurt and wonder whose life just changed in the last few minutes whether by accident or some attack of the body and even though Owen is here and we just picked salad and he keeps hugging me and also his horse, it is very hard to not feel unsettled in this light, this letting-go-of-day, this moment when children used to stand at the door, waiting for their fathers to come home.

Housekeeping

I'm trying the new blogger interface again.
The old one was doing funky things to me this morning. Weird though, how you get so used to putting your thoughts into a certain format, a certain little box, and trying to write in a different one is so disconcerting.

So I wanted to let you all know that Ms. Sarcastic Bastard Beloved is alive and working her tail off. New policies at her place of business have precluded her from reading or writing blogs at work and she refuses (and rightfully so) to open a computer while at home.
She is not happy.
As you can imagine.
But that explains her silence.
I asked her if I could make this announcement and she is in such a work-related tizzy that she said whatever. Basically. But I know I would worry.
So there you have it.

My son sent me a link to a story he's written and I am just reverberating with it. First I asked him if I could link it but then I read what he had to say here and what he basically said was, oh hell, go to the link and read what he had to say himself.

When I read the story it showed me beyond doubt that it is not just the evil which pervades a family for generations. It can be the good stuff too. The magic.
That was about the best gift, that knowledge, I've ever received.

Plus. That was about the best story I've ever read.

Damn. My son can write.

Last night ended so sweetly. That soup was fine and the focaccia was some of the best food I ever put in my mouth. My brother and I came to some sort of terms of peace via e-mail.
Mr. Moon and I blessed each other with love and kisses.
I don't know. I feel like I'm maybe going through some sort of process wherein I am...hell. I don't even know. But I do know that as the dreams continue of violence and fear, I am finding myself in real life feeling more fully in my own body. I would not wish this sort of nightmare therapy on anyone, but we can't always choose our paths of healing.
That's what I am thinking, maybe.

The chickens are out, the sun's light is pouring down. The little yellow butterflies are dancing around the Firespike blossoms which are allowing themselves to be drunk from freely and with passionate color. I have much to do before Owen gets here.

It is Monday morning, a strange time, perhaps, to be so filled with thoughts of magic and wonder, but there it is anyway. One can only take note, one can only be grateful. One can only be cheered at the thought of all that is possible even at this time of life.

Untitled

It's been a fine day and one in which I realized I have no idea how to shop for a washing machine. I do not need a machine which has a "casual" setting. Is that the setting you use to NOT wash an evening dress, a tuxedo?
Whatever.
I kept trying to explain to the salesman who was so obviously desperate to make a sale that I do not want all of those crazy features. He insisted that he could teach me how to use the machine. Really, it is simple! English is not his first language and he just could not get it into his head that I am not afraid I won't be able to figure it out- I just don't want or need them.
Bless his heart.

I got elected to the Stage Company board. Sweet. It was so good to see my buds. Pat and Jan and Jack and Kathleen and Denise and Judy and two newish guys who have been acting at the Opera House lately but whom I have not had the pleasure of working with. Yet.

There is one darkness here on this day. Again, my brother wrote me and corrected something I'd written in my blog. He pointed out that our mother did indeed do community service and yes, oh yes she did. She worked with Hospice for over twenty-five years. She did. And so again, I feel I must set the record straight. In my defense, she did not do this when I was living at home.

He asked me what my trip/agenda was in portraying our mother as being so depressed.
He does not remember her that way.
I wrote him back, told him that I wished he would comment here, on the blog, so that people could get a more balanced view of the situation. Or better yet- that he should start his own blog and write his own truth.

I mean it.

And I am filled with words right now, none of which I shall write. Because I know how hurtful it is to be told that your perceptions, your memories are incorrect.
That you are, in fact, a liar. And my brother is not a liar. He simply had a different mother than I did, or at least, he remembers her differently.

I am filled with words I will not write, I am filled with jagged bits of nightmare remnants and I am also filled with gratefulness of the fullness and complete richness of my life.

And I am going to go make some damn good soup and some foccacia with tomatoes and mozzarella and tomorrow I will buy a turkey and Owen will be here and yes, I have anger but not at my brother. No. Not really. As I write, I realize that sometimes anger is just sadness. Just pure old sadness at the story which never really ends.

But which does not have to end me.
No. It does not.
Nor will it.

And...

Dishwasher's beautiful and talented life-wife blogs in two different places. At least. Click on the picture above to go to her blog Planting Along The Verge and HERE
to visit her at Yobobe.

They are, as Tearful might say, a wonder.

Breathe A Sigh Of Relief

Our beloved Tearful is back.

http://thedishwasherstears.wordpress.com/

I Should Start Smoking Pot

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh my fucking dear.
I broke my washing machine.
It's sort of a miracle the poor thing hung in this long. I think it's the same one that was in this house when we moved here, seven and a half years ago.
It was probably that last rug and dog bed that did it.

Sigh.

So it's four days before Thanksgiving, I have a bum knee, two clean rooms, a lot of pork in the refrigerator and a broken washing machine.

We ate pork last night. I made a...pig...of myself. I kept saying, Why does it have to taste so damn good? I "fried" up those green tomatoes which had been on the vines when it froze, meaning I pan cooked them in a tiny bit of oil after I'd dipped them in buttermilk and then flour and corn meal and they were delicious and I also cooked a sweet potato with a giant apple and then mashed them up together with some brown sugar and cinnamon and the juice of an orange.

It was sort of the perfect supper, taste-wise.

We are having oatmeal for breakfast. Possibly for lunch and dinner as well.

Back to the washing machine.

Oh hell.

Mr. Moon doesn't even want to mess with it. He wants to buy a new one. Fine with me. That one in my tiny closet of a laundry room has washed a million, billion garments and a whole lot of other stuff too.
RIP, dear old appliance.

I'm supposed to go to the Opera House this afternoon. There is a movement afoot to elect me to the board of the Stage Company. I keep saying, "But what will I have to DO?" Okay, I keep whining, "But what will I have to DO?"
"Oh, hardly anything," they tell me.
Somehow I do not really believe them. I am not like Kathleen who was raised to be a good servant of the community. Her mother and father were community LEADERS! They got out there and did things. In the community.
My mother was pretty busy weeping behind a closed door when she wasn't working or cooking or cleaning.
Hey! We all have our place and our function.

But I guess I'll go. I actually did almost get elected to the board once but another woman really, really wanted that job and so I ceded to her. "I'm going to CHANGE things," she whispered in my ear with great and enthusiastic conspiratory breathiness, which was alarming. Then she never came back.

Ooh boy.

All right. Mr. Moon is about to hand me some paper-work I need to fill out for the lawyer we're about to hire to take Mother's case to force the insurance company to pay the benefits she deserves. Then he's talking about going into town and shopping for a washing machine and stopping at Mother's on the way.

I need about forty-two Ativans.

Happy Sunday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. That picture of Keith? Well, it's Sunday. There you go.

Sometimes You Clean

So you can remember what it is you have.

Meaningless, Time-Wasting Drivel

I am having the hardest time focusing today. I flit from one task to another like the little yellow butterflies which stand out in fine relief against the firespike blossom but almost disappear when resting on a leaf.

One of the things I did today was take my camera outside. There was nothing at all that stood up and raised its hand and shouted, "Take me! Take MY picture!" so I just walked around and snapped this, snapped that.
The chickens are always good for a shot. Nothing makes me happier than a portrait of Elvis, The World's Finest Rooster.

His head feathers are growing back in after the moult and look a bit quilly but damn, look at that eye! Look at that beak! A Rooster On Duty. Dude never takes a break. I hope he lives forever. That's probably not possible, is it?
Shit.

Anyway, so yeah, I took some pictures and of course I hung Mr. Moon's hunting stuff on the line. It not only didn't rain today, it cleared up, mostly.

You can't see anything except for the orange safety jacket, can you? That's because it's all CAMO! Tricky hunters.
Well, of course you can see the downed flamingo. Flamingos would only be camouflaged in Divine's bedroom. Or in a bubblegum factory. Or flying against a sunset.
I need to go set that damn bird up again or else give him a decent burial. See? I can't even focus long enough to deal with a plastic flamingo.

I did all the other laundry too. Whoo-hoo. I do laundry every day.

I was going to boil some beans for some soup but despite the fact that it seems like I buy beans every time I go to the store, I can never find any in my cabinets. I have pasta and salad dressing and coffee out the yin/yang-wing/wang (sorry, I've been wanting to say that all day- I think there's something wrong with my brain) but as to beans- two sorry almost-empty packets, one of black beans, one of garbanzos. And they were filled with the dreaded weevils.
Time to burn down the kitchen!

Cleaning. You know, I keep having dreams about moving into houses which need cleaning OUT! I mean, they are filled with crap and there is something just so satisfying about the idea of doing this in my dreams. I look at crap-filled rooms and see them in my mind (my dream mind) all cleared out and set up as new rooms and it makes me happy!
In real life?
Nah.
But. I did go into the dining room and take up the rug in there which has been so peed upon by certain dogs that it is nasty and smells nasty and took it outside and put it on the fence next to another rug which used to be in the library and which is draped over the fence for the very same reason.
I don't know if we think that after several decades of fence-hanging in all sorts of weather that the rugs will be restored to usability or what. Obviously, we should just throw the motherfuckers away. It's sort of like putting that last one-eighth of a cup of cole slaw back in the refrigerator, knowing you're never going to eat it but letting it rest there in the cold until it is well and truly NO GOOD AT ALL any more at which point you can throw it away with a clean conscience.
And then I dusted and swept and mopped that room and you know- that feels pretty awesome.
Almost awesome enough to motivate me to head towards the library and start in cleaning there.
Almost.
Actually, I'm lying. I do not feel motivated at all.
Not one damn bit. I had to interrupt my dining room cleaning at least eight times to check e-mail and watch videos about squid and octopi changing pigment and also about dinosaur feathers which they have found preserved in amber and also one about a drunk guy being attacked by monkeys who did not want him on their own Monkey Island (who would?) and also, oh you know, eat some stuff. Leftover stuff.

Which is what we'll probably eat for supper but I am really trying to motivate myself to make a blueberry pie or maybe even a blueberry and blackberry pie because I have the frozen berries to do it and I've sort of been thinking about pie lately. Yeah, making a pie five days before Thanksgiving makes a LOT OF SENSE!

No it doesn't.

Okay. Wait. I cleaned out the hen house. REALLY WELL! (Not really. Just sort of well.)

And then I thought about working in the garden. For three or four minutes. And I did trim a few more plants. For about three or four minutes.

And here I am, back at the computer, wondering if it's cheating to start drinking beer early if it's used as a motivational tool to clean. Because if I made a shot of espresso and then drank a beer (I call this the Housewife's Speedball) I would clean like a crazy woman.
Oh. I think I just pointed out the flaw in that argument.

I don't know. It's just one of those days wherein you have a vague itch and there just doesn't seem to be any way to scratch it and you aren't even sure where it is.
I would gladly give myself permission to do almost anything I wanted...if I just knew what the hell that was. So I go from one mindless task to another, not finishing anything, wiping up little dirt-spots on the kitchen floor with a paper towel instead of actually cleaning it and taking pictures and opening the refrigerator to see if there's anything new in there and there never is, dammit, and that's what I'm doing today.

You?

Here's a few more pictures. La-la-la-la.

Iron plant and old piece of wisteria vine.

Tiny little flowers I do not know the name of.

Oxalis or as my kids call it, Sour Flower, and which Owen eats like candy. It's actually quite tasty. And pretty in a salad.

I'm done now. Mr. Moon just called. He's still hours away from coming home. He called to tell me that our neighbors bought some Boston Butt pork roasts from their church which is selling them as a fund raiser (Excuse me?) and they are cooking one for us.

Great. More meat. Just what I need.
But really, that's mighty sweet of them. I have wonderful neighbors.

Thanks for helping me procrastinate, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. Do not ask me why the font is all messed up here. I have tried to fix it and there is just no way. For me. You could probably do it. But I can't. So what? It's just font size.

There Is Stillness Here Today

Last night's post really struck some nerves, didn't it? I haven't gone back to answer comments individually yet, but I will. I just want to say right here and now that it is unbelievable to me to realize that people read my words and are influenced by them in any way and, well, I am rather speechless.

Anyway, here it is Saturday morning. I am wearing my old man jeans, of course, and a holey (holy?) old cashmere cardigan and I walked out into my kitchen not only to find my husband cooking eggs and sausage but to realize that our across-the-street neighbor was sitting at the kitchen counter.
Whoa!
Disconcerting. At least I was dressed.

Mr. Moon and our neighbor are going to go do some carpentry work on a building we own in town and so they were drinking coffee and making lists of materials they need and yes, Mr. Moon was making breakfast sandwiches of the eggs and sausage and cheese and some of the buns I made last night. He offered me one but I was nowhere near ready for such outlandish protein at that early hour. He kindly left me a sausage patty though. It sits on the stove on a paper towel, waiting for whenever I may be ready.

Bless that good man's heart.

I had a tiny breakdown last night but it turned into something so sweet that it was well worth it. There were no angry words, there was just turning-towards and reassurance and softness and renewal.
One of those tiny miracles of marriage, or at least long-term relationships and even after all these years, it is something to know that we are capable of such awareness of each other.

I have been having trouble sleeping. Not getting to sleep but staying there. We all know these times. I wake up at least once an hour and so of course, I am sleeping too, but it seems to take an inordinate amount of time to get back there, fully, but my mind isn't racing, I am just still. It's okay.

The men have left to go to town, Jason has come in from hunting and gone again too, taking Zeke with him so I have this house to myself again and am doing laundry, still from the hunting trip. It takes a lot of laundry for a man to shoot a buck, y'all. I'm telling you the truth. But I don't mind. I let the washing machine do its work and then I hang the leaf-patterned clothes on the line. It's gray but I doubt it's going to rain. I could clean today, in preparation for next week's gatherings. I did, in fact, finally dust that piano and it gleams with orange oil, the pictures upon it set back in their places. I know I must clean out the hen house. This is a fact.

I dreamed last night, in one of my short naps between awakenings, of a hummingbird, tiny and teal-jeweled in color, feeding among red flowers.
I am grateful for that image, grateful I remembered it.

This may be a day of small things under a very still gray sky. Pewter overhead, the orange and red and yellow leaves of the Bradford Pears look merely bedraggled when they do not dance in a breeze, lit by sun. But still. There is beauty in stillness.

We do not always have to dance to prove our presence.

We do not, in fact have to prove our presence at all. We are here.

I am glad of that. Thank you for coming by, for being here. Thank-you.

Another Aging Post

It is twilight and a while ago the power went out for about an hour and so I set aside all of my plans which of course required electricity and went and laid down on the bed and read for awhile and just as I was falling asleep, the lights came on and I was jolted awake and got up and continued on with the life of electric lights, washing machine, food processor, hot water heater.

I can't tell you how old I feel today. Ancient and yes, crone-like. Bent to a task like any old peasant woman, although when I went to town to run errands and have lunch with Hank, I painted my eyelids and even lined my eyes and put on mascara and lipstick.
Still. Old.

The skin. What can you do about the skin? There is no elixir or pearl-like nutriment which will return it to its elasticity. And if there were, what would we do? Buy it by the barrel, dip our entire bodies in it every night and every morning? Ha!

It's funny how some days I am at peace with this aging process and able to make fun of it and remember that it was never my beauty I was known for, even if I was much prettier than I knew. Youth- there is no substitute. Wisdom is a fine enough trade-off and so is, some days, the vanity which must be let go if one is to remain sane, shaken off with a rueful laugh, an arm-full of bracelets making do where once there was smooth skin.

And then other days the mirror can not, will not lie. You catch yourself not posing, as you do when you face it. You see the way others must see you and there- there- who is that old woman? How does my face look when I screw it up to listen to my choices of bread at the sandwich place? When I am slowly backing up my car, when I am relaxed in sleep, when I am scowling over this computer, trying so hard to recover the words that I know are in this mind but which seem to have been lost in slack pockets of brain which surely by now is as un-elastic as the skin is, no matter how much they talk about the amazing plasticity of that organ.
Sure. Up to a point.

And perhaps today it is just the aching knee. I got up from the table at lunch and it took me a time and I grimaced and Hank, dear son, asked, "Are you okay?"
"Fine, once I get started," I said, and I am. Frisky as a little horse, but oh, the getting started.

Well. What can one do? Become one of those women who from the back look like teenagers with long, glossy hair and tiny hips who walk on pointy-toed shoes, and who, when you see their faces, you realize are grandmothers, starved to death and wending off old-age with every weapon in the arsenal including make up, plastic surgery, dieting, exercise and hot-bod togs but in fact, are fooling no one except perhaps themselves?
It's an option.
Not for me.

So why complain? Why not just be grateful for the fact that there is still enough strength here to walk my miles, to pick up my grandson when he holds his arms up, to heft the chicken food, to be alive at all?

I am not, really. I am just saying that I am not a perfect person and even I, here in my tiny dream world of chickens and grandson and loving husband and dirt and overalls see pictures of goddesses like Lauren Hutton and Helen Mirren and even though I KNOW I am not either one of those beautiful women and cannot, should not compare myself to them, it's so hard in this culture not to. I have been thinking a lot about this. How when I put on my old dead round man's Levi's I hitch 'em up and button and zip them like my husband does his and how, at the end of the day, they are so stretched out I can take them off without undoing them and how comfortable and comforting this is and who gives a shit how they look? And how women are wearing these spandex suck-'em-in jeans and oh yes, our bras which corral our bosoms and place them where they "should" be and it all just makes me wonder how far women have come since the age of corsets and passing out and girdles and garter belts and sanitary napkins which felt like wearing a two-by-four between our legs and, and, and...

When do we get to be who we are?

When we accept that ourselves. I think that is the answer.

Do we? Do we have a chance at accepting ourselves?
Do you? Do you accept yourself?

Just asking.

It's Friday night and I am asking.

Interplanetary News, Plus Other Stuff

So. There are massive oceans on Jupiter's moon, and Demi and Ashton are getting a divorce, and Herman Cain says "We need a leader, not a reader."

As to the oceans- awesome!
As to Ashton and Demi- men are fools.
As to Herman Cain- fuck you.

It's chilly here, and yet as bright as the sun can make it.

The Bradford Pears are giving up their leaves with great jolts of celebratory color.

Miss Bob, one of my older hens, laid her first egg in forever yesterday. Green. She is my only green-egg-laying chicken these days.

One of the flamingos is DOWN.

Poor thing.

The days until Thanksgiving are creeping close. Actually, speeding close. I talked to Billy yesterday and he said that a guy he works with was like, "Are you going to Ms. Moon's party the night before Thanksgiving?" and Billy was like, "What? Why are you going?" but that other guy is a friend of Hank's and for some reason, Hank insists that I have this party which started out as a tiny thing and now it's gotten so big that Thanksgiving itself is like an afterthought.

I think we may have reached the tipping point last year. That was the year that dancing did my knee in and I got up the next day and it was swollen like nobody's business and I couldn't even walk and my kids, my blessed kids! said, "Don't worry, Mommy! We'll make Thanksgiving!" and they did. I sat on the big chair in the Glen Den with ice on my elevated knee and took pain pills and was blissed-out and then a meal appeared.
Best Thanksgiving of my life.
And last night while chasing Owen around the house I slipped in a puddle of DOG PEE and fell and now that same knee is swollen. Or it could be the other knee. I forget, truthfully.
Anyway...is this a sign?
Sigh.

Here I am. Swollen knee and all. Doing laundry. I found Owen's plastic giraffe in the laundry basket and that made me smile. That giraffe shows up everywhere. He's back on the window sill munching the rooting scented geranium again. He is happy. I think that Owen has been watching some TV show with karate or something like that. He runs and then stops and strikes a martial-arts-type pose and then sometimes he runs straight at me and tackles me around the legs and he also chased the chickens yesterday with that flamingo.

And then the child does something like tell the mule, "Missed you." Then he does something like grab my neck and squeeze me and say, "Hey there!"

You know, it's so hard to believe that this is my life. Whatever I thought it was going to be like, this is not it.
It's so much better.

Mr. Moon not only brought home a buck (I know there is a deer head out in that garage somewhere but I am not going to go look for it) but he also brought home some home-grown beef that a friend of a friend gave him because Mr. Moon took vast quantities of shrimp and oysters up to those Tennessee guys and tonight we're going to have hamburgers for supper.
I don't think I've eaten a real hamburger since Jessie's friend Darrah (hey, Darrah!) brought some organic home-grown beef out to Dog Island a long, long time ago.

In honor of the event, I believe I will MAKE hamburger buns. And buy the best tomatoes I can find. And make oven fries.

Herman Cain can bite my ass. Ashton Kutcher can drown in inferior pussy for all I care. And Europa can hide its oceans beneath ice and just knowing it's there is something to think about.

I have green eggs and blue, brown and pale ivory. I have the sweetest family in the world. I have collard greens in the garden to cook for Thanksgiving and they have been frost-bit which is what makes them sweet. Yesterday Owen leaned over and chomped a collard right there in the garden. Just chomped it like an animal.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon