Come, Let's To Bed

Come, let's to bed, says Sleepy-head.

Sit up awhile, says Slow.

Hand on the pot, says Greedy-gut,

We'll sup before we go.

To bed, to bed, cried Sleepy-head

But all the rest said no!

It is morning now, you must milk the cow, 

And tomorrow to bed we go.

This is a rhyme in Owen's Mother Goose which I just hate. There is absolutely nothing more frightful to me than the idea of being denied a night of sleep and lately, I have been waking up all night long to lie awake, still as a corpse, and wish I could go back to sleep.

There is now a new twist on the whole situation which is that when I DO sleep, I dream that people keep coming to my house and they refuse to leave and they keep me awake ALL NIGHT LONG and when I woke up this morning, early, early because Owen is coming, I kept thinking, "It is morning now, you must milk the cow/And tomorrow to bed we go," and I just sort of wanted to cry. 

Hell, Nobody IS Perfect

Goodness gracious.

I went to Monticello. No one showed up but Jan and Jack and Jon Taylor, whom I have acted with in many shows and his wife and son, Baby Colin. We're going to have to stop calling that child Baby Colin. I think I shall refer to him hereafter as B. Colin to distinguish him from Colin whom we all talk about all the time and every time we do, I still well up.
Jack and Jan are directing and Jon's wife Stephanie is not auditioning and neither is B. Colin so there you go.
There's another audition tomorrow night and they may pour forth to read then.
Who knows? Not me.
What I do know is that all of a sudden I'm sort of excited. Okay, I'm excited. It seems like a really well-written and funny-as-hell play. It's Nobody's Perfect by Simon Williams and the part I read for is a book publisher whose first line goes, "' Megan's heart was pounding as Alfonso carried her along the narrow cliff path...' Uh-ho, not another orgasm on the beach..."

Now don't you just know I want to say that line?
And somehow, I just feel ready to be a part of something again. To be part of that process of creating from the page. One of my favorite roles ever at the Opera House was one in which I played opposite Jon and we were a Texas couple visiting in Boston and as always, when I work with Jon, we came up with bits and one of them was just this glance that we gave each other that we'd planned out and I don't even know if the audience saw it or registered it, but I'll never forget it. It felt so real.
And yes, he's too young (and I'm too old) for us really to play opposite each other but dammit, Jon can ACT older than he is. He IS older than he is. And he can play anything. Man, woman, old, young, anything. And as Jack always says, "It's only fake believe."

So...maybe? If I did it a little Rose Marie from The Dick Van Dyke Show?

Or maybe I'm just too old. Honestly. Just bringing up Rose Marie from The Dick Van Dyke Show illustrates the point that I am older than dirt's inventor.

Well, another role will come along if I don't do this one. They generally do.

And Owen's coming tomorrow at seven. I have missed him. Lily said he's missed me, too. I said, "Did he actually say that?"
"Well," she said after a pause, "Sometimes when he got upset he wanted you."

And that is good enough for me.

Public Service Announcement

I am a teeny tiny bit sensitive concerning the fact that people get Cancun and Cozumel confused. It doesn't piss me off or anything, it's just that we go to Cozumel, not Cancun and I would NOT go to Cancun unless someone was paying me and yeah, I'd go and then I'd get the bus down to Playa del Carmen and get on the ferry to Cozumel.
And what's the difference you might ask?
They're both in Mexico on the Caribbean and have gorgeous beaches and people go there and drink tequila. Right?
Well, yes. Sort of, although it's a little bit like asking what the difference between Disney World and Wakulla Springs is or maybe more to the point- the difference between oh, say, Miami Beach and Dog Island.

Cancun was an invention by the then-president of Mexico to attract tourists about thirty years ago. According to the web site History of Cancun, Mexico, "The place chosen was a deserted sand spit somewhere offshore near a little fishing village called Puerto Juarez. The name of the uninhabited place was Snake's Nest, but of course in Maya language: Cancun."

Whereas on the other hand, Cozumel is an island off the coast further south which has had a town, a culture, and a life for a very long time. Supposedly it was settled by the Maya in the first millennium AD and according to our good friend Wikipedia, artifacts on the island date back even farther to "preclassic Olmec." Plus- Cozumel was (and still is to some of us) the sacred home of Ixchel, the Mayan moon goddess and was a shrine to be visited by Mayan women as a fertility pilgrimage.

Jacques Cousteau "discovered" Cozumel in 1960 when he saw the reefs there. It has been a popular diving destination ever since although I do not dive and have been told countless times that it's ridiculous to go to Cozumel and NOT dive, I don't care. I snorkel.
When Mr. Moon and I first visited Cozumel in 1987 it was a great deal more laid-back and "undiscovered" than it is now but I still love it. Things change. Some things, thankfully, do not. The people in Cozumel are what I truly think keep bringing me back.
I just love the Maya.
Damn, I do.
Plus- maybe Ixchel? Something draws me back over and over and over again.

Cancun is a full-out, completely invented tourist destination where people go to get crazy, drink themselves into stupors, eat American Mexican food and avail themselves of every Mexican vacation cliche in the book. Not that I haven't seen people drink themselves into a stupor in Cozumel but that is usually a person of the cruise-ship variety.
The cruise ships come and then they go.
Me? I go and then I stay.
Okay. We do sometimes go over to the mainland to see some of the amazing Mayan ruins. Chichen Itza, Coba, Tulum. There are others I would love to see and hope to some day. 

But I have no desire to visit Cancun with its giant hotels, its frenetic night-life.

Give me funky Cozumel with its zocaro where the little children play as their parents look on and the teenagers flirt with each other and the grandmothers are about two feet tall and have faces as deeply wrinkled as Keith Richards'. (You know I can't not mention Keith on a Sunday.)

Cancun translates to Snake Nest. Cozumel translates to Isle of the Swallows.

I think that pretty much sums it up.

And so- if ever offered a trip to Cancun, you might want to think about it. You might want to say, "How about Cozumel instead?"
Or even Isla Mujeres which is another island and one even smaller and less developed than Cozumel and another place I want and NEED to visit.

I have grown up in Florida and I am not ashamed to be a tourist. I am not even ashamed to visit tourist destinations. I just want them to be at least BASED on some sort of reality.
If there even is such a thing.

Glad we cleared that up.

Adios and vaya con whatever dios you believe in.

P.S. Elizabeth- do not take this personally. People think I go to Cancun all the time, including people I have known in real life for decades. Sigh.
I love you.

As Owen Would Say: What THE?! What THE?! WHAT HECK??!!

So okay, no more Herman Cain to kick around although his candidacy is merely "suspended," not ended and I have to think that has something to do with money, honey.

"I am at peace with my God," he says. "I am at peace with my wife and she is at peace with me."

I hope she gets a piece of the big ol' pizza pie of his wealth when she divorces him. That's what would bring me some peace in that situation.

On to Newt. Jesus. What happened to those Republicans wanting a president who isn't a "Washington Insider"?
Well, he'll have his fifteen minutes of being Top Dog and then someone else will scramble up the dog pile of can-this-really-be-the-best-the-Republicans-have-to-offer?

I'm gonna be all Honey Badger here. I don't give a shit. The more ridiculous the candidate they come up with, the better for the Democrats.
I wonder if Sarah Palin is just waiting in the wings, speaking of ridiculous.
I'll bet she is.
Jesus.

Mr. Moon keeps asking me what has happened to all of the cardinals at the feeder. I keep telling him that I DO NOT KNOW! They never write, they never call. I pointed out today that every darn seed in the woods is ripe for the taking and so maybe all the red birds are eating al fresco for real. He agreed this may be true. There's one juvenile at the feeder right now. "Go tell your friends!" Mr. Moon said. "Free food!"

The other night when Lis was here we got to talking about cooking. We do that a lot. She said, "It's time! We need to write the cookbook!"
"Okay!" I said. "But first, we need a title!"
We pondered, both of us for about one quarter of a second and then we spoke at the same time (this was post-martini, y'all, which explains all the exclamation points).
She said, Something Spanish!" just as I was saying, "How To Cook Southern!"

We laughed so hard. One has to wonder if we'll ever get serious about a cookbook.

Mr. Moon and I keep asking each other- "What do you want to do when we're in Mexico?"

For me, I think it mostly boils down to eating food I didn't cook, not washing any dishes, and lounging around on sheets I don't have to wash with my lovah.

Okay. There's more to it than that. But seriously? That's a big part of it. Just being honest. I want to buy some earrings, too.
And I have to admit that the idea of sharing my favorite place in the world with Jessie and Vergil is pretty darn exciting.
Here are some pictures that pretty much say it all for me:

But of course, I will have to make a pilgrimage to here:

 

And I hope the Insanely Huge And Terrifying Donkey is again part of the downtown Nativity.

And that one of my favorite statues is somewhere to be found. It seems to move around a lot.

And that this guy is still smiling in front of the restaurant where we always take our first meal.

And oh, so much Si, Si, Si! that we can visit Playa Corona and catch up with this old amigo and hear about his woes with his wife with whom he has been in a constant state of sort-of-warfare for twenty-something years and with whom he continues to have beautiful babies with despite that fact.

And now, on to the next thing which is that I have three hours to figure out why in hell I want to go audition for a play in Monticello. I have NO business making that sort of commitment at this point in my crazy, loco vida what with the trip and the baby coming and the fact that I barely have two brain cells to rub together to memorize lines with but... shitfire.
I just sort of want to.
For awhile there I had no desire to put myself out like that, no need to be out in the world, no feelings of goodness about any of it but it has all crept up again.
Dang it!
Well, again. There is only one female part and I might not get it and the odds are that I won't because the Tallahassee actors have discovered us here in the hinterlands and our beautiful stage and some of those women are HUNGRY for stage time and they are serious and they take classes and educate themselves and audition for things all the time and I'm just a little ol' granny here in Lloyd who don't know shit.
I mean that, too. Every word. I am NOT being self-deprecating. It's just the truth.

Well- one more thing- what in HELL is Mr. Moon doing out there on that four-wheeler? Oh. Picking up and hauling dead branches on a trailer behind it.
Lord.

Bless our hearts, y'all. Except Herman Cain's. And the entire Republican Party in general. I ain't blessing their hearts. They wouldn't want me to anyway. They are at peace with their God already and so anything I could do in the blessing department would be redundant, not to mention I just don't want to.

But I will surely bless yours. If you want me to.

Love...Ms. Moon

I'm not kidding you, the sky looked like that five minutes ago and I tried to take a picture of the waxing moon but it didn't come out. I don't know why.
I'm not upset about it, I'm not upset about one damn thing except the fumes of the flea spray Mr. Moon just doused our dogs with. We're in a battle with the fleas here which have become immune to Front Line and Advantage and dang, if this shit won't kill the little fuckers, I don't know what will.
Might kill the dogs and us too but I'm hoping not tonight.

I just dug back into that novel some more and here's the problem with it: it's too close to damn home. It's not a bad book although it needs massive edits and tightening and purging and so forth but it's just too close to home. Which means the bone. Which means...am I a writer or am I a shy little writer-wanna be?

Well, I will ponder this some more. I'm sorry I use the word "ponder" so much but it's one of my favorite words in the English language. I fell in love with it when I was a child and playing Mary in the church Nativity and the narrator said, "And Mary took these things and she pondered them in her heart."

I've been pondering ever since and I probably will continue to ponder until the day I die.

Soybeans are simmering, bread is rising. Fumes are dissipating, sun has set, Mr. Moon is ready to play some cards, Prairie Home Companion is on, I'm dressed like a homeless person in Goodwill Levi's and cashmere. In short, life is good.

Saturday night.

Y'all be well.

Love...Ms. Moon

Mistaken And Earned Identity

Ah. Last night was fun. I swear it was.

We stayed for the whole shebang and then Lon and Lis came over after on their way home and we all had a martini except for Lonnie who was driving and so I made him an espresso drink with milk and chocolate to keep his eyes open for the drive home.
Lis and I pledged our undying and eternal devotion and she cleaned the picture over the sink that she gave me so long ago. The picture that represents US.

The strangest thing happened at the restaurant. We were at a table next to a couple at another table and Mr. Moon knew them. He has done business with them and so he said hello and then the woman said to me, "Mary, I'm ....." and she said a name I hadn't thought of in forty years and lo and behold, I knew immediately who she was and when I last saw her she was seven or eight years old.
I knew all of her beautiful sisters, one was my age and we were in Girl Scouts together and friends, too, and their mama taught violin in Winter Haven and was the first teacher of my dear friend Dave Davidson whom I had just seen on Thanksgiving Eve.
Whoa. I have no idea how she knew it was me.
She's grown up to be as beautiful as her sisters.

So there was that and then of course, every one was telling me how much May and I look like each other and as one person pointed out, we even SOUND alike and then another person said that we even HUG alike and gave a detailed description of our hugs and that was fun.

But here's a funny thing that has been happening the last few times we've gone down to the Mockingbird to hear Lon and Lis and that is that I keep getting asked if I am Lis's sister and last night as we were leaving, a woman who looked remarkably like Lara Croft, Tomb Raider (ie, gorgeous) told me that I had a BEAUTIFUL VOICE and obviously, she had mistaken me for Lis.
All right. So she was a bit drunk. But.

I find it so interesting that perhaps I look enough like I did forty years ago in some weird way that a person who hasn't seen me in that amount of time could know who I was and also, at the very same time, look and sound and hug like my daughter and ALSO, at the very same time,  look enough like Lis to be her sister. Or her herself.

Well, I've always said I was a generic white person. As I've grown older and my face is now more of what I truly am and have lived, I am not quite as generic but I can't tell you how many times I've been mistaken for someone else and one night, a long time ago, a woman INSISTED that I was her cousin and I could tell that she wanted to slap the crap out of me for denying it.

But here I am now and if I am to be compared to other people, I can't think of any two more beautiful women to be told I look like than Lis and May.

Now when I go out I usually (and last night is a good example) wear fancy clothes that Lis has given me. She finds the velvets and even gave me the red cowgirl boots and so I am dressed like her and as I told her last night, we have been together long enough so that we have grown to look like each other.
Now if I could only sing like she does.
Sigh.

And speaking of clothes- my goal for today is to go through mine and find what I have. I have a bad habit of taking things off and if they are not dirty, putting them in a basket in my bathroom (which is where my dresser is too) for future wearing. And so there is a basket of pawed-through clothes and I can't find a damn thing in there and my closet is just complete and utter chaos. I mean, I found my bag of Goodwill cashmere two days ago. It seemed to have just popped back through from that parallel universe where it was residing and boom! there it was. All my softness in one bag.

So. On this beautiful day I am going to sort and sift and see if I can start figuring out what to take to Cozumel. I told Lis last night that I had indeed bought something to take to wear and she said, "Ooh! What?" and I said, "You'll laugh," and she said, "No I won't," probably thinking that I'd bought the sexy Santa costume from Bealls that we're always joking about but no, that wasn't it and I said, "A pair of men's cargo shorts!" and she did laugh because that is so me.
Lis probably would no more wear a pair of men's cargo shorts than I would wear a sexy Santa outfit although we both love velvet and silk and best of all- silk velvet- and cashmere and cowgirl boots. Lis is far more into the jewelry than I am and has jewels for every occasion but we do swap those back and forth. Earrings, necklaces, etc.

And May dresses like neither of us, although a little like me sometimes and her jewelry is understated and she does like to paint her eyes with gold shadow and so do I.

Ah-lah. It's Saturday. Another perfectly beautiful day and we've had golden-yolked eggs and grits and toast and here I go to try and create order from my garments, one little thing I can do to try and make a place in my life more serene, less cluttered. And then I'll go out to the hen house and give them clean straw for their nests and fill up their waterer and their feeder and I'll tell them thank-you, my lovely hens, for your bountiful gifts and also to Elvis, my brave and gentle rooster who looks like no other although the hens do sort of all look like each other mostly but I can tell them apart and they are all beautiful to me.

Here's a picture I took the other day which made me happy and so I'm giving it to you. One of our little anole lizards, hanging out on the sink in Mr. Moon's bathroom. To me, that lizard looks just like every other lizard in this house and yard but I am certain that his mama knows exactly who he is.

We're going out. My eyes are spangled, my feet red cowboy booted. Velvet is involved in my costume.
My man is gorgeous, tall and fine.
We're going to go hear music and eat supper.
Lon and Lis.
I've already gotten hugs from them.
Billy's right. Lis smells better than anyone on earth.
Oh my.

Mer and Bop are goin' out on the town.

Attitude Adjustments

I was talking to Kathleen last night and Kathleen is like The World's Best Human or at least a runner-up in the Universal Pageant and she said that she was too tired these days to be happy.
Well, no mystery there. If she's not doing a play AND taking care of her father AND taking care of her dogs AND taking care of her yard AND hosting Garden Club meetings AND making soap AND getting her entire vast Christmas preparations done before December ALL AT THE SAME TIME, she's, well, I don't know.
Oh yeah. Making scarfs for everyone in the world. And hosting Thanksgiving dinner for various family and friends.
So yes, she's tired.
And she's leaving this morning to go down south to take care of a friend who had back surgery whose wife is in the hospital in a coma.
But that's not what I wanted to talk about.
What I wanted to talk about was how she told me that she'd heard a program on NPR about how a "good attitude" in terminally ill patients did not affect the outcome of their disease one iota.
Not one.
Of course, there are plenty of good reasons to have a good attitude. Whatever life you have left (whether you have a disease or not) will be far more pleasant both for you and your friends and family if you have a decent attitude about things. This goes without saying.

BUT- it got me to thinking about how we all spend so much energy and guilt trying to be GRATEFUL every day and all that other Oprah stuff and let's face it- some of us were born with cheerful attitudes and some of us were not. Or else the good attitudes were lost somewhere along the way in early childhood or, well, you know.
And yet we are told over and over again that we should  be Zen-like and even DOG-like in our acceptance of life, ever-cheerful, ever-accepting of whatever life hands us, ever-grateful, ever uber-aware of how good we have it, etc., etc.,  our tails wagging, always ready to jump up and take a walk at any moment, and if we aren't, we probably have a brain-glitch wherein CHEMICALS are involved and we need medication and hey- I'm not arguing with that one- and of course it's nicer to be happy than to be depressed and it feels better but it's gone far beyond that.

It's almost like the old, superstitious dark ages when disease was blamed on demons. Now we don't call them demons, we call them bad emotions that can somehow create disease. I quit believing in that shit when my stepfather, who has feared cancer his entire life and who is FILLED with bad emotions, didn't die at a young age and never got cancer at all but in fact, is still alive at the age of 87 or something like that. 

So what are you saying, Ms. Moon?

Fuck if I know.

No, no. What I'm saying is that we should stop with the anguish and self-blame if we forget that dude with no feet when we're complaining about having no shoes. It doesn't help us one damn bit if we don't have shoes to remember the guy with no feet. DUDE WITH NO FEET DOESN'T NEED SHOES AND WE DO! I've always said that someone else's cancer does not cure our broken leg nor does it make the pain more bearable. Yes, it can put our broken leg in perspective but it really, on a physical level, does not help at all and on an emotional level, can only add to our agony.

And how we handle things, whether good things or bad things, depends on so many different things and feeling guilty that we don't have the right attitude about things just cannot be helpful. Sometimes it is entirely appropriate to feel angry or depressed and would be wrong not to. Some things we cannot be cheered up out of. Some things only time will resolve and there will be much misery and much crying and much sadness before that begins to happen. Some things should not be accepted at all.
I had a friend whose first husband was so horrible and abusive that she had to escape from him, literally escape, and years later, when she was married to a different man who was abusive in different ways, she couldn't help but compare that abuse to what her first husband had done and she stuck with him for years and years until she was almost completely beaten down and dammit, she had a great attitude but I swear, it ended up killing her and before she died, he crept back into her life like the snake he was and the things he did or caused to happen to her were the lowest of the low and even now, when I think of them, I shudder and I want to go find him and cut his head off because the world would be a better place if I did.

Sometimes it's not our attitude that needs changing, it's our circumstances.
Sometimes anger can fuel that change. Yes, acceptance has its place in this world and I'm all for gratefulness- if there is truly reason to be grateful and speaking personally, I have a lot to be grateful for but sometimes, when depression takes me over, that's not enough and the guilt I feel for it NOT being enough only adds another layer of blackness that I have to find my way out of.

Not today. Today I have a GREAT attitude and I'm grateful as all get-out and it's a beautiful day and I have no real obligations but I know without doubt that something will be coming along eventually, whether it is real or perceived that will knock me back and I accept that and I hope that if it is something real, I can do something to change it but if it's just perceived (due to those brain chemicals or whatever) feeling guilty about my fucking attitude is not going to help.

All right. That's what I am thinking about this morning. And if your attitude and mood are lovely today, then enjoy the hell out of it, and if they're not, well, don't feel guilty.
We are humans, not Zen masters. We are humans, not dogs. I am me, not Kathleen. I can admire her from here to eternity, but I will never have the attitude of acceptance and perseverance that she does. Never in my life.
I admire her and I love her but I cannot be her.

I am me. You are you. And no where is it written that we all have to have good attitudes all of the time.

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

Yeah. It's All Right

My back is like piano wires stretched up to high C and beyond, all the way to can't-be-heard-except-by-dogs and I don't even know why, I certainly do not feel especially stressed out although these dogs- in and out/in and out, god, all day long, let me just vaporize them up to heaven.

I went out into the market place today and looked at book readers and thought I knew what I wanted but a very nice young man may have changed my mind. I sort of doubt it. Why do we feel that if we choose this over that then our lives will not be as they are supposed to be? This can certainly be true in the case of choice of oncologist but probably not book readers nor whether to have the salmon or the pasta for dinner. Whether to buy the mixer in red or stainless, the sheets in blue or yellow.

I called and made an appointment next January to get my eyes examined to see if I am a candidate to get the Lasik. I did that. I called. I made an actual appointment. I wish they could do it tomorrow. I can't see for shit any more and I know that these glasses which I've had for years can't be right any more.

So I did all of that and I walked and I cleaned toilets and I went to the grocery store and I picked salad and I am cooking sweet potatoes and I almost bought a beautiful pair of clogs at Marshall's but the line was so long I just went and put them back on their shelf. There was Christmas music playing but it didn't bother me and for one second I thought, "Mary, you love your family more than anything on this earth. You should not be leaving them for Christmas, you should suck it up and do it for them," and then I thought, "Fuck that. If them knowing how much I love them depends on Christmas then I have failed miserably," and I went on, cheerful in the knowledge that I am NOT going down that road, no way, no how. I plan on staying reasonably sane this month and that's a fine goal.

Lily and Jason and Owen made it safely to Asheville where they are with Jessie, and Owen talked to me on the phone a little but then he had to get off the phone to go chase the cat. So I am at peace over that.

I didn't meet Bill Murray or finish my novel or meet Keith Richards for lunch but I did wash my hair and shave my legs so I'm ready, should the opportunity for either arise tomorrow.

And now I'm so tired I can barely sit up but I'll make it through supper which will be non-poultry-related and then I'll go to bed and hope that I do not dream of chicken coops built on an incline which keeps flooding and endangering my chickens. Why I dream this every night is beyond me. But I seem to need to. I've had worse dreams, I'm just getting bored with that one.

Those sweet potatoes smell so good. I sure am glad I live in the south and can eat sweet potatoes and also, salad from the garden in December. I'm going to chop up pears and pecans to put in the salad. Man, that is going to be good.

You know what? I am pretty damn happy. When was the last time you heard me say that?
Well, I probably won't say it again for a long time but for right now, it's true. Piano-wire back and all. Gee Dee dogs and all.

Sleep well, my friends. I mean it.

Love...Ms. Moon

Today's To Do List

Cold, cold and the blood runs through me like molasses or something slow and sticky. The sun shines down hard but its light is ineffectual in the heating department and the thermostat says Replace Battery.
What? How does one DO that?
Oh my god, I just figured it out and did it. 
Okay. My work here is done.
Good-bye.

Not really.

I am making lists in my head. They go something like this:

Lose twenty pounds in next twenty days.
Buy silk underwear.
Buy Kindle.
Get hair done.
Get eye surgery.
Look like this:

Shitfire.
I wish.
I saw part of Laurel Canyon the other night which starred the amazing Frances McDormand. The acting of almost everyone in the movie annoyed the fucking crap out of me. Look- I am not an actor and do not pretend to be one but come ON! people. Frances, though, was amazing as she always is. It was worth wading through the crappity crap just to watch her.
Plus, I want that hair. I have that hair. It just has not been revealed by the proper stylist.
I want that body but I'm too fucking lazy.
I do not, however, want leather jeans. Who came up with THAT idea? I don't even really enjoy sitting on a leather couch.
Well.

So. Let's see. What else is on the list?

Figure out what to cook for supper. (NO turkey or poultry of any sort.)
Make bed.
Clean toilets.
Meet Bill Murray.
Finish novel.
Get it published.
Convince Larry David to give me role on Curb Your Enthusiasm in which I can swear like a sailor.
Clean floor around toilets.

Here's something I was thinking about the other night:
You know that old saying- don't judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes?

I think that might be the truest thing in the world.


You know that other old saying- I cried because I had no shoes until I saw a man with no feet?

Don't tell that one to an eight-year old. It will freak the shit out of them.

All right. Obviously I have a lot to do today.
I might even have lunch with Keith Richards. We'll drink vodka and discuss our grandchildren and laugh until the tiny bells we have entwined in our hair tinkle and our mascara and eye-liner will run down our faces.

Our perfect, deeply-wrinkled old faces.

Be well, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Cookies and Crap

Oh, it was a hard morning. Owen did not want to get up and get out of bed. He did not want to come to Mer's house and when he got here, he did not want to let his father go.
It was heart-rending.
The crying. The arms reaching out. Then- the worst- he knelt on the kitchen floor and cried at the door, "No leave, Daddy!"
Oh Lord. I thought I might die.
I did not. Nor did Owen.
He finally got interested in a smoothie and then he wanted some cheese cubes to eat with a toothpick. By the time I'd gotten out the cocktail glass monkeys and mermaids which have been languishing on a shelf for years, he was a happy boy again.
We had a pretty easy day of it, to tell you the truth. We hung out inside a lot because it's cold. We did make our pilgrimages out to feed the chickens and munch collards from the plants in the garden like animals and see the goats but we watched some Dinosaur Train too. Why do the dinosaurs ride on the train?
I do not know and if you do, don't even try to explain it to me. Frankly, I don't give a shit.

Anyway, Lily had asked me if I would make some chocolate chip cookies for them to take on their trip to Asheville as the heating element in their oven is broken and of course I said I would. I realized that I've never yet made cookies either with or for Owen that I can remember. And frankly, he was too interested in the cocktail glass monkeys and mermaids to want to help and when I offered him some cookie dough to sample, he turned up his nose at it. In fact, he refused to eat a cookie too. What kind of a child is this? He wanted a carrot. So I gave him a carrot. He'll eat raw collard greens but not a cookie?
Fine. See if this grandma ever makes that child any more cookies.

I asked him in the early afternoon if he wanted a nap.
"NO!" he said. Then he thought about it. "Maybe."
We took a nap. Three pages of the Cat In The Hat and he was ready for the Mr. Peep story.
He did have two cookies when he got up. He liked them. I think he may have shared them with Zeke, to tell you the truth. I know Zeke likes cookies.

And then his mama came and got him and took him home and left me sad. Why do I get so damn depressed every time one of my children leaves the North Florida/South Georgia area? Ah, it's just the way it is. I'm like Elvis- I want to know where every one of my flock is at all times and I want to keep them close enough so that I can come running if they need me.
That's ridiculous. But it's true.

Oh well.
Thank all of you for your book reader imput. I'm pretty sure I'm going to order a Kindle and not the Kindle Fire. If we do ever get iPhones, that would double what I already won't need. But I'm pretty excited about the prospect. And I sure do and really very much appreciate the fact that you took the time to tell me your experiences and give me your advice. I needed it.

It might freeze tonight. We are not totally unprepared this time. Whatever I really want which hasn't already frozen has been moved into the house or covered. I hate this process.

So I have nothing else to say except that I wish someone would just hand me about ten thousand dollars because I want my hair cut and colored and made lighter and I want that Kindle and I want the eye surgery to get rid of glasses.
See what happens when you buy a new appliance? You're never satisfied. Never.

That's what's happening in Lloyd tonight. It's not very amusing and it's not very funny and it's certainly not life-shaking but here it is for what it's worth.

God. I need to get my blogging shit together.
I'll try.

Your boring and faithful correspondent...Ms. Moon

Kindergarten Rhymes

Mr. Moon is in the woods and Owen's on his way
I have been up since before the break of day...

Everything I start to write in my head today rhymes. Sometimes that happens. I do not know why.
I'll try to nip it in the bud.

So let me ask y'all a question- how many of you have book readers? And do you like them? I am thinking that taking my usual load of books to Mexico is really sort of ridiculous considering weight limitations on luggage and so forth when I could take what amounts to an entire library on a tiny little thing that would fit in my purse. Advice? I've fought the idea for a long time because, well...books! Paper, ink! ETC!
You know. I KNOW you know.
But...do you use one? What kind? Does it give you a satisfactory reading experience?

All right. I have to get ready for that boy of my heart.

The cat she is fed and the chickens are in the coop.
The refrigerator is filled with a vat of turkey soup.

The sun's coming up and the boy will want to play
Time to get going on this chilly winter day.

I'm done.
Love...Ms. Moon

Counting Miracles

Making soup and bread is rising but I am feeling the agitato. I'll get over it. I dumped out so much stuff today. A gallon of turkey broth probably. So what? I am not crowding my freezer with Goodwill Tupperware inadequately labeled "turkey broth, '11." I should but I am not. Also I threw out the gravy which was pretty good. I don't need any more gravy.

So turkey and celery and onions and the broth and carrots and half a big thing of "fresh" salsa and garlic, garlic, garlic. I'll add rice, brown and wild. It'll be good, especially when I add lime juice and cilantro and chop an avocado and maybe some fresh tomato into it before we eat it.
I'm hungry.

I really don't have much on my mind, just is it really going to freeze this week? and should I get my hair trimmed before I go to Cozumel? Simple, normal things.

It's a relief.

Tomorrow Owen's coming at eight. I forgot Lily's midwife appointment this morning. I forget everything. Lily called me after the midwife left and said it was okay, the midwife had been really early. All is well. Her blood pressure is behaving. Owen listened to the baby's heartbeat and kissed his mama. All is unfolding as our hearts are too, even as we are not quite aware of it as we wait for this baby.
Isn't it amazing, the way babies just grow inside of their mamas and we have no idea the multitude of exploding miracles happening in there? On the outside, the mother looks beautiful and glowing or tired and weary but really- besides that expanding belly, there is so little sign of what is going on inside of her dark ruby womb. I think that is one of the reasons I dislike the practice of women getting so many sonograms during pregnancy these days. I keep thinking that it's somehow all part of the miracle not to actually "see" what is so naturally hidden away.
Perhaps that is ridiculous but honestly- I don't think that the studies can prove at this point that all of this pre-birth-baby viewing is doing much in the way of creating better outcomes for babies. In fact, I believe it probably is doing the reverse.

Well. It will be nice if we don't see the face of this child until it is born. He or she will be beautiful like Owen is, no matter where the genes land this time. Of that I am sure. To have the features, the form, the sex of the child revealed at that perfect moment of birth seems like all part of the plan of everyone's falling in love with each other all over again and in the newness of that freshborn baby.

Lily and Jason and Owen are going to Asheville tomorrow night to go visit Jessie. I am so glad of that. When I asked Owen about it, he said, "Whoo-hoo!" and stuck his arms up into the air. He loves Jessie so. And it will be so good for Lily to be loved on by her little sister.
Since the theme here today at blessourhearts seems to be miracles, let me just say that the way my kids get along with each other, truly love to be with each other- well, that's a miracle to me. A damn joyous one, too.

That's enough of the miracle talk. I could go on for days, as you well know, and sometimes do.
But if you want to tell me about any miracles you've encountered, small to large, prosaic to astounding, I would love to hear about them.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon

Spanish Moss And Resurrection Fern 

The sun is shining and last night's rain is dripping and everything is clean and crisp, it is getting cooler. I can hear the pat-pat-patting of the beaded drops of water falling to the fallen leaves, the rooster, the heater with its comforting purr. 

No Owen today. No hugs and no kisses from that particular boy. He was full of them last night and he was just sweet. He played, he entertained us with stunning feats of horse-riding, he ate vast quantities of yogurt and an orange and a carrot and refused noodles and green beans and tomatoes. He gave all of us hats at dinner to wear, sunhats from my collection, and pronounced us all Towboys and it was hard to keep a straight face while telling Mr. Moon a story from the day while he was wearing a straw hat with a lovely ribbon-covered brim. Owen played in the bath, he hid in the covers, he helped me fold napkins, fresh from the new dryer. He threw himself against us with hugs. He pretended to shoot a tiger. He pretended to be a tiger. He showed me how to hold a fishing pole.

He is perfect.

Today is going to be a day of clearing out. The chickens have already received most of a box of Cheez Nips which I cannot have in the house simply because I will eat them. I am going to make soup from the turkey and then that is that. Done. The other night I said to Mr. Moon, "We have so much butter in this refrigerator!" and he said, "Thow it out!"

Maybe I'll freeze it.

My mother once brought an entire turkey carcass back from North Carolina in a cooler in order to make soup from it. No turkey carcass went to waste under her care! I am half her and half my old dead drunken daddy, crazy as a loon and ran off to be a cowboy when he was a kid. And really did. 

Not a good mix of genes, let me tell you. I do crazy things and then feel very, very guilty about them. 

That is the way of it.

The new washer has been put to the test. Let me just say that the Whitest Whites function is amazing. We need sunglasses around here. Mr. Moon accused me of putting in new light bulbs when I showed him his clean undershirt. Ah, the joys of the middle class! Our appliances make us so happy! I am washing the sheets now, eying everything made of fabric in this house. Pillows! Yes! I will wash all of the throw pillows! I could wash everything in the coat closet! I will wash EVERYTHING and I will throw out what I cannot wash or care to eat and life will be simple and good. And clean. And Godly.

Right.

But. It's a goal. To clear, to clean, to take trash, to go to the library. I am returning TC Boyle's The Women. I am plodding through it, slogging through it and frankly, (no pun intended) I don't find the fire in it. Okay. That's two puns because the book is about Frank Lloyd Wright and his women and for some reason, their houses kept burning down. It's well-written but I just can't care about it or them. The women. Maybe if I finished it I would understand.

Well. Life should be filled with mystery and I believe this shall remain one of them along with the mystery of the evolutionary purpose of guilt, the mystery of why some children are just born good-natured, the mystery of why my husband only grows more handsome, the mystery of why my kitchen floor seems to grow dirt of its own accord, the mystery of The Huge Eggs, the mystery of why Mr. Peep, the turkey next door, is still alive and why Owen likes to hear his story to fall asleep to. 

And of course, the eternal mystery of Keith Richards.

Oh. So many mysteries to ponder as I go about my day. My lucky, light, Whitest Whites day.

All Is Well

Owen is holding a baby doll wrapped in a blanket.
We can wash the blanket, should it get dirty.
Wow.

As Much As One Life Can Hold

Every time I woke up last night I was startled to hear rain outside. It's been so long that my brain actually had to do a bit of scrambling to identify the sound.
Rain? Really? Yes.
Soft rain. Patter rain. But still...real rain.
It is still raining this morning. I just looked at the radar and we may have seen the most of it and now it's going to get cold but that's fine. If the weather didn't change all the damn time, what would we have to talk about?
What DO they talk about in Hawaii?

Well. It's Monday. The Thanksgiving Holiday is behind us except for the turkey carcass and the soup I shall make for us which is in the future. We cleaned out some leftovers last night but of course, there is never really an end to them. I just take them and make more leftovers out of them in a different form. An alchemy of sorts.

The new washing machine is supposed to be here in two hours. I hope with all my heart it comes on time because I have to take my mother to the knee doctor and then pick up Owen and I will have him until late when his parents get off work. He and I shall learn how to use the new machine together. We shall wash all of the things which the old machine finally gave up on yesterday. I tried, it tried. But it's just so tired, that old machine. There are drippy towels in the shower of the bathroom off the kitchen and Owen and I shall start with those.

Rain. Water coming from the sky. Yesterday we sat outside and ate our pancakes and it was blue and soft and warm. Thanksgiving is over and for the first time in my life I am not concerned with the upcoming Christmas madness. I have finally said, "Enough." I am not doing one damn thing. If I am on your Christmas list, please mark me off. I am calmly thrilled. Black Friday meant nothing to me, not that it ever does. All of a sudden, it just seems so simple- not unlike the taking up of the poop rug. Just...do it.
Or don't do it, as in the case with Christmas.
Refuse to participate.
Baby Jesus was born when he was born. That's all I have to say about that. Here's what I think- I think that every day of my life is a fucking miracle and that every baby born is a fucking miracle and that since I love Christmas lights I keep them up all year 'round, or at least a string here and there. I love trees and so I live beside and beneath a whole bunch of them.
It is Christmas every day here. As much as I can hold, anyway. Every egg I get from the nest is a present. Every kiss I get is a present and every "I love you," and every cardinal at the feeder is a present wrapped in red. This rain is the best gift I could get today. The rest of it? All that stuff they talk about on TV?
Not this year, baby. Not this year.

Well. The wind blew the door shut into the hen house and when I went to open it in case one of my lovelies needs to lay an egg I saw the gate into the garden had blown open and all of the chickens are in there. I tried to herd them out and then tried to lure them out with stale bread. It worked, except for one, Miss Dahlia, who seems to prefer the tasty bugs and tender weed shoots of the garden.
What to do?
Oh you know what I did. I left them in there. They'll all come out sooner or later. They seem to be most interested in what lies under the mulch than in my greens, anyway.

And Lis just called and I HAD FORGOTTEN! that she and Lon are in Monticello visiting Lon's sister and that they would be coming over this morning.
Ah, the brain of the elderly.
But see? It's always new. Always a surprise.

It's like Christmas every day.
Without the mall and the crowds and the guilt.
Well, I'm working on the guilt part. I am finding it surprisingly easy.

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

This And That

This and that is what I've done today. Washed the dogs and cleaned the tub. Watered the porch plants and the transplanted spirrhea and put the sprinkler on a few flower beds, more for the lizards and birds and squirrels than for the plants. I worry about those animals so much- where do they get their water now when it is so very dry? I do not know so I give them some.
I mopped the hallway, newly freed from its rug. I swept the porch. I planted some rooted plants into pots.
And then I came out to my office. This room which long ago was the kitchen of the house and which, since then, has been used as a studio and a writing room that I know of. The studio of a painter, the writing room of a...writer.
A real writer, you know, one who makes her living writing books which get published, which have made her money, which paid for the bathroom I take my showers in, my pretty, pretty bathroom.

I haven't done squat in this office for so very long. Oh, I come out here with Owen. It's another play room for him. He loves the little Hula Girl candles, the mermaids, the madonnas, the little wooden elephant. All of my totems although he does not yet know who Johnny Weismuller is or Frida Kahlo either, and the map of Cozumel means nothing to him, nor does the watercolor of Tulum.
When I come out here with him, I get depressed. The dirt, the neglect, the signs of animals being here to chew, to steal fabric to make nests.
So this afternoon, I cleaned it up. I moved out a few things which do not bring me happiness. I boxed up old Zip drives and an old printer that hasn't been used in years. I wiped surfaces clean and gave a polish to the old wooden file cabinet. I swept.
And then I brought my lap top out and sat down. To write.
But what I really did was to find the document of a novel I've written (Lord, how many novels HAVE I written?) and start to go through it again.
I finished it quite some time back, and mainly to prove to myself I could. I have never been happy with the ending. I was never very happy with the whole thing. I started writing it as a form of anger-therapy, truthfully, and never meant to go anywhere with it. Gave myself permission to write the worst novel ever written and just get out the petty anger I was feeling at the time.
And when I started rereading today, I realized that, well, I don't think it's that horrible. But here's the thing- it turns out that the book is about a woman who cannot think of herself as a writer. She is a mother, a wife. She writes in an office just like this one. She lives in this house. She is writing a book about lives which have been lived in this house. She is me, of course, and she is not me, of course.
She is confronted with a "real" writer who at one time lived in the house, who wants to know if she can come and visit it again because she, too, is writing about the house.
Which makes this woman, this would-be-can't-be a writer angry as hell.

And no, the real writer who used to live here never has come here to visit that I know of since I've lived here. But she did write me once to ask if I thought this house had spirits in it because she was writing a book about the house. Even though she had left it, she had a book to write about it. Which made me angry because it's not her house any more, even if she did live here. Even if she did write here, even if she did build that beautiful bathroom.

And she did. She wrote the book. It got published. I've written about it. Hell, I've written about this whole situation right here on the blog. I've written about writing and I've written about the anger and I've written about the book the writer wrote and it's all like a twisted knot of worms. This parallel universe rubbing up and intersecting with that one, this real life becoming twisted with another person's real life.
This house, this room, this space, these trees, this town, those roses, these words, my words, her words.

All of it. And I let so much anger out in the book I wrote. Anger about writing, about not writing. Anger about other things. Sadness, too. Those two pointed weights on the scale which balance each other out and in rereading this book (or a great deal of it) I feel it all again. The real writer's book about this house is filled with what we call magical realism which let's face it- some people can write and some people cannot.
Hank can write it. I'll tell you that.

I really do not have a point here. There is no point except to say that this is an issue I have not resolved one bit. This writing thing. This feeling of I will never be a writer even though I know better. I write here, every day. Sometimes it is not so great, but I put it down, I send it out. More than that, though, I view everything through my writer-eyes. Can this be written about? Can that? Can this be made into a story and if so, can I tell it properly?


When I cleaned up this room, I threw away three damn awards I'd gotten for writing. One year I decided to actually participate in a local writing contest. I submitted fiction, memoir, and poetry. I won first place for each. I was high as a kite.
Then. Nothing. I have submitted nothing at all anywhere since then and I do not feel that it was any sort of accomplishment. I think I am prouder of the night I sat out here and churned out a short story while a hurricane was approaching and the wind blew so hard that the trees bowed almost to the ground. I don't know that anyone's read that story.

I look around this room and I want to make it mine again. To shine up my totems with my gaze. To wear out the floor under the chair where I sit my ass. To keep the floor swept. To come out here as a statement to the fact that there is a part of me which is not defined as wife or mother or grandmother, even as my grandson busies himself with collecting and arranging everything from paper clips to madonnas.
To write.

And I want to say this to each of you- to all of US- we only need to let ourselves. To let ourselves have the dream of what writing can mean to us all. Because I know you have it too. I know you do. If you are here, if you are reading this, you do. And some of you do not need to hear that. Some of you have written and been published and you never had so much as a damn chair to call your own.

But you did it anyway. You DO it anyway. You write out your anger and your joy and your fears and your loves and your sorrows and your recipes and your footprints in the snow.

The room is clean. It's a start. I've said this so many times but tonight I realize that I have written books. In that room and in others and on my lap on a yellow legal tablet.
I have done that.
Books.
I can do it again. Even though, EVEN THOUGH it brings me more pleasure than I think I deserve. In a room I don't really believe I deserve but to which I hold on to with fingers of grasping steel.

That's what I have to say tonight.
I have written it out. I am sending it to you. May we all slide the cover of dust off of our dreams.
They are ours and if we have dreamed them, we deserve them.
I swear. You too. Me too. I swear.

Sometimes You Get What You Want Only To Discover It Is What You Need

The air is so soft today. Like silk velvet, cool on the skin. The earth is breathing it out to touch us, leaves scatter in that breath, wind chimes tangle, jangle in it, old man moss beards sway in far-up branches.

I got no complaints.

Made the leftover sweet potatoes into pancakes and we ate them sitting outside at the table under the trees. I put his glass of milk in the freezer because he likes it so cold. I honor his boyhood when I do that. He drank his milk from the one-degree-above-freezing cooler his daddy stored it in on the dairy farm. He would dip his Bozo mug into that milk whenever he wanted.
Can you imagine?
I can. I can see it in my mind. I like the picture, I put his milk in the freezer.

We went out together to let the chickens out. Held hands on the small journey. We watched as the hens scattered, each to her favorite place, we went in the garden and agreed that yes, the weeds are taking over again.
Ah. Sigh.
The hens scratched around us, Mabel had her head in the fence, reaching through for the tender sprouts of watered weeds. She is a good looking hen now that her feathers have grown back. Who knew?
What is there which is so delightful about the simple watching of chickens on a Sunday morning? When they come out of the hen house, Elvis does his little courting dance around each one. I think he is saying, "I think you are pretty, my hen, I find you very attractive."
The hens dance away sideways and say, "Excuse me. I would like my breakfast now."
That's what I think they are saying. I really do although Mr. Moon is more of the opinion that Elvis is saying, "I am horny."

Okay- here's a complaint- I just pulled a damn tick off my head. I'm sure I got it yesterday, crouching under tall dry weeds to pick up trash. No good deed goes unpunished. My scalp, where I removed it, hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.
Oh well.
Not much of a complaint.

It's Sunday and the air is soft and the earth is breathing in and out and so are we and tomorrow will be crazy-busy but today is not. Today is for moving softly through this soft air. Today is for opening all of the doors and letting the earth's breath move through my house.
Today is for holding hands and watching chickens scratch in the dirt and gathering eggs, blue, green and brown. Today is for watering the porch plants, washing the dogs, for whatever it is we want to do.

A day for perhaps feeling saudade and wabi-sabi and Ya'aburnee. All at once.

A day to perhaps go search the YouTube for an old song which evokes any of these feelings. A day to walk down to the river, a day to sit in the sun, to let music play in your own head or in the trees above you. A day to play music if you are one of the blessed ones who can do that.

A day to be soft and feel softness and breathe it in and let it out and that's enough.

Here in Lloyd anyway. That is enough. For today.

And I need to give Jo credit for giving us a poem this morning which led my head into this direction for which I am grateful to her.

Poop And Trash, Sweetness And Light

It has been a good day. An antidote day to the craziness of the past week. A craziness which of course was wonderful in and of itself, but which was exhausting, nonetheless.
It was a day of small and simple tasks. Tidying up and putting away. Sweeping and cleaning out the roost-nests in the hen house.
Napping. I am a bit horrified at how much I can sleep these days. But I drink it in. I take it.
I took a walk this morning and the amount of trash on Main Street pissed me off to the point where after my nap I put on my overalls and drove down there in my car and pulled out black garbage bags and filled them up. I told the man who sits in his truck at the end of Main Street as a recreational activity what I was doing.
"People don't care," he said. And I thought to myself that no, they do not, him included although he certainly does keep the trash off of his part of Main Street. He works hard in his yard and it is a tidy yard and his bushes are trimmed and his leaves are raked and burned.
"County used to come and clean it up. They don't do that any more."
"Well," I said, "I guess the person it upsets the most had better clean it up then," and I proceeded to do so and for right this second, it looks good. Main Street looks good. The styrofoam plates and cups and candy bags and beer bottles and cans and water and soda bottles and Subway bags will return, but for now, this second, it looks fine.
I am not happy to do this chore. It seems to me that of course, "someone" else should do it although it would be far better if no one threw their trash out the window in the first place but they do and that is human nature. Trashy human nature.
Main Street in Lloyd is a great mixture of architecture and types of houses. There are a few of our old houses. Some are being lived in and taken care of, some are lying lonely. One old cabin is falling in completely, the old falling-down house as I call it, and one, owned by a local bastard according to lore, is just empty and not being taken care of. Supposedly this man has bought a lot of land here in Lloyd, hoping to parley it all into a Hardee's, taking advantage of the interstate exit. Who knows? It is a shame, though, to see that house falling prey to time and disregard.
Well. I don't care how small a place you live in, you will run across every sort of human, almost. Most of us are kind people and we do care and we do try to just, oh, you know, keep things tidy. No one is obsessive about it, just thoughtful. I try not to judge but of course I do. There is one modular home on Main Street which is lived in by the trashiest of the trashy and over a year ago, one of their dogs tore up a dog bed and the foam is still littering the yard and that is hardly the worst of it. They keep chickens and advertise Farm Fresh Eggs.
I would not buy anything to eat from those people. Who would?
On the other hand, the lowest-of-the-low of the old trailers is being rented by some people who obviously care. Their yard is litter-free and they have plants in pots and a basketball hoop and rabbits in cages which are always filled with clean hay and look sturdy.
One can live in a trailer and still take some sort of responsibility for one's immediate surroundings.

And I guess that's why I feel pretty okay today. I have taken responsibility for my own immediate surroundings. I did nothing to change the world but I cleaned up Main Street in Lloyd, Florida.

I also threw out the rug that has been in our front entry-way since we moved here. It was the sort of rug which cleverly disguised anything. Blood, puke, dog shit. Mostly dog shit in our situation. And I will never, ever step in dog shit again on that rug, not having seen it. I will never sweep that rug, only to realize I am sweeping dog shit.
You do not know how happy I am about that.
Such a simple thing. Take up the fucking rug. And if the dogs pee or poop there, I can clean it up properly, I will not step in it.

I feel lighter, even though my refrigerator is still packed and stacked with leftovers. I want very much to make turkey nachos tonight but I realize it would be more sensible to just have Thanksgiving Day Dinner all over again and see if we can't clear out some of that food.

We'll see. Mr. Moon and I will see what we feel like. We're going to play some Yahtzee now. We've spent all day here, together at some times and doing separate things at others. One of the things I love about my marriage is how sweet we almost always are to each other. We know the value of that. We do not take the other's feelings for granted.
We have been very sweet today.

Sweetness and light. In a, oh, you know, funky trash-cleaning, get-down-and-get-dirty sort of way.

Yes. A good day. Nothing wild, nothing crazy, except for the very fact of such holy prosaic-ness.

He wants to play Yahtzee now.
I'm ready.

If you love words, please go visit our beautiful Angella .here.
She has given us a list of them from other languages which our tongues may not know but which are hearts surely do.
Thank-you, Angella.