Welcoming our analog overlords to the 21st century

I have this long-time friend. His name is Garth.

Ok, it’s not Garth. It’s something completely different but it doesn’t matter because the first initial is the same even though the name doesn’t rhyme and Garth is a lot less annoying than his real name.

Garth is my age. He’s 29. Yep. 29. My story and I’m sticking to it. He may or may not be a year older. Garth is one of those holdouts stuck in the analog world and I swear to Gods if he could manage it I’m sure he would banish any kind of technology that didn’t serve his insatiable desire to watch TV, videos, music, or play games.  He would also probably enjoy going back to coal stoves and corn cobs for toilet duty.

Continuing…Garth is my City Mouse friend and I am his Country Mouse friend. He is allergic to the country the way I’m allergic to the city.  We have known one another since like 1987 which is like forever in dog years.

Today I got a call on my phone from a strange number…I never answer those…and when I checked my voicemail there was this message:

“Hey this is Garth! Just wanted you to have my new cell number. I tried to text you but I have no idea how this works. Talk to ya later!”

Good lordie. I didn’t even see the giant pigs flying, did YOU?

So I called him. On his cell phone. Which was a truly surreal experience for me and I’m like “Whoa dude! You got a phone!!!”

And he said yeah…that the woman he has been seeing put him on her “plan…whatever that is” and handed him this phone that has an apple on it and he doesn’t even know what that means but he’s cancelling his house phone and only using this.

Hehe…..an apple on it. You’re too cute, dude. Stahp it.  The man’s a comedian (no really…he’s an actual comedian) so I’m like, what kind of phone is it?

He says “It’s a smartphone”

I’m “Well unless you have a flip phone or a burner phone they’re all smart phones these days.  What kind”

“It has an apple on it.”

So I say, what version? 4? 5? 6?

He says he doesn’t know what kind it is but it lights up, and that he had tried to text me as a surprise but he couldn’t figure it out.

And at this point I’m thinking..dude…you’re shittin’ me here, right? LOL  Goddess, I love ya.

So I tell him how to text…to look for the icon (“what’s an icon?”) that resembles a little envelope thingy and then press it (“there’s no button…how do I press it?”)….and no, dude you just touch the thing….did you touch it?  (“Yeah. Now what?”)  Type. Type something. (“How? There’s no buttons…”)

Ok so I have to admit I was laughing because really…is he or is he not fucking with me, right?

Nope. He wasn’t fucking with me…bless his adorable Analog Heart.

“What’s a hotspot? My girfriend says she can get a hotspot. Is that a good thing?”

Seriously. He’s killing me here…

There is this entire world….

…..where children are taught that they must….

Sit Down

Shut Up

Be Quiet

That is not what life is about.  Life is about spreading your arms wide and BEING…..

Life is about Outside.

About Everything that doesn’t involve….

…Sit Down

……Shut Up

…Be Quiet

I took my kids out of school for this very reason…

But yet….

Guess what they do?

Sit down.

Shut up

Be Quiet.

At least my son does not.  It is one of the things I admire about him.  No shutting up. 

Then there is me.  I am still meek.  I want to empower but I….I hedge.  I say “I don’t want to be mean” or “I…shouldn’t….”

Being a grown up….sucks..

I want to leave. I want to fly. I am so….immoblized…I want freedom. I want flight. I want to create, to paint, to draw, to play, to do, to BE.

And some say that is selfish….

Stuff I can do…

  • Paint lovely pictures with oils, acrylics…and yes….even watercolors eventually
  • Draw with pencil
  • Draw with charcoal
  • Draw with conte (my fave)
  • Draw with pen
  • Draw with my own blood and my finger (ok….maybe not that..but hmmm…)
  • Play guitar
  • Play piano
  • Sing
  • Write
  • Write songs
  • Write graffiti on the Blueberry Hill bathroom walls (shit…who doesn’t?)
  • Catch my own sourdough starter
  • Bake bread
  • Make cheese
  • Make lasagna
  • Make pasta
  • Make dumplings for chicken soup
  • Make a mess
  • Scare you
  • Scare me
  • Form a child or two entirely out of my own uterus
  • Write poetry
  • Write short stories
  • Write really bad novels in the sixth grade
  • Give really great…(oh…wait….that’s a secret)
  • Piss people off and make them hate me (one of my best talents…)
  • Act
  • Act like I actually have a twin for about three years
  • Act like I care about sports…ok not really…I suck at that
  • Act
  • Act like I’m normal (fooled ya, didn’t I?)
  • Pretend I’m a “team player” (fark that shite….it’s all about me…)
  • Be your best friend
  • Sew a dress
  • Make my own everything
  • Be a Cat Midwife
  • Kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before
  • Love you forever

My Goddess. I’m talented…even though in the zombie apocolypse I will never be able to grow a garden but I could sure catch you some fish and wash some clothes!

Never take me for granted.

There is only ONE Moon, and that is me.

I give you my best. Always. If you piss me off, you will see my worst, and you do not want that because it will come in a very soft way on little cat feet all Carl Sandburg-like on the fog and shit…and you will never know it’s coming.  Because when I am crossed, I can be mean. No, like really, really mean, like all nanners and stuff.  You don’t want that.

You want the Happy Hippie Chick Moon that smiles and sings and says “Peace!”.  That Other Girl? I hope you don’t meet her in a dark alley one night.

Never…ever…EVAR take advantage of me.

Smiles :)


When I am about to create…and I mean art, music, writing, sewing, food, bread…love….I get a little bit shaky because I truly can sometimes be afraid of what I can do.

NOT at all like I’m full of myself or conceited or anything and I am NOT trying to brag in any way….but I just want to get this out because this is what it does to me and it is a good thing really, but it hurts sometimes.  I know I have gifts…many gifts…

I can draw a picture on a cocktail napkin in a bar of the person sitting next to me and it’s a perfect representation that they could show anyone and that person would know exactly who it is and that person gets all thrilled with it but I feel ridiculously unworthy because, geez, it was like five seconds of my life.

I can swath some paint on a canvas like SWISH! and there it is like the Mona Lisa (ok maybe not THAT good…)

I can write a song in three minutes….or three years.  Some of them will make you cry, laugh, think, cringe, or love me or hate me.

I can play piano…and am beginning to remember it again.  I taught myself guitar and am learning to get better at it.

I can write stories…in three minutes…or three years.  Or blogs like this that people actually read.  They must have nothing better to do.

But the shaky part is Why?

Why have I been so gifted?

And really, the question is…what do I do with it?

A dear co-worker of mine who recently crossed over told me that her MIL said to her once that “Everybody has they  gifts (sic)” ~ and that lady was right.  Everyone has gifts.

Maybe those gifts are saving people from breast cancer with medicine.  Maybe those gifts are IT work.  Maybe those gifts are teaching children how to read.  Maybe those gifts are rescuing lost and/or abused animals.  Maybe those gifts are teaching us about physics and science.   Maybe those gifts consist of being autistic or Down syndrome and teaching people what love really is.  Maybe those gifts are so esoteric we may not exactly understand them in this realm but we may realize them later.

I have no idea why I was gifted with this.  Believe it or not it is somewhat a burden.  And I know no one will believe me but I struggle with this, but I am very thrilled I am discovering Who I Am Again after many years of Losing Her That Is Me.

I am here.  I just have to figure out where I’m going.

PS You know the ONE thing I cannot seem to do…even in the Flood Plain with perfect soil?  Grow a garden.  So see?  I am not perfectly perfect.



Stickshift syllabus

Stickshift 101 Class ~

  • Learn the difference between clutch, brake, and gas pedals
  • Learn where first, second, third, fourth, and (usually) fifth gears are ~ it’s like ballet feet positions for your car. Except for reverse. That’s completely different. We’ll cover that later.
  • Starting without killing the engine and cursing at teacher
  • Stopping without killing the engine and cursing at teacher for not having taught you stopping in first gear is a bad thing
  • Learn stopping
  • Stress out.
  • Downshifting
  • How not to grind gears
  • Other stuff such as what to do if you accidentally drive up on the sidewalk
  • Cursing in German.
  • Angst and crying.  Which person is doing these things may vary.

Stickshift 202 Class ~

  • More stopping and starting.
  • More angst.
  • Learn that where “reverse” is can be different on each each car and acts a whole lot like first gear only backwards and quicker.
  • More of the driving and the getting up to speed and maybe some, oh, I dunno, scaring the teacher stuff.
  • Some more killing the engine and cursing but this time the cursing is in French.
  • Instruction on listening to the damn teacher so you know when to shift.
  • Neutral. It’s not just a D&D alignment. Use it.
  • Downshifting
  • Other stuff

Stickshift 303 Class ~

  • Student must be proficient in the stopping and the starting.
  • Student must be proficient in the driving and the getting up to speed and the slowing down without scaring teacher.
  • Covers when we shift into fifth and when we don’t because no, we aren’t going that fast and just because it seems fun it isn’t time yet
  • Instruction on listening to the damn engine so you know when to shift.
  • Downshifting
  • Other stuff

Stickshift 404 Class ~

  • Hills. Are they really out to get you? Let’s explore.
  • If you roll backwards down a hill, will you die? The possibilities are endless.
  • What if a very big truck or a river is right behind you when you roll backwards down a hill?  Will either one eat you? Discuss.

Advanced Classes

  • How to stop on slippery areas without using your brakes to slow down
  • Downshifting
  • How to impress others with your mad stickshift skillz
  • Poultices for your sore left thigh from all your mad stickshift skillz

Hope this helps, kids.


Love, Moonie

Our twelve days of Christmas ~ 2013 version

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas my True Love gave to me….

Twelve hours of Elcor Hamlet

Eleven packs of Trident

Ten loads of laundry

Nine hours of Minecraft

Eight Myth Busters epi’s

Seven days of M.E.

Six teens who eat here

Five cats who poop!

Four lost guitar picks

Three shared hoodies

Two barking dogs

And all the kisses I could ever want ~


How I deserved an Academy Award at the age of 7 ~ Part 2

If you missed the first part….here it is…..go read it.  I’ll wait.  I have beer.


So Angela says, “Can we meet Penny?”

I’m all like “Sure!  I’ll go in and get her…but only one of us can come out at a time as my mom needs a lot of help in there and my grandma is busy cleaning [the Smurf off of everything].”  And Angela bought it.  She bought it like ice cream from a pedo-truck in the middle of August.

That little voice? Again? Is screaming at me…

What. The. Hell. Is Your problem, gurrl?  Did you sniff too much turpentine?!!??  The Virgin Mary is VERY displeased with you right now.  You know that, right?  Right?!?

I ran back inside and told my mom I was going to hang out with a couple new friends from down the block and she was so thrilled about that she had to smoke a cigarette right then and there.

I went upstairs to my new room that was still Smurf Blue and had a gas pipe running up through the floor because the house had once been made into a two-family flat.  I dug through all my clothes desperately trying to find another outfit.  Panicking…I could barely come up with anything that looked remotely different from what I had on already.  All my clothes, of course, at the age of seven, had been purchased by my mother.  And my mom? Is definitely not a fashion guru.  Everything looked exactly the same….from the halter/shorts sets to the Garanimals plaid pants & matching tops that made me want to beat my own self up for being so damn nerdy.

But I managed to find a work-around.  A *different* matching halter/shorts set, and a pair of complete un-same thongs (yes…the shoes….*not* the underwear…because “thongs” meant shoes in 1972…).  No one would EVER know I was the same exact person!

And I became Penny.  I put my hair into pigtails. I think I even gave Penny an invented English accent, which made no sense at all, but hey, we’re talking about seven-year-olds here.  I made Her shy and aloof….completely unlike me.  I created a whole persona for Her with an entire back story, I kid you not.  Like how She couldn’t play piano like I could but She could draw (hehe…..awesome touch there, I think, in retrospect).  I even gave Her a different stance, different mannerisms, and a different look to Her eye…and Penny didn’t wear glasses like Maria did (which made things TERRIBLY fun!) ~ all of this in the time it took me to walk down the stairs in a yellow shorts/halter set, which was OBVIOUSLY completely different from the red set Maria was wearing, right?   I took a deep breath, walked outside – I think I even took Dylanger, the Doberman dog, outside as opposed to Chrissy, the sheepdog, whom I had taken out on a leash the first time – and was all prepared to introduce Penny to Angela and Becky.

They were both super impressed with my (horrendous) British accent, and from there I had to ad lib and tell them that Penny had grown up in England (this part of the story gets sketchy, but hey…..remember…we were all SEVEN!…no one was questioning any of it).  Through no fault of Penny’s own, of course, “our” mother and father didn’t stay together long after being married and so things fell apart, so Penny had to go live in London, which was where She acquired that really awesome accent.  Heh.  “Our” mother had to move away from the old South St. Louis neighborhood and now we were all back together and living here together in New House in Maplewood.

This seemed to satisfy both Becky and Angela until Becky asked if she could come inside.

I….ok, “Penny”….quicky stated that under no circumstances was anyone else allowed in the house because Smurfs might eat them.

Ok, no I didn’t really say that.  I don’t even remember what I said, exactly, but whatever it was it was enough to satisfy them that we had to stay outside because, you know.  The whole “twin thing” that didn’t actually exist, right?

The afternoon went on like this for hours, with me running back and forth, changing clothes, hair, mannerisms and dogs to be both Maria and Penny.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.

By 5 pm I was exhausted and it was time for dinner.  My mom told Angela and Becky they needed to go home and she and I took my grandma back to her home over on Swan Avenue and we picked up some Imo’s pizza off Hampton on our way back.  I ate it ravenously as mom and I sat on a roll of carpet, balancing the grease-laden paper plates on our knees.

“Did you make some new friends?” she asked me.

“Yeah,” I said flatly, my mouth full of cracker-crust pizza and provel cheese.

“That’s nice. Why did you keep going outside without your glasses.”

::chomps pizza….ignores mom…end of discussion::

Shortly thereafter we went to bed and attempted to sleep in The New House as the nearby train yard made noise all night long that sounded like the “Stomp” guys banging trash cans together for hours.  In the morning we were awakened by the school bell from across the street, even though it was summer.  They never shut off the bells during the breaks.  This amused us greatly.  Not.  I’m not sure I have ever had a more sleepless night than that one save for the ones after I had kids.  I also discovered The New House had a ghost…but that’s an entirely different story.

Eventually mom and I would learn to get used to all the racket around there and also learn that if we get ice and rain we ought to never, ever EVER try to drive down Tremont Street unless we wanted to end up in the River Des Peres, which is basically a giant sewer and/or a fun place to go avoid your parents.

I figured Penny would be forgotten.

But I was wrong.

She continued to be forced to live for another three years.

Stay tuned.

Previous Older Entries


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 634 other followers

%d bloggers like this: