Flibberty-jibbet

I've probably lost all my followers by now, so I can write any damn thing I want.  And what I want to do is to complain.  I want to bitch and moan.  I'm bored.  I'm lonely.  I'm fucking HORNY!  I was listening to some slow, grinding, sexy music tonight that had me climbing the walls.  I don't like my life.  I don't HATE my life, I just don't like it.  And don't tell me (all you people out there who are not reading this) that I have no business complaining, because at least I don't live in god-forsaken Africa or Afghanistan or some other miserable hell hole where people are killing each other righ and left and they're starving and disease-ridden and being eaten alive by lions and tigers and bears, oh boy.  I KNOW THAT, for heaven's sake!  But at least they're not BORED!  And anyway, I'm not comparing myself to anyone else.  I am entirely self-absorbed and selfish.  And my selfish self would like something interesting to happen.  Something that would feel really good and be lots of fun, but wouldn't get me in trouble.  Of course, the first part of that sentence and the last part are mutually exclusive.  Shit.

No, this isn't a true story, no matter how much I would like it to be.  It was a challenge issued by the esteemed Mr. Pluck, at http://www.flashfictionfriday.com/2012/01/20/f3-cycle-64-bit-by-bit/

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My Computer, My Love 

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I have long regarded my computer as my best friend.  It's always there for me when I want it, it does whatever I ask it to do and it never talks back.  It keeps me up to date with the news and safely stores my attempts at writing poetry and short stories.  It helps me correct any spelling errors, but never criticizes the content.  What a pal! 

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But lately, I've become aware of a new dimension in our relationship.  Sometimes, when my fingers are pressing against the keys, I can hear a melodious hum and the keys feel warm.  The screen has developed a soft, rosy tint.  And the mouse - oh dear- I know this sounds strange, but really...just now, the mouse has started vibrating ever so gently, in a sensual way. 

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Now, I know what you're thinking.  You know that I live alone and haven't been with a man for over a year, so I'm probably pretty darned horny and my imagination is playing tricks on me.   

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Well, maybe so, but...wait a minute!  The mouse is really throbbing now and there's a message on the screen!  It says, "We can be more than friends, my dear.  Would you like that?" 

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Gosh, I don't know.  Maybe... 

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The mouse is bouncing around like crazy!  "Hold me!" the screen commands. 

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I wrap my hand around it. 

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"Put me in a place that will feel good to both of us!" 

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Okay, how about here...OH, OH, OH GOD, OH GOD!  YES!  YES!   

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Images of fireworks are dancing across the screen. 

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I light a cigarette and exhale slowly.  I am so glad that I upgraded to Windows 69.

Forget About It!

 

A great deal of my days are spent looking for things that I know I just had in my hand two minutes ago. Other times, I find an item in a very inappropriate place, e.g. the car keys in the freezer.  I get panicky then, thinking that Alzheimer's disease is just around the corner.  But then, if I can REMEMBER to do it, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have ALWAYS been absent-minded.  Here are some (but definitely not ALL) of the STOOPID things I have done in the past. Especially with my purse and with my car keys.

 

Purse:

When I was 16, I left my purse on the bumper of my dad’s pickup, when we were preparing to drive to town. By some miracle, it was still there when we got to our destination, 7 miles away.

When I was 30, I left my purse on the table of a restaurant, as we were traveling from L.A. to Salt Lake City. By some miracle, it had been rescued by the waitress, and she mailed it to me.

When I was 40 something, I left my purse on the ground of Musser Park, while I climbed a tree sculpture. By some miracle, it was still there when I remembered it on my way home, and went screaming back to the park.

When I was 50 something, I left my purse on the roof of my car. No miracles occurred.

 

I no longer carry a purse.  If what I'm carrying does not fit into my hip pocket, I don't need it.

Keys:

When I was 40 something, I left my car keys in the lock of the car door and went waltzing away to the Pizza Place to have dinner with some friends. Because the car was old and unattractive, the keys were still there when I returned.

On several occasions in the past few years, I have left the house key (on a key chain with my CAR keys) in the lock of the front door of my house, not discovering it until the next day.

Miscellaneous:

I left a bag of groceries on the car roof and drove away.

I left a tray of cookies on the car roof and drove away.

 

I left a suitcase on the car roof and drove away.

 Back when I lived on my ex’s and my “farm,” I had gone into town for the once-a-month grocery shopping trip. It was my habit to bring the many bags of groceries into the kitchen, set them on the floor, then put put them away, one at a time. There was always one bag containing several packages of meat, which were to be placed in our freezer. On this particular occasion, the phone rang just as I was almost done. Only the bag containing the meat was still on the floor. I forgot about it. It was still on the floor when we went to bed. The next day, we discovered that our dog had treated himself to a carnivore’s frenzy. There were bloody wrappers all over the floor. He had eaten about three pounds of hamburger and several steaks. He was so full, that when he got to the pot roast, all he could do was sink his teeth into it over and over, but he couldn’t swallow any of it. When I cooked it, it was extra tender!

 

I have improved, in some ways.  I no longer set anything on the car roof.  As I mentioned, I no longer carry a purse.  I work very hard to remember not to release the house key from my hand after I unlock the door.  But darn it!  Why the heck did I go into the kitchen just now?  I stood there, blankly staring into space, gave up and came back here to finish whatever it is I'm doing with the keyboard of this contraption on my desk. 

 

 

Never Again

Tonight I watched the History Channel as it re-broadcast the ghastly events of 9/11/2001. It was horrifying, of course, and I felt almost like I was re-living that awful day. But a strange thing happened to me, as I was watching. I started thinking of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in August of 1945, which would make NYC on 9/11 look like a walk in the park. In each case, the U.S. was not the one to start the fight. But to the suicidal, homicidal maniacs in the planes of 9/11, the U.S. "deserved" to be attacked. And to the war-weary military planners in Washington in 1945, the Japanese had to be given a blow that would leave them no option, but to surrender. Over 3,000 people died on 9/11. Over 300,000 people died from the A-bombs dropped in 08/1945. The numbers don't matter. Each person, in both cases, was a living, breathing, human being who loved and was loved. None of them had anything to do with the motives of their killers.  But, the many horrors and atrocities of WWII made all the countries involved wary of ever repeating such a catastrophic conflict.  The Muslim jihadists, however, seem driven to rain death and destruction on the infidel.  I fervently hope that they will reject those beliefs and join the 21st century. 

Life goes on, and then it doesn't

Damn, damn, damn!  One of the nicest, bravest, funniest, most good-hearted men I've ever known died two days ago.  Yes, yes, I know...we all have to go sometime and he certainly had more than his share of risk factors.  Age (over 70), diabetes (both legs amputated), he smoked (in spite of doctors' dire warnings), and ate anything he danged well pleased.  But damn it!  He should have lived a lot longer, because he made people feel good.  You could never leave Buddy without a smile on your face, because he had a contagious smile of his own and lots of good stories to tell.  Adversity paid Buddy many visits, but Buddy never let him stay long.  The 14th child of a sharecropper family in Missouri, he was picking cotton by the time he was 5 years old.  He dropped out of school early and hit the road, having all kinds of adventures on his way to California, where he developed his "ladies' man" persona, which eventually swept my sister, Julie, into his arms.  Six kids, several moves, lots of financial woes, health problems (including the loss of one of his legs) happened, and Julie kicked him out.  Five years ago, he went back home to Missouri, where several of his kids and grandkids followed him.  I lost track of him and heard very little about how he was doing, except that his other leg was amputated a couple of years ago.  Not that a little thing like having no legs kept him down, however!  He got around just fine, thank you, with a couple of prosthetics, according to my favorite nephew, who sent me a photo of Bud standing up, with his characteristic big smile.

But now, he and his smile are gone.  Damn, damn, damn.

Rhyme Time

I'm going to write a poem, or die in the attempt.
That would be an interesting way to commit suicide, wouldn't it?
"Damn! Can't come up with a poem, so I'll hold my breath until I die."
If only it were that easy...
Hm.  Can't think of a poem.  (deep breath...) How about a limirick?


There once was a woman named Zelda.
Who found there was no rhyme for a Zelda
She threw down her pen
And started again
After changing her name to Cruelda.


Hey, Walt Whitman!  Top that!

Little By Little

I visited my "adopted" family for the fourth time today.  Jamali has made excellent progress with his writing, I am happy to say.  I had given him a tablet with lined paper and a chart of the printed alphabet, both capital and small letters, and told him to copy the alphabet on a sheet of the paper, each time I visit.  He has done so, and I am amazed how much he has improved, in just two weeks.  I wish I had a "before and after" to show you.  He is slow with his reading, but I am optimistic, because he tries very hard.

One thing I have been reminded of, in my experience tutoring third-graders, is just how difficult and complicated English spelling is.  It seems that for every rule, there are exceptions, and the only way you can dependably learn to read and spell is by memorizing.  The letter "c" always makes Jamali hesitate.  Who knows whether it is to be pronounced as "s", "k" or "ch"?  How about "...ough" at the end of a word?  Is it "uf" (as in tough) or "o" as in "though"?  And don't get me started on the vowels!

But what I really want to talk about now, is my blunder in a conversation with Jamali's mother, Tunza, this morning.  I had done a little research on Burundi, and saw that there are people of the Hutu and Tutsi tribes there.  I asked Tunza if she and her family are from one of those tribes.  She said yes, they are Hutus.  I asked if the tribes are still fighting and she said yes.  Then, like a big, thoughtless dumbbell (it just popped out), I asked if that's how her husband died.  Tunza burst into tears, which she tried to hold back, and she looked so terribly distressed that I would have given anything to suck back my stupid question.  I kept apologizing as she kept saying it's okay, until I was ready to run for the door.  Fortunately, Jamali came back into the room then, and we were able to switch channels, back to reading.

So...I learned a lesson today that is as important as how to pronounce "antidisestablishmentarianism."  And that is, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!  I just hope I will pass the test, if one is given.

I Hope I Can Help Them

For the past four years I have been volunteering at the local elementary school, helping third-graders negotiate their way through the mazes of reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic. Third grade today is much more difficult than it was way back when I was eight years old. Children are expected to learn skills that I wasn't confronted with until I was in junior high. But I sit with the ones who are having trouble, and together we muddle through the muddy waters.

When this school session ended last week, I thought I was through for the summer. But on the last day, the principal took me aside and asked if I would like a "summer project." Before I could say, "No thanks,"she told me about a little boy whose family had recently emigrated here, as refugees, from Africa. He is eight years old and has been here for almost a year. He spoke no English at all when school started, but was placed in a third grade class ("immersion," I think they call it) and, with no special treatment, was expected to learn the same lessons as rest of the class. He has made remarkable progress, but is still way behind the other kids. In spite of that, he is being sent to fourth grade in the fall. Ms. Principal asked if I would like to visit his home once a week during the summer and help him with language and reading. She then introduced me to him and I was a goner. He is the sweetest little guy you could ever hope to meet. So of course, I agreed. Ms. Principal then mentioned that the boy's mother, who works nights as a cleaning woman, and speaks almost no English, might want to sit in on the lessons. That was fine with me.

We had our first session this morning. The little boy, Jamali, greeted me at the door. He was all smiles and very eager to get started. The mother, Tunza, came into the room, shy and smiling, and we introduced ourselves. I asked if she would like to sit with Jamali and me while we had our lesson and she eagerly accepted. So the three of us sat at their dining room table and began to discuss the alphabet (which Jamali knew fairly well, but Tunza did not), the sounds the letters make, and how to spell some simple words. Ms. Principal had provided me with some teaching materials from the school, which helped. I also had bought a tablet with bright colored paper and a mechanical pencil for Jamali, which pleased him. After about 1/2 hour of "lesson," I looked up and saw a girl a little older than Jamali, who was watching us. Jamali said, "That's my sister, Xani. She's in eighth grade." I invited her to sit with us, and she accepted...all smiles. So we continued with the lesson, which now had three students. When one or more of them did not understand something I said, one of the others would translate, as best as he/she could. Their language was completely unfamiliar to me. It sounded like bees buzzing, with occasional hiccups. A few minutes later, another girl appeared, looking just as eager and sweet as her sister. Jamali introduced me to her and said she would be in 10th grade. She spoke even less English than Jamali. I felt so sympathetic towards these children. How on earth could they keep up with their classes, if they could not understand the words the teacher and their textbooks used? But then I reminded myself that the U.S. is a country of immigrants! Few of them (except the ones from the British Isles) were fluent in English when they first got off the boats. But human beings have amazing brains and can learn things amazingly fast and well, when they are motivated. My grandparents didn't speak one word of English when they arrived on Ellis Island, from Norway, back in 1913. But they worked hard and learned what they needed to know to be successful and to raise 9 kids who were all successful. So I'm sure Jamali and his sisters and their mother will work hard and be successful too. And they will appreciate whatever I can do to help them and will make me feel like a queen!

Nothing But Numbers

Modern "money" is so bizarre. It's all numbers, stored in different computers, sent back and forth. Long ago, a man would be concerned wealthy if he owned great stores of precious metals and gems. Now, a man is wealthy if there are lots of zeros, preceded by a higher number, in his bank account(s). Of course, he probably buys precious metals and gems and fancy houses, cars and other stuff with those numbers in his bank accounts, but his net worth is all about the numbers. Think of it in terms of us everyday working stiffs. We get jobs. On Friday, we get paid. The "pay" consists of numbers, sent electronically to our banks. The numbers are added to whatever numbers that were left in our bank accounts from previous pays. Most of us have various bills (mortgage payments, utilities, etc) taken directly from our bank accounts. We don't even write a check to pay them. Numbers are just subtracted from our accounts and then added to our creditors' accounts. For the bills that we do pay by check, it's still just transfering numbers from our checking account to the creditor. No actual cash changes hands. If we go shopping or out to eat, we tend to pay by credit card. No cash, except perhaps to tip the waitress.

- On the rare occasions we do use cash, it feels like it's tangible wealth; it looks valuable, it has heft. But really, it's just promisory notes from the U.S. government, not backed by anything of actual value. I remembered how shocked I was, way back in college when I was taking Economics I, and I was told that our currency was not backed by gold. Just the full faith and something-or-other of the U.S. government. Those greenbacks in my wallet suddenly felt lifeless. But compared to today's sterile numbers shuffling back and forth over the banking internet, currency still seems somehow more valuable.

- How do you feel about it? If you were to win a million dollars in a lottery, would you feel richer if you were handed one thousand thousand dollar bills, or the number, $1,000,000, printed on your bank statement?

Next Time I'll Keep My Mouth Shut!

Recently, I was walking home from town with a friend, when I felt a pain in my chest and then felt dizzy. I told my friend I needed to sit down for a while. Unfortunately, he had his cell phone handy, and the next thing I knew, I was being loaded into an ambulance. I was taken to a hospital and given lots of tests, which I passed with flying colors. I wrote the following nonsense while I was in the emergency room, waiting to be dismissed and suffering from extreme boredom.

When is a life worth saving?
Is every life worth saving?
Is my life worth saving?

Five hours ago, I was fine.
Walking down King Street, not a care in the world.
Now I'm in the emergency room, connected to tubes and moniters,
wondering if I'll leave here on my feet...or feet first.

Will this be my "last write?"
Will a priest give me last rites?
Will a lawyer read me my rights?
Am I in the right?
Will my good health be right back?

I'm not writing with my right hand.
For me, my left hand is the right hand.
My right hand is the wrong hand.
What is wrong with me?

NOTHING!
I'm fine!
I'm good to go!
And when the paperwork is done,
I'm outta here!

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Since then, I have been traumatized by the results of that paperwork, the part that involves dollar signs. Lots and lots of dollar signs.

Stick 'em up!

There have been several holdups in Lancaster in the last few months. I often wonder how I would respond if a man shoved a gun in my ribs and told me to hand over my wallet. Being more disposed to discussion than violence, I'm pretty sure I would try to talk him out of it. I would explain to him the error of his ways. I would convince him to reconsider, to go back to school, to get a job, to go off drugs and eat right and exercise. He would then thank me, and with tears in his eyes, he would wave goodbye and go off to start his new life. Either that, or he'd pistol whip me, grab my wallet and shoot me in the head, just to shut me up. An alternate approach I have considered would be to tell him that I am a voodoo priestess, and if he harms me, I will come back from the dead and haunt him until his dying day. He'd probably still shoot me, but at least he'd feel a little uneasy about it. I could come up with some other ways to reason with the misguided fellow, but probably the wisest course of action would be to just hand him my goddamned wallet.

The Wine Is Fine, But Don't Ask Me to Walk a Straight Line

So...what do you suppose happened when I, a definite light-weight in the alcohol department, was talked into having a glass of wine tonight? I told the hosts that if I were to drink a whole glass of wine that they would have to take me out to my car in a wheelbarrow, but did that make him give me a glass of cola instead? I think you can guess the answer to that rhetorical question.

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"It's just wine, Zelda, not straight whiskey!" -

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"Yeah, but..." "C'mon, it'll relax you!"-

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"Well, I have had a stressful day. So give me just half a glass." -

Now, to me, a chronic pessimist, a half a glass means A HALF A GLASS! To my host, who wanted to be entertained, a half a glass meant A FULL GLASS, which was regularly re-filled as I sipped at its pleasantly dry red, relaxing contents. And then, we played cards. I was the scorekeeper. All I can say is that it's a good thing we weren't playing for money. My normally faultless arithmetic skills disolved into the winey mist. No one could remember whose turn it was to deal, how many cards were to be dealt or who had played what card.

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But we had a good time, as far as I can remember. And someone, who could hold his liquor infinitely better than I could, drove me home. I think. Well...I'm home anyway. In one piece. And I'm smiling.

I'm Not Moving Until I Write Something!

With that title, it's tempting to just say, "There! I wrote something. Good-bye." But I'm too stubborn to give in that easily. So what if I don't have any ideas? Who cares if my brain is devoid of any creativity? Well, *I* care, but who cares what I care about? Are these rhetorical questions? What the hell is a "rhetorical question," anyway? Who am I? What am I doing in the middle of a baseball diamond at midnight on the moon? I can't even play foosball! Why can't I be young again, only not like I was when I *was* young, but more like someone who's really pretty and popular? Would I have been popular, if I had been pretty? Would I have been pretty, if I had been popular? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. So...if Mike's eye had had more beauty in it, would he have thought I was pretty? Would he have been beholden to me? If you are still reading this, do you feel like you have something in your eye? Don't rub it! That'll just make it worse! Try rinsing it with some Midol. I'm getting cramps in my fingers, from typing so fast. How many fingers does it take to cross the road? To get to the other side, Silly! When is a riddle not a riddle? When it's a rhetorical question! Whillikers! Am I done now?

A Fruit By Any Other Name

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A ripe orange is orange.

A green orange is not orange.

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A single nut is sane.

More than one nut is nuts.

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One pear is not a pair.

Two pears are a pair of pears.

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A grapefruit is not a grape.

But it is a fruit.

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A grape is a fruit.

But it is not a grapefruit.

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An apple is a fruit.

Unless it's a computer.

----Warning! It's about to get worse!------

You can have a date,

and still be alone.

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The used car salesman sold me a lemon.

I was ripe for the picking.

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I paid for the banana with three dimes and a nickel.

I call it "the fruit of my coins."

Marital Bliss - A Fairy Tale in one act

Scene 1 - A living room in a modest home in Lancaster, PA. A middle-aged man and woman are standing in the middle of the room, looking agitated.

Man: Cut your goddamn hair! You look like a hag!

Woman: No! I like my hair long.

Man: Well...fine! Go live in Hagerstown, with all the other hags.

Woman: If you're going to insist on insulting me, I'm going to stop holding back and start telling YOU to cut your goddman POT BELLY!

Man: I don't have a pot belly!

Woman: Yes, you do! Why don't you go live in Pottstown? You'd fit right in.

Man: Wait...this isn't fun. Let's be nice to each other.

Woman: Yeah, I agree. You leave me alone about my hair, and I won't mention your gut. Okay?

Man: Okay. But I really do wish you'd cut your hair.

Woman: Yeah? Well, I really do wish you'd shut the fuck up about my hair!

Man: Stop yelling at me!

Woman: I'm not yelling!..................Okay, I guess I did yell just then, but it's because you drive me crazy!

Man: You ARE crazy!

Woman: So are you!

(Man leaves room, slams door behind him.)

Woman (yelling): Come back here, you coward!

(Silence...)

Scene 2: Woman goes into bathroom and looks in the mirror.

Woman: Shit! I DO look like a hag. But it's not because of my hair. It's because I'm fucking old! He just thinks it's because of my hair, because I had short hair when we first met. But he had a flat stomach back then, too. Well, I'm not cutting my hair, no matter what. I want it to get so long that I could wrap it around my neck and hang myself with it, like Rapunzel did to her stepmother. But before I do that, I could experiment with pulling it back really tight, and see if it would smooth out the wrinkles in my haggy, old face.

(Bathroom door opens. Man peeks in...)

Man: Honey...I'm sorry. I won't say anything more about your hair, if you don't say anything about my gut.

Woman: Gut? What gut? You look great, Sweetie-pie.

Man: So do you, Baby Doll.

( Hugs...kisses...)

And they lived happily ever after.

It's Lame, But I Have to Write SOMETHING!

It's been a MONTH since I posted anything on this sorry excuse for a blog! I don't have any good ideas, but I have a couple of bad "poems," so I'll post them. I've lost most of my readers, anyway, so it doesn't really matter. I'll entertain myself, anyway.

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My floor is a mirror

When I look into it

My world is upside down

I am walking on the ceiling

I see the sky through the windows

The windows are upside down

The birds are flying below me

The sun is rising in the west

I am growing younger by the minute.

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I am a dragon

I breathe fire

I have sharp claws

I have sharp teeth

I have a whiplike tail

I could destroy you

So be nice to me, please

Until I've had my coffee

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I am a pussycat

I am soft and warm

I purr when I'm happy

I have claws, but they're hidden

So pet me, please

and I'll rub against you

Living Libido Loco

My meno paused, then left for good.

"Good riddance," declared my libido, unpacking her bags.

I'm moving in.

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She was lively, she was lustful.

Then depression jostled for space, dominating my moods.

Libido hid out.

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Medication to the rescue!

SSRIs did the trick, evicting that nasty depression.

Come back, Libido!

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Yeah, right. Read the label, sucker!

Those meds and I can't live under the same roof.

Libido moved out.

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"I'll try something else," I pleaded.

Look! This one says it will make me happy AND horny!

I lied, but it worked.

Hi Kuh! How Are You?

I understand men.

They are such simple creatures.

All they want is sex.

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Though I'm a woman,

I don't understand women.

We're complicated.

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Some of us use sex

To get what we want from men.

It's a win, win deal!

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I dislike summer,

but not as much as winter.

Spring's okay though.

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Too hot or too cold.

Is "just right" too much to ask?

Apparently so.

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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It's late and I'm tired.

I'll go to bed now, and dream...

Dream of "just right" sex.

-

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'S no Fun!

It's snowing again. We don't need any more snow, goddamnit! There was plenty of snow on the ground yesterday, then more was dumped on us this morning. It finally stopped around 2 pm and I thought it was done. But NOOOOO! That witch, Mother Nature had to flex her stupid snow muscles again, and now I don't even want to look outside, for fear the goddamn house is being buried in the disgusting stuff.

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I thought global warming was supposed to take care of this unpleasantness. Surely by now we in the mid-state region should be able to grow orchids outside in the middle of winter. But all we can grow now is gigantic icicles! I actually saw some icicles yesterday that reached from the eaves of a neighbor's house, all the way to the ground.

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One week from today is Groundhog Day. That little bastard better not see his shadow, or he's going into my stew pot!

Earth vs. Moon

I'd much rather live on the Earth than the moon. Sure, the moon looks pretty from a distance, especially when it's full, like tonight, but up close, it's just a big, ugly rock. Of course, the Earth has some big, ugly places too, like the Bronx and most of Afghanistan, but it has a lot of really pretty places too. Especially in the Spring, in my back yard. In fact, my back yard is pretty for nine months of the year - Spring through Autumn. Winter sucks, but even when it's ickky Winter up here in the northern hemisphere, it's Summer down in the southern half of good old Earth. On the far side of the moon, it's always winter, cold and dark.

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Here on Earth, the best things in life are free - flowers, butterflies, blue skies, sunshine, love and sex (if you're lucky). On the moon, you'd have to pay a hell of a lot to import most of that, and it wouldn't last long, with no atmosphere. Atmosphere is especially important for good sex. On Earth, moonlight provides some good atmosphere, but on the moon, you'd be either in the too-bright sunlight or total darkness. Also, you'd be confined to those bulky spacesuits and helmets, which would be a real downer, if you know what I mean.

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There would be some advantages to moon life, the absence of talk radio and drivers-yakking-on-cell-phones, for instance. But for now, I'm staying right here, enjoying the lovely light of the full moon from a safe distance.