Amerian Idol and the Weather

Please oh please God help me stop having the same recurring dream: that I am on American Idol and Simon Cowell is in love with me.

What does this say about my psyche? What does this say about my apparent need to be loved by Simon Cowell?

It has been in the 50's, 60's, and 70's most of the winter here. Craaaazy. I have worn my heavy winter coat once. I used to think that was a lame way to spend a winter--warm. Now, I think being warm is just about the best thing in the world. Whether I am warm under my down comforter, or warm from wearing too many layers on a jog when it is 65 degrees, I would much rather be warm than cold.

Since I have nothing else interesting to write about this evening, I am going to take a warm bath and head to my warm bed and try not to dream about Simon Cowell.

The Tears that Spill

I grew up in a household without a lot of crying. When my Mom cried, it made me uncomfortable because it was usually when she was hurt by my Dad. When my Dad cried, it was usually because there was a news special about the Vietnam War, and since he has never dealt with what he endured over there, I was uncomfortable with his tears.

Me--I cry sometimes for no good reason. I cry for my marriage and all its fragile shards, I cry at movies and TV shows and any possible story line that relates to teen pregnancy, I cry when I am so tired at night that my bones even hurt and then I feel guilty for having "internal complaints" and then I cry out of that shame and guilt. I cry at really good books, and sometimes feel silly sitting by myself with a closed book on my lap, bawling. I didn't cry when I had my children, but I did cry when I got married (I try not to read too much into that one!)

This blog was prompted actually not by me crying, but by Eva crying. Yesterday, she was crying about something, and as I scooped to pick her up and kiss her face, I tasted her tears. The sensation of it surprised me, and I couldn't remember any other instance I had ever tasted anyone's tears. It struck me as something unusual, but good. In a motherly way, it felt natural to "lick up her wounds", but on a deeper level, it felt like I did something few people would ever do for her, for me, for anyone.

My Life Now

I think I am in a season of brooding. I want to sit in my bed, read poetry, and ponder the ever-present "angst in my soul".

Having just eaten a Chipotle bowl, my mouth has that "after Chipotle oniony taste" in it still. I should get up and brush my teeth, but since there is no one near to kiss, who cares? Would we all still brush our teeth if we were kissing "abstinent"?

Here's another brain stumper: If your significant other saw Prince 4 nights out of 5 but only told you about 2 of them and waited 6 months to divulge the other info, would you consider that a breach of marital trust?