Last night, I discovered that whipped cream vodka, lime seltzer, lemon, and peach Torani syrup taste really good together. A bit later, I read a story to my daughter about a little girl who is dealing with her parents’ divorce. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that last night, I dreamt my husband cheated on me with a friend. It was so realistic! Oh, how I yelled and carried on in my dream!
And when I woke up– early because it was so disturbing– I was still angry, wondering what I was going to do, how I was going to cope, what we would tell our daughter. Where would I live? Then I felt my husband’s warm foot on my leg. “Wait…” I thought. The angry fog cleared up a bit, but I was still mad. I may have frowned at him. Poor guy. All he did was fall asleep and have an affair in my dream and I was ready to kick him to the curb! It was like that episode of Friends– you know the one. The one where Phoebe gets mad at Ross for something he said to her in a dream.
Of course we laughed about it when he woke up. He even apologized for his affair while he laughed and sipped his coffee– what a good sport, right?
So why am I still bothered? (Ok, so I’m making an, “Am I bovvered?” reference, and it doesn’t quite fit. But watch the video and tell me you didn’t laugh, and I will call you a liar, liar, pants on fire.)
I suppose part of me is bothered that my sole desire was not of reconciliation but escape. What does that say about me? Is it pride, am I a survivalist, or is it just a failure to commit? Hopefully I’ll never really find out. Another part of me is bothered because the nightmare reminded me how fragile my life’s equilibrium is. One action of another person and boom! All the blocks come tumbling down. It is a frightening realization. All of my insecurities floated to the surface, and they’re all jostling into each other. I can’t tell which are real or which I dreamt, which are always present and which only emerged because of some completely fictitious thing my husband did. Or didn’t do. See?
It has been such a long time that I could remember a dream enough to analyze it. I don’t know if I should thank the cocktails that preceded it or swear off vodka for a while. Oof.
In other news, I’m investigating different local schools to see which one would be best for me. I have to get this show on the road, and a little piece of paper is the only way to do that. Or I should say another little piece of paper. You’d think ten years of teaching experience, two BAs, an MFA, and an advanced certificate in Composition would be enough– but nope, it’s not. It’s a good thing I like school. It’s a bit trippy going back to being the one sitting in the desk, however, instead of standing behind a podium. I wonder if this time around I will actually raise my hand in class and pipe up? I avoided speaking before. It terrified me. I really did get knock-kneed and sweaty, just like in movies and cartoons.
And in other, other news, I have been gardening and doing yoga– all in a sometimes seemingly vain attempt to relax. Yoga works in the moment, and for as much as an hour afterwards, but I can’t tell if I’ve lost any weight or not. The poses are getting easier, though, and the pilates moves I do in conjunction with the poses are also getting a bit easier– so something’s happening.
I took a break from my Postwar Suburban Mystery because my plot was driving me crazy. I bought Plot Whisperer: Book Writing Prompts and have started a new story so that I can do the exercises. I’m not sure if it’s something I will finish (purposefully, this time!) but doing the prompts in the order provided have made me see where I need to fix the pre-existing problems in the Postwar Suburban Mystery. I need to overhaul the beginning and the way I introduce the characters– the first murder. Ugh! So much! Should I just take those characters and follow the prompts from nearly scratch? I’m beginning to wonder. I think I’ve uncovered, though, why I run out of steam at around the same time each time, though. That in itself is quite an accomplishment, so thank you, Plot Whisperer!
Also, I’ve given myself two translating projects. One is a song from an artist I really like. I listen to him all the time, but I have no idea what he’s singing about, other than the song titles I’ve translated. I think I’m almost done. Google Translate is either very helpful, or not helpful AT ALL. Nothing in-between. For example, Google Translate will be helpful with idiomatic phrases that aren’t in my Langenscheidt– but will translate Mikael Simpson’s name to Jessica Simpson consistently. So, yeah. There’s that.
The other is a recipe from Tina Nordström’s En Matresa Genome Sverige. I spied it at the Clovis Book Barn, and flipped through it. It’s a beautiful book. Of course, since I’m a nerd cubed (book nerd, food nerd, sci-fi nerd– though in this case sic-fi did not apply– and music nerd… oh no, I’m not a cube anymore!) it appealed to me. A Swedish cookbook in Swedish! And with pretty pictures! And didn’t the girl on the cover look a lot like that girl from New Scandinavian Cooking who so gleefully banged a fresh herring’s head (or was it a mackerel?) on the ground to stun it, then just as gleefully proceeded to gut it on the dock?
It turned out to be the very same girl, the gleeful mackerel whacker!
If you don’t know the cooking show I’m talking about, you have to watch it on PBS or YouTube (this isn’t the episode with the mackerel whacking, but still). It pretty much sums up what I find so fascinating about Scandinavian culture. It’s just so foreign. And stark and glorious, and friendly and depressing– just a bunch of dichotomies. And why are they always cooking outside, or is that just the cooking show that does that? But I suppose if you are going to cook a reindeer, why not do it outside?