Of dreams, and farms, and Erica Kane.

I had a dream about (insert appropriate name for ex-husband here -- if you have a suggestion that is fit for public consumption, be sure to leave a comment) last night. And I remembered it. I very, very rarely remember my dreams (Hello, zinc deficiency!), yet this one I remembered. How fucked up is that? We were in a convertible (no doubt his shiny new Mustang ... blech) and I was driving. We pulled up to an old-time Tastee Freeze, where one must walk up to the window to order one's Frozen Chemicals in a Cone that Will Never Mold. When we got up to the window, an old high school friend of mine was the waitress. It was so weird, because I was obviously older, and she was not. We ordered our cones, went back to the car, and talked while we ate them. The conversation wasn't significant, in any way, and I can't even remember that much of it. What I do remember is that feeling of being carefree, of light hearted enjoyment, having fun on a summer evening under the stars. I remember that bubbly feeling of new love, a new romance, that seems to be like champagne fizzing in your lungs. I remember the music ... Summer Breeze was playing on the radio in the car while I licked my cone.

Will I ever feel that light in my waking moments again? Will I ever feel that first blush of love again?

********************************************************

Yesterday, we went to get eggs. We buy eggs from a local farming couple, Greg and Maureen of Gentle Giant Meadows Farm. They are lovely people. They sell eggs in a self-serve fashion on the farm. When we arrived yesterday, two horses were waiting to greet us, so the kids got out and made friends while I procured the eggs. The horses were friendly and the kids had so much fun! Then we stopped to visit with the goats for awhile -- PinkSweet was fascinated with the does, and how they produce milk. I think she was convinced that only Mama could make milk from her "boobies", even though we've talked many times about how the milk we drink comes from cows. Well, no, darlin'. (We've BEEN to the farm to get milk directly from the cow. Hello?) Then we had a very long, very convoluted conversation about how baby goats are called kids but no, they don't grow up into human grown-ups like human kids do. Ah, the fun of explaining farm life to a four-year-old.

We stopped at Local Boys for fruit yesterday, too. Picked up some avocados to make "chocolate pudding" for DaBoy. Little does he know just how much nutrition Mama can pack into chocolate pudding. A couple of avocadoes, a handful of blueberries, a peach, some cocoa powder, a tablespoon or so of honey, a couple of drops of Stevia, and a scant half teaspoon of vanilla. Eat up, DaBoy!

And then Mama got a treat! At the Angel Guild (which is rarely even open when I come by), I found a piece of vintage Pyrex in the Snowflake design for $2. WOOT! What was really amusing about that was that I'd spent the morning having a Pyrex love fest with some friends. We'd all been talking about our love of vintage Pyrex, comparing favorite patterns, checking out the INSANE prices on eBay. Kismit!

Favorite part of the day ... beach! We stopped at our beach on the way home. Spent about half an hour there. DaBoy turned over as many rocks as he could manage, looking for his crab friend, Cutie. I think he found about 238 versions of Cutie in that brief thirty minutes. PinkSweet and I walked the beach looking for sand dollars and shells ... oh, and for rocks that would make a satisfying splash when hurled with four-year-old might. Then a boat came by and we watched the ripples slap against the beach -- PinkSweet was mesmerized and utterly delighted. She is SUCH a water baby, just like her mama. Right before we left, we all buried our feet in the sand. Good, good times.

I feel like I should say, right about here, " ... and so are the Days of Our Lives". Nothing much exciting, but the up and down, back and forth, ping pong kind of movement when it comes to my emotions is very much like a soap opera. So, I guess I shouldn't worry too much about finding love again ... Erica Kane has been married how many times? *snort*

The Waters Are Choppy

Very, very choppy. I think I glutenized my son on Friday, as he has been a complete and utter pain in the ass all weekend. Ask ~L~. She'll tell you about our trip home from the Seattle zoo on Friday afternoon. Fun was (not) had by all.

I am depressed. I think it's official. There was sunshine today and I didn't even care. It didn't make me feel better. Walked down to the beach and it didn't lift my spirits at all.

I unpacked the last of my boxes today to discover that my beloved cookbooks are, in fact, missing. Not mislabeled in a box marked "trampoline parts". Missing. Around $1000 worth of cookbooks, my favorites, the ones I actually use. I had pared it down, gotten rid of all the others. These were my friends, the ones I referred back to time and again. Now they're gone and I am left alone. Again. It seems to be a running theme in my life.

Yeah, depressed. Fuck.

I blog, therefore I am read.

Well, something like that.

I am blogging. ~L~ will be thrilled. Now she can read my ramblings as well as hear them directly from me in very long phone calls, many of which involve me eating and attempting to talk at the same time. Won't this be so much nicer than the sound of me masticating my breakfast?

Those of you who are modern sci-fi fans will probably recognize the title of this blog as a play on a line from "Serenity". As much as I love the movie, I wish I could say that my calm is still intact. My calm has been so severely damaged that it seems to have slunk away somewhere to hide and lick its wounds. I am searching for my zen space, my calm, with the idea that perhaps I can find it here and nourish it back to good health. I feel somewhat afloat without it, you see. Or perhaps sucked under is the better phrase. Subsumed beneath the riptide of my grief, the swells of single parenthood, and the choppy waves of panic that sometimes grip me when I'm alone. Either way, it bites the big weinie.

Journaling as therapy is not a new concept, I realize. Feel free to skim right on by those posts that reveal nothing of import to anyone but me. I don't pay you the big bucks, right? If I wanted that, I'd get a therapist, as recommended by my six-year-old son this past week. This is cheaper. Hopefully it will yield some positive results.

And now my pillow calls to me.