No, it's not a Saturday Night Live Sketch, it's me once again trying to screw my head on straight. I really think I'm doing just fine, and then it will hit me with no warning at all, and no discernable trigger. I'm not as fine as I think I am, and I'm not sure when I will be again.
Last night I dreamed that I was going to Prince Charles' wedding at a movie theatre in the middle of the night. According to family legend, my great-great grandmother was the mistress of the king of Denmark (from what I understand of him, the rumor could definitely be true) and that they had three children together, one of whom is my great-grandmother. That would make Charles and I half fourth cousins or something like that, but I hardly think it likely that I'll be invited to his wedding. Though if I were I might go, if only to catch a glimpse of those cute princes! But anyway, the whole thing was very "Rocky Horror Picture Show" and felt terribly odd. Then a married man hit on me in front of his wife, and I was seriously wierded out by it. I have no idea why my emotions are so intense in my dreams. They just last and last. As if married men, or any men hit on me anymore. I think the children are a deterrent.
I know the dream was my working out events of the day. I'm reading a bood about modesty and was reading where she discusses the huge rise in infidelity, right before bed. And I'd been talking about Michael Shiavo (also an alduterer) and thus had dreams about adultery. Thankfully I was not the adulterous one in this particular dream. Those dreams make me wierd for DAYS afterward.
Reagan got a B on his Math test, so I'm not doing it all wrong. And our complex may move us to the first floor in June, where my children can bang on the floor till the cows come home and no one will care. In other terribly interesting Basso news, we're making our way through the sixth season of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I really have nothing witty or clever to say about that. I'm just pointing out what geeks we are.
I'm also still feeling terribly in love with Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. But he went home with Jennifer yesterday, so I can't watch him anymore. I still say there's no better scene than him, half dressed after swimming and meeting Miss Bennet in front of his home. Pasty, thin, hairless Englishmen. What can I tell you? Other than my husband I only dated two people I thought I could have married. Neither of them were any of those things. And my own husband certainly isn't. I'm just going to continue blaming rogue hormones for the kooky thought patterns. I really have no other excuse.
So, while others are diving into complex theological issues, major parenting concerns, and biblical study, I can really only go as deep as Colin Furth in a wet shirt. Bear with me, I swear it will get better. In the meantime, I wonder if A&E has any plans to air the series again so I can tape it.
