Tonight is a TV free night. I don't need clutter or mindless chatter; I need comfort and blankets and big, fluffy pillows. I need to nurture myself with Walt Whitman and then Nora Roberts. I am a well rounded reader. It seems I have a touch of the latest stomach bug and was in misery the entire day. The cramping has stopped, and I was able to eat a small dinner of applesauce pancakes with an apple/cranberry topping. I thought all was good until I began to try and relax.
With my comfort food security level up several notches, I sat down and turned on my Itunes and hit my Genius Mix, where they mix up your songs for you. Well, this mix must be the depressing/ex boyfriend/ex husband blend. I had no idea that my music was this depressing. Not only that, but every sentimental song from old mix tapes/Cd's of significant others were thrown in for good measure. There is always something there to remind blared before Sarah began to sing about possession. Tori Amos prevailed with three songs reminding me that even though I wasn't perfect, I would still look it if I could play the piano like her, or at least sit and grind on the piano like her. I couldn't turn it off. I sat here in a stupor wondering what new boyfriend or insecurity would show up next when everything was redeemed with just a few catchy lines. I was no longer a single mom wondering where did it go wrong or where did it go right. I was eight again, on my back porch, with a UK blue eight track player and Blondie was telling me all about life, and it is still good.