A few tears before bed

7:50 AM

I am not emotional. It's good. And it's bad. When I say I'm not emotional it means I do NOT cry often. Seriously, I just don't do it. Principe could probably count on one hand the number of times he has seen me cry in the last 12 years. If I do cry I usually do it silently where no one will see me. I've been like this since I decided to train myself to be like this since I was about 14.

The bad part is that when you train yourself not to be emotional you also lose the ability to really express the joy you may feel when getting a surprise present. Men do not like this. When Principe gets me flowers and I say, "Oh, wow. You got me flowers!" That is not enough for him. He wants tears and jumping up and down, etc. But his wife isn't like that.

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule.

Like the day that I just can't seem to get anything done. And seem to be in the kitchen way more than I want. But, I'm happy because I just spent five hours simmering chicken bones and making a really awesome broth which is going to help my stomach and make my taste buds shout for joy. The girls take to long getting into bed and unfortunately there are a few times one of them has to go to the corner. So by nine o'clock I am frustrated. But I remember the broth. And my idea that I need to write down for my story, so  tackle the broth first. I still need to take out the bones and strain it.

Lying on the counter is a plate I put bleach on to get rid of a stain. That will work well to place the chicken bones on to toss. I get lost in thought as I set about doing my work and just as I am about to toss the excess broth that dripped off the bones down the drain I think, "Why be wasteful?" and without hesitating I dump into the bowl of broth.

"Hmmm, that was a lot more broth then I thought. Awwwww!"

Yep. Bleach. In the broth.

Principe talks to me about something but I can't hear him. I just poured bleach into my homemade broth.

Principe asks if I am tired. I turn around and whisper, "I just did the stupidest thing." And tell him the story as I pour it out.

Tears streamed down my face which alarmed Principe, making him hustle around me which made me embarrassed of said tears. This is why I don't like to cry.

But I did. That day I cried about the lost time I spent making something just to pour it down the drain. I cried about the time I lost not writing down my idea because I simply didn't have time to do it. I cried a few more tears and then I wiped them away. Principe gaped at me like I was an alien.

"Oh, babe, chill out. If you married a normal woman you'd see the tears a lot more than you do."

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, seemingly in disbelief. I'm not sure if he believes me or not, but he does seem to be glad another year or two will pass without seeing my tears again!

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