Author: Diary of Ann Franks

Stepmother to two boys, wife, enabler to three glorious basset hounds, bad influence, terrible friend and frustrated former warlord.

ANOTHER YEAR OLDER, BUT NOT MORE MATURE

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Today is my birthday. I share it with Richard Nixon, Joan Baez and Kate Middleton. I missed Elvis’ by just one day.

I have no particular plans for this year’s event. No Anntastic adventure or Annapalooza. For one thing, it is a Monday. A Monday that for some unknown reason I have not taken as a vacation day. Unless a kind soul has hidden a carton of Sofia’s under my desk, it will be a Monday like any other. Only I will invariably feel older.

Then again, I always feel at least a year older on Mondays. And today promises to be abysmal. I have four meetings. Everyone knows a day containing more than one meeting is a day in which you get nothing done. Instead, you sit in rooms talking about things you need to get done. then you schedule a follow-up meeting so everyone can keep track of what’s been done. And not done.

What kind of birthday fun is that? If groups of people are going to gather on my birthday and demand my attendance, there should at least be cake involved. (Or in my case, queso.) Plus, candles and champagne.

Wait. I have a diabolical idea. At least it will amuse me.

What I’ll do is walk into every meeting today a few minutes late. I’ll back into the room as though I’m talking to someone in the hallway. As I turn around to face the conference table I will jump back and GASP. Then I’ll slap my hand to my chest and gush, “Oh my goodness! You GUYS!! A surprise party? For me? You SHOULDN’T have!!!”

That should liven things up.

Or get me fired.

Happy Monday to all!

 

UPDATE:

I was greeted this morning with a little surprise from my team. Awwww. They’re the best.

2012, WE NEED TO TALK

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Every two weeks, another LetsBlogOff topic is introduced and we scamper off to compose our responses. This week the topic is, “What are you looking forward to in 2012?”

First things first.

2011, thank you for the year of recovery. We marked the one year anniversaries of the passing of my father, Bill Rogers, and my friend, Leah Siegel. I appreciate the opportunity to experience the healing process that strengthened other relationships and for the ability to add a little perspective to my life and work. I don’t know that I would have taken the trip to Wales (my first out of the U.S.) if not for the realization that we don’t always have next year or even tomorrow to carry out our plans.

(Thanks, Sandy, for the best trip ever!)

2012 has the potential to deliver big in lots of ways – or to be a complete disaster. We can control our fate to some degree, but some things are outside our power to command. But, hey, a girl can try, right?

So listen up 2012. Here’s what I need you to do for me.

I will be needing a complete and total cure; a clean bill of health – for a child I know. I can’t go into more detail, as the situation is still developing, and it’s not my place to do anything but put the universe on notice. I just know this: It needs to be fixed. Universe – Pick on somebody your own size. Or I will cut you.

Employment. For my husband. It’s been a difficult few years for him in IT/Channel sales, and it’s time to turn things around. Really. He needs to get out of the house. The dog has gotten way too attached to him. And too spoiled. Observe.

Otherwise, 2012, I expect the same thing from you that I do from myself. I am looking forward to new opportunities, a little rejuvenated attitude and more than a small boost of energy.

I plan to continue this blog, which will be a year old in May. It has been fun and therapeutic, and has introduced me to some wonderful people and talented writers. Who knew complete strangers could be so supportive?

There’s also a possible trip to France in 2012 which should rival my Welsh adventures. I look forward to seeing my friends and family more often, and to the complete recovery of my mother’s pelvis. (That sounds as if she lost her pelvis, rather than broke it, doesn’t it?)

I also look forward to never discussing my mother’s pelvis in public again; as I am sure, does she. (It’s healing nicely, by the way.)

Okay, apparently my obsessiveness and paranoia is going to continue in 2012, because now that I am thinking about the trip to France, I look forward to someone loaning me Rosetta Stone – French. Hint-hint.

I think I may be confusing 2012 with Santa Claus.

Au revoir, 2011. Bring it on, 2012.

What is everyone else expecting from 2012? Read on.

Click here:

HOLIDAY SCOOP AND THINGS YOU MAY ALREADY KNOW

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In the spirit of helping my fellow-man (and woman), here is what I have learned this past week. You’re welcome.

1. Never trust a teenager who tells you what time your mother-in-law is expecting you. The result is arriving 30 minutes AFTER she intended to “serve.”

2. An unwrapped gift will remain unwrapped until I wrap it. Seriously. DAYS after Christmas. Right now, in another room, a certain individual is staring at the gift in question and saying to himself, “Geez, when is Ann gonna’ wrap this?”

Actually, we’re in a stand off. He wants me to wrap the gift (which I agreed to do because he used the classic, “I’m a guy and I can’t wrap presents well,” ploy.) However, I am not going to wrap it until he completes the gift by putting the photo in the frame. He’s 18 and should be able to manage that himself. Apparently, that gift is going to live in my kitchen unwrapped and un-given FOREVER.

3. People attempting to attend Christmas Eve service at church on a rainy, cold evening will lie, cheat and steal to reserve a seat – or an entire pew – for their LATE (not dead but clock- challenged) friends and family. Seriously. Derek and I (who were on time and in the first group to enter) had to march almost to the front of the church to find a pew someone wasn’t planking on or that wasn’t strewn with coat, scarf, gloves – all spread out across every last inch.

4. Either I have no friends, or no one is sending out Christmas cards anymore. I think we received 4. One was from our newspaper carrier and I think they make him do it. I thought everyone wanted to show off their cute kids and puppies. What happened? At least the Kardashian family did their part.

5. Bowl Games have stupid names now. We should protest. Let’s occupy the Beef ‘O’Brady’s Bowl.

6. Work you take home to tackle over the holidays does not do itself. Although I still hold out hope.

7. Time passes more quickly when you are at home than when you are at work. I know this for a fact because I only seem capable of one activity per day. I scheduled a phone call this morning and it has thrown me off completely. I am still in my pajamas with very low expectations for exiting them. This is bad news for the people I am meeting for cocktails at 4:00.

8. Do not stack that container of olives on top of the container of berries. The olives leak. (This may not be a universal truth, but it’s something to consider.)

9. My husband can watch more football than yours.

10. Save yourself the trouble of reading “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” because the movie is crazy good. It’s also exhausting. P.S., Sweden in winter does NOT look as charming as it sounds. Join me and the other slackers in skipping ahead to book 2, which according to my sources gets moving faster than book 1.

Oh, and one last thing… did you hear Samoa is tossing today and skipping on to the 31st? No December 30th at all. I didn’t even know you could do that. They are crossing the international date line so they will be available for more trade with Australia. I think they should play a little more hard to get. Australia has that cute accent and all, but really…

Also, does that mean they get more sleep or less? Because I am all about gaining some snooze time.

THINGS I HAVE NO BUSINESS DOING

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In the season of the naughty and nice lists, I’d like to add another: Things I have no business doing.

I don’t know if it’s because it’s the end of the year, or because I’ve simply lost all good sense by the time the 12th month rolls around, but it’s wreaking havoc on me.

As I commented in my previous post, for some reason I have this yearning to be creative at Christmas time. However, as I was unable to locate a single wreath shaped piece of styrofoam at Michael’s, my creative itch remains fundamentally un-scratched.

However, thanks to the office pot luck, I was able to channel some of that creative energy into baking. As hubby is typically the chef in the house, this was one of those things I haven’t done – from scratch – in probably ten years. I decided to make Ginger snap cookies in snowflake shapes. (Ah, how adorable!) Yeah, right. I get this genius idea on a work night and start the process of grating a real ginger root at about 6:00.

Challenge number one: When a recipe tells you to use a standing mixer with paddles, they are NOT jacking around. I do not have such a machine, however, so I mixed it by hand. No big deal, right? Wrong. My wrist began to spasm and twitch so badly I spilled my old-fashioned all over myself while trying to take a sip. Now THAT’s tragic.

Challenge number two: Icing. I don’t have one of those icing decorator squeezy things, (people who know their way around baking tools, please stop yelling at me), and I bought the wrong size decorative tip to go on the tube of icing I purchased, so I had to give up and just spread the icing on the cookies with a knife. This really isn’t a tragedy, but I had a picture in my head of these lovely cookies decorated with lacy white icing, so it was disappointing to someone who is crazy, like I am. Plus, I was up WAY past my bedtime.

By the end of this little process I hated the cookies and the icing, and the pot luck idea. Some people actually liked the cookies though, so in the end, it was all worth it.

Not really. But what I do know now is WHY I haven’t baked in umpteen years.

Strangely, this didn’t dampen my adventurous holiday spirit. I actually decided to do something else I hadn’t done in forever. Ride a bike. Seriously, I have not been on a bike in eons. Even the early news to friends and family (casually) that I was going on a bike ride in the afternoon resulted in gasps and in one case (my mother) begging me not to do it. “Not right before Christmas, Ann! We don’t need another injury!” In response I did what I have done since I was 6. I waved away her concern and told her I’d be fine. Hey, I’m EVENTUALLY fine, after a period of recovery.

So my husband, (whose idea this was), and who obviously has it out for me, decides to put me in shorts and big gloves and a helmet and ear covers and some sort of goggles and points a terrified, unbalanced (in many ways) me toward the street on a bicycle – with him in the lead. I won’t go into detail, but we rode too far, too seriously and on streets that were too bumpy and too up hill on our way to the lake. Then we headed back. Somehow both ways were up hill. I swear. Really.

There was one brief moment when I thought I was going to get hit by a car, but I have been reassured that the guy saw me and was totally NOT going to run me over. Truthfully, I don’t think I really would have minded being run over at that point. In fact, it might have been the bike’s attempt to commit suicide when it stopped in the middle of the three lanes of northbound traffic. Maybe bikes are like horses and can smell fear and inexperience.

I also discovered that extreme exercise when your body is not used to doing more than walking up a flight of stairs at a leisurely pace results in the vocabulary of a sailor. A very salty sailor. Plus, at one point, in an attempt to motivate myself up one of those hills, I pedaled in rhythm to this mantra as I glared at hubby’s back – “I will get you… I will get you…must sleep some time…must sleep some time…”

I think I will go back out on the bike again sometime. Maybe when the sun is out and it’s a little warmer than 58 degrees. Now it’s a challenge and I HAVE to win.

Plus, I’d rather attempt crossing 6 lanes of traffic on the bike than blend that cookie dough by hand again.

Other things I have done in the past week I have no business doing? Speaking to homeless people, mailing anything to an international destination, pretending I can design attractive things on Zazzle and shopping online.

I think there’s something I’m forgetting about handing a three-year old a glass of chocolate milk when she’s sitting on my antique Chippendale sofa, but surely even I wouldn’t be as insane as to do something like that.

‘TIS THE SEASON TO MAKE A HOT MESS

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Someone make it stop. It’s that holly jolly time of year when I inexplicably forget all evidence to the contrary and decide that I’m “crafty.” Not “plot a coup” crafty. “Grab a glue gun and get busy” crafty.

The problem with that is – well, there are multiple problems with this. There’s a difference… a WORLD of difference between creative and crafty. If I were truly a craft-type person, I would own a glue gun. I don’t. In fact, I’m kind of afraid of the damage I might do with hot glue. So far, I have managed to refrain from purchasing one, although I do eye them warily in the store and have reached for one every now and again before regaining control. It’s as if I realize we COULD have a relationship, but it would be an unhealthy one.

How do people do this? Everyone I know is busy making homemade biscotti or sewing quilts, or knitting or making photo books or basket weaving or making a homemade nativity scene out of paper mache and spit. It’s annoying. It’s enough to give a girl a complex. Especially this girl.

The urge to craft must be genetic. Years ago, my mother, who had the good sense to work with florist wire instead of glue, made Christmas wreaths. I still have the one she gave me almost 20 years ago. I’ve refurbished it a bit, re-attaching parts with wire and replacing items as they become too weathered or broken, but I still think of it as hers.

 

Then there’s my fraternal grandmother. She was an amazing seamstress. Gertie made rag dolls, clothes, decorations and quilts that were truly works of art. Many went to the church bazaar each year, but I have a collection of her Christmas ornaments I use every year on my tree. Sometimes I get the urge to leave them in the closet and decorate with beautiful glass or fabric and gemstone / glittery ornaments – color coordinated in jewel tones or shades of blue and purple… but I scrap the idea when I think of a “decorator” tree versus the “handmade” tree.

Here’s a selection of some of my favorites.

    

Seriously. Look at the detail on these. The eyelashes are little tiny stitches.

I adore this little rosy-cheeked Eskimo. The fringe, the little toothpick (spear) in his hand. (Don’t think about the baby seals.)

Then there’s the Snowman and his mittens and scarf. His eyelashes are stitched as well.

So perhaps you can see where I might get the impression I’m supposed to CREATE something for Christmas. Something the boys can share with their kids someday. Something that generations to come will pull out of a dusty box and say, “Oh! I remember this! Crazy old Ann made this!”

Therefore, against my better judgement I am pondering a trip to Michael’s, where I will wander about staring blankly at decorative ribbon, styrofoam, felt, glitter, fake evergreens and holly. In the end, I will spend $45+ dollars to come home and make a mess. I know this because it’s an annual event, and as you may have noticed, you are not viewing any pictures of anything I made. That would be because nothing exists. I might as well go to Michael’s and pay the guy at the floral desk $45 dollars to mock me. The end result would be the same but my fingers wouldn’t be glued together.   

Wish me luck on my creative adventure. If nothing else, maybe someday, when one of the boys is playing with his son or daughter on the rug they “inherited” from us, they will find a tiny sequin superglued to a bit of fringe and say, “Hey! I remember this! This is from that year Ann tried to make homemade ornaments! Man, could she cuss!”

UNSUCCESSFUL SANTA

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Have I mentioned that I hate shopping for the holidays? Well, I do. Each year I attempt to come up with some idea that will make the whole experience less stressful, but it fails miserably.

I am no good at choosing just the right thing for someone, unless they hit me over the head with hints about what they want. Repeatedly. And preferably purchase and wrap it for me. That’s right. I’m not even good at gift wrapping. I just throw paper on whatever it is, slap some tape on the seams crookedly and it’s done. No bow. Oh, and sometimes I cut a ragged strip of wrapping paper from which I fashion really bad gift tags.

Martha Stewart would have me flogged.

This year I am again determined to do better. Seriously, it can’t get any worse unless I just start tossing the gift in the actual shopping bag under the tree, receipt and all.

In my first step toward improving, I found a website where you can create or purchase some really creative things. And by creative I mean smart ass. Nothing inspires me more than that. A gift I can really get behind. A gift with attitude.

I think I hear Christmas bells!

Check this out. T-shirts. This one is for the friend who keeps encouraging me to go camping.

This is for my brother.

This little gem from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” is for hubby.

This beauty is for one of the architects I work with. Could be an annual giveaway.

Enough T-shirts. Now for something different. Like a notebook. Or a threat. Or a notebook threat?

I may have to give this to the HR Director to take to meetings. The bottom right hand corner clarifies in small font: “With Kindness.”

For my lovely team members? This is perfect. They too can go to meetings armed with this deceptively nice-at-first-glance notebook.

And for me, I’m getting this little accessory. It’ll come in handy at holiday parties where I am expected to mingle with irritated children who are up past their bedtime. It’s a festive button!

I’m sure I can find someone’s stocking that needs this addition. Not as good as a Betty Ford Clinic button, but still…

A few items confused me…

In what world does this ornament say, “Merry Christmas?”

Oh, dear.

And lastly, a sentiment we can all get behind.

What’s that? No good?

That’s it. I’m buying liquor for everyone this year. One size fits all.

THANKSGIVING RESERVATIONS

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Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is about Thanksgiving and food. 

I was having a really hard time coming up with anything particularly unique about our Thanksgiving, until last night, when this year’s got canceled.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. Actually, it’s only canceled for my mother, who fell and broke her pelvis during game 6 of the World Series. I know it was Game 6 because having lived almost my whole life in Dallas, with a baseball team that was a major joke for years, Game 6 nearly killed me. I also know that when I got the call from my stepfather at the hospital, part of me was really depressed that I was going to have to head to the emergency room and miss the end of the game. (I know. I know. I’m ashamed and going to hell. I know.)

However, as it turned out, we were told NOT to come to the hospital. I talked to her on the phone briefly as the sedation was kicking in and got to stay home to watch the end of the game. And that’s when God smited me for my insensitivity by making it impossible for the Rangers to get ONE OUT. ONE LOUSY OUT… 

 

Sorry. Back to Thanksgiving. We don’t do anything terribly exciting. No cooking all night. No days and days of baking. We used to go to Grandmother’s, (who probably DID cook all night) but once she sold the house, the gathering became more of a moveable feast  – every year at someone else’s home.  The most memorable thing about Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s was not the food so much – though the dressing was AMAZING, but the fact that she jumped up from the table to run into the kitchen for some forgotten item so often we actually videotaped her end of the table one year so we could show her what she was doing.  I don’t know what on earth was so important in the kitchen that kept her popping up and down like a crazed jack-in-the-box, unless it was shots of vodka.   – Which explains why the rolls always burned. And my predilection for martinis.

When my mother married my stepfather a new tradition was created. I call it, “Thanks for giving me a stepfather who knows how to make a reservation.” Each year we eat Thanksgiving “dinner” at a restaurant. For years it was Les Saisons, then they moved or went out of business. (And yes, the French Thanksgiving theme was a little odd.) Then we tried some other location, and eventually settled on the country club.

Let me just say, Thanksgiving at the country club is a glorious experience. The turkey is stacked neatly on a cushion of cornbread dressing, the squash casserole is to die for, and there are cocktails. Shrimp cocktails, crab claws, smoked salmon, oysters. Champagne, Bloody Marys, wine. The only strenuous thing you have to do is wind your way around the buffet tables with a plate laden with 10 lbs. of yummy goodness.

Anyway, up until last night, Mom kept insisting she was going to be able to attend this three hour food fest, somehow ignoring that broken pelvis / sitting situation. The pain medications must not be keeping her in La La Land anymore because she announced she would NOT be attending our annual festivities. Instead, she proposed that we all go to the club without her, stuff ourselves (or as Granio would say, “Have sufficient,”) and return to the house with a “to go” selection of buffet items.

I was hesitant at first to accept this proposition, but it seemed to be what she wanted, so I agreed. (Part of me thought it could be a trap. People on pain medication can be crafty.) But so far, no repercussions. It looks like Thursday will indeed be a Thanksgiving without Mom. At least temporarily. And for that reason alone, it will be memorable, if a bit melancholy. (Yet still delicious.)

Wait a minute. I just had a horrible thought. Please tell me I wasn’t supposed to volunteer to keep her company while everyone ELSE goes to the club. 

Uh oh.

To see what others in the #LetsBlogOff are sharing about Thanksgiving, click the logo below.

NOT SO DEEP THOUGHTS

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Things I’m wondering about today:

How much longer will we be seeing a dress uniformed “Sully” Sullenberger in commercials?

How many shows CAN they make about vampires?

(Answer: Too many.)

Speaking of which, how can they make TWO movies out of the last Twilight book?

What exactly is Pisco Porton?  

Why is it someone can like tomato soup, but not tomatoes?

How did Rick Perry’s people manage to keep this frightfully entertaining secret to themselves? I’d like to buy them a round of drinks.

Can the Puppytime app really improve my life 3 times a day?
(But then again, what can it hurt?)

If college football is on, will my husband notice that I am eating the last of the potato chips?

How can someone actually make a TV show about Trash?

Why didn’t I think of it?

Why do people hire Emmitt Smith for commercials when he can’t say “asked” or “exactly?”  Can’t they write something without those words? Like, “They didn’t have the tequila I wanted… (rather than “aksed for?”) If you have no idea what I am talking about, you are a lucky, lucky person. “Aks” anyone in Dallas. They will tell you “ZACTLY” what I mean.

Sorry, Emmitt.

Who first made queso? Because they should have their own national holiday.

Why can’t I find a BIG metal chicken that I can name Beyonce and photograph in silly circumstances? (Of course, now that EVERYONE has one, perhaps I need to look into a different giant metal farm animal. Start your Christmas list now!)

Why does my dog smell like Fritos when we haven’t had Fritos in the house in MONTHS? And even if we had, why would she smell of them?

And sometimes she smells like chocolate chip cookies.

Why are archaeologists never as attractive as Indiana Jones and why am I always strangely disappointed by that fact?

Does anyone really set out to work in a slaughter house/be a butcher, and wouldn’t it make you nervous/creeped out to date one?

Same for morticians.

Why is a sandwich always better when someone else makes it for you?

Who are the people who order exercise equipment from a TV commercial, and can’t we do some sort of intervention to help them?

Why does it take only one day to totally fill the dishwasher, but three days for someone to unload it?

Shouldn’t there be a Tim Gunn app that offers sensitive and supportive phrases like, “You need a hug.” “Make it work.” “You should be so proud of yourself.” Or even, “I’m going to have to ask you to go clean up your workspace.”

 And last but not least: Where do I put the question mark in that last one?

OH, THE DRAMA

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Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is: What did you want to be when you grew up?

I can tell you this sincerely. I NEVER said to anyone during my childhood, “What I want to be when I grow up is a marketing person for an architecture and interior design firm,  because there I will find appreciation, encouragement and respect.” I’m still not sure how I got here. But that’s another topic entirely.

Growing up with a father people referred to as a “creative genius” made me want to follow his happy footsteps into the advertising industry, which I did for about 12 years, writing and producing TV and radio commercials. One of my earliest jobs required that I go to an office each day by 9:00 AM to view soap operas. (I’m not kidding. This was a real job.) A TV was perched above my computer screen, and I would watch the CBS soaps with headphones on as two other girls watched ABC and NBC. We would type a summary of each show and hand the copy off to a voice talent before the next show began. The voice talent would record each synopsis, and as this was before everyone had internet, or a DVR, or knew how to reliably set their VHS, people who had missed their soap would call a 900 number and pay 99 cents a minute to hear what happened. Insane, right?

BEST. JOB. EVER.

I watched The Young and the Restless, Guiding Light, As the World Turns, and the Bold and the Beautiful. I think I’m missing one… that’s what happens to your brain after subjecting it to that much drama every day.

To earn extra money, I volunteered to do the same thing for Falcon Crest and Dallas in the evening. It was fun to write the copy and insert a little “wink” here and there. It was impossible NOT to get a little tongue-in-cheek about it.

I guess at some point between that early job and the following work on actual commercials I realized what I REALLY wanted to be was a writer. Writing for me is that THING people tell you about. The “Whatever it is you find yourself doing when you’re putting off work is what you should be doing with your life,” thing. It’s like breathing.

Ideally, I would have started this blog years ago when the stepsons were 9 and 12 and providing constant material, but my big plan to be the Erma Bombeck of stepmothers didn’t pan out. Unfortunately, at the time, I couldn’t put the right amount of distance between the observation and the situation to really enjoy it. The ability to laugh came later, with maturity, and the surrender of sanity. So, no book deal, no movie, no big interview on Letterman. Or Oprah.

For now I have to say goodbye to the imaginary vacation house named
“What’s-Your Pointe” I would purchase with the proceeds from my best-selling novel,
“Not Genetically Responsible.” (T-shirts and bumper stickers sold separately.)

Sigh.

But, thanks to the people who read these occasional posts, in a small way, I am what I wanted to be when I grew up.

To see what others in the #LetsBlogOff wanted to be, click the logo. And enjoy!

WIRED FOR SLEEP

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After a delay caused by the Rangers, I am finally taking the sleep study/lab thingy. I checked in at 9:30 PM and found a depressing room, much like the one in the previous post. Actually identical, I think. Truth in advertising! What a concept! The lab tech dude that checked me in said it will be an hour and a half until he gets to me. So now, I can enjoy my free time. In this room. The room that is making me itch. Seriously. I have the heebies AND the jeebies.

And yes, that IS a fake Ficus tree.

To counter the decor (which I would refer to as “early yuck,”) I brought along some DVDs. I was forewarned I might need entertainment when I read on my the pamphlet: “Bedrooms include queen-sized beds and TV/DVD combos with standard antenna broadcasting.” 

That’s right. ANTENNA broadcasting.  Eat your hearts out.

What does a girl watch to get her mind off non-prettiness, itchiness, the worst bedspread ever, and a sense of impending doom? The Dick Van Dyke Show. I’ll check back in after they plug me into all the sensors and electrode type things. Meanwhile, enjoy the view. I know I am.

And yes, that light to the right of the TV is a camera. Monitoring my every move.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING:

I did not continue this post after being connected to the gear. Why? Because I couldn’t possibly move without disconnecting something. I had electrodes attached to my head and in my hair, on my legs, my arms, you name it.  Plus, there was a sensor like they take your heart rate with taped to my Iphone typing finger, “Gus.”
– Seen here minus accoutrements.

So with Gus out of commission, (and also noticeably in need of a mani), I cautiously maneuvered under the so-called “sheets” and closed my eyes. It is not easy to sleep connected to over a dozen little wires. I tried for a pleasant dream, but to add insult to injury, I ended up dreaming I was in a Sleep Lab.  The Sleep Lab in my dream was WAY nicer than the one I was actually in, so that was good. 

The bad part was the difficulty breathing. (Although semi-consciously I thought, “Good.  I am cooperating. I am not like my car that refuses to repeat the same noise for a mechanic that it delights me with on a daily basis.”)  The OTHER bad part was that I don’t know if I actually slept.  There was a lot of tossing and turning, or readjusting, as the wires kept waking me up as they tugged this way or that. I must have slept at some point, despite evidence to the contrary. I look like I belong in that drab, sad room today.

I was awakened by lab tech dude at 6:00 AM and handed paperwork. He’s lucky he didn’t get punched. He wanted answers to questions like, “How many hours did you sleep last night?” “Did you wake up during the night?” “For how long?”

Wait… Isn’t that what YOU are supposed to tell ME?

If you think I can judge time when I am asleep you are wrong. I went camping once and would have sworn I had been asleep for at least 2 hours, only to find, in reality, ten minutes had passed. I am NOT a good judge of time when uncomfortable and yet unconscious.

Results are back in about a week. I don’t care what they tell me, as long as I never have to be in that room again.

And if you are interested in what I looked like with all those sensors stuck to my head, it was something like this. Only Pin Head is much more stoic than I.