California Stars

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Not complaining. Just need a nap. And more hours in the day.

I'd like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of California stars
I'd like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of California stars

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da

I sent emails to everyone I know with kids in the Cub Scouts to see if any of the wives were going camping this past weekend. Responses ranged from "you couldn't pay my wife to sleep in a tent" to "no way, I use that night to celebrate the quiet house and drink wine with the other women." But every answer, bar none, said that lots of women go. It's just that no one could name any names.

Sure enough, there were a few women at the campfire -- namely the few that were with me to sign our kids up last week (i.e., all newbies). But alas, in the morning, there were none. They all friggin' left. All but me, that is. Was it because it was less than 40 degrees Faherenheit outside? So cold that it was impossible to sleep? Or was it because men can easily pee on trees and women have to go into a filthy, feces encrusted, stink-hole of a wooden shelter to go to the bathroom? Maybe it was because even after the kids went to bed, a few of the men stayed by the fire and sang campfire songs thereby rendering sleep impossible. Perhaps it was the thousands of geese that, unbeknown(st) to me beforehand, squawk all night long. Apparently it's just roosters and other little birds that awaken at dawn. Geese are partiers man.

The whole scene was surreal. Our tents were pitched in the forest. With the darkness and smoke, the experience took on a bit of a Lord of the Rings mystic quality. Missing: One Viggo Mortensen.

Dinner, on the other hand, was a culinary smackdown. Each kid placed whatever he wanted in a tinfoil pouch (e.g., hamburger, potatoes, mushrooms, corn, onions, taco seasoning), folded the ends and placed the pouch on the fire. Voila! A fully cooked meal with a minimal effort and a whole lotta fun.

I think the best part for the kids, in addition to being with their friends, was playing on a giant tree that had fallen in a storm. Its upended roots alone stretched a good 12' in the air so there was plenty of climbing to be done.

Ah well. Chalk the weekend up to yet another new, kid-related experience. Happy ever after in the marketplace . . . la la how the life goes on.

Depends . . .

Question: What's the worst part about coming to work super early?

Answer: The fact that I can't leave my office to go to the ladies room without tripping the alarm system.

More than you cared to know?

Same as it ever was . . .

I just took the online "Sleep Profile Quiz" from Ambien CR. I scored a 3 out of 10 which means that, according to them, I don't have a sleeping problem. I guess I need to have had a major life crisis recently and be supplementing my sleep already with melatonin in order to qualify. Just the sheer fact that I can no longer fall asleep or stay asleep, night after night, isn't enough.

It's a vicious cycle. I can't sleep and I lie in bed worrying about work. But when I get to work, I can barely think because I'm working on no sleep. So I can't get enough done. Then I go to bed, even more freaked out than the night before . . .

All of this is turning me into an evil bitch. Last week, as I was driving to work I passed some women in my neighborhood who were out jogging together. I said aloud (in my car, of course), "Fuck you." And then I said it about a hundred times more over the next couple of days. When the street light would turn red right in front of me. When someone would cut me off. Whatever the minor infraction, it didn't matter. I was feeling really let down by the universe. Why do I have to work my ass off for years and years with nothing to show for it? What's the f*ing point? What would happen if I just drove off a cliff today?

"And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house. And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife."

In the midst of this maniacal behavior, my oldest brother sent me another research study pointing to how liberals are less satisfied than conservatives -- not because of rising inequality (which is often erroneously blamed) -- but rather because they do not see the opportunity at hand as clearly as their happy-go-lucky, conservative friends. I realized that my definition of the "haves vs. have nots" in my community is what's making me miserable specifically in light of my personal lack of upward mobility.

I leave for work before my neighbors and come home later. Yet, my house is in disarray and I have little to no money put aside for my retirement and my kids' education. I am jealous that one good friend's major stress in life involves a new puppy. As much as I know she's really frantic, I think, "How hard can it f*ing be?" and then I feel guilty for minimizing her angst. I am jealous that another friend's husband is uber-successful and whisking her off to London at a moment's notice. As a stay-at-home mom with beautifully manicured fingernails and no time at all to call me and check in to see how I'm doing, my jealously is compounded. Then I think, what kind of so-called friend am I that I cannot be happy for her? The truth is, I am happy for her. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity is a horrible place to live.

Then I hear about a couple who lost their eight-year-old son in a bicycle accident years ago and I count my blessings. I hear about a woman roughly my age who was born with hydrocephalus, who cannot see, sit up, speak, use her arms/legs, etc. yet has been lovingly taken care of for years to ensure her life is not further compromised. And I know, I know, I know that I have a fabulous life. I don't live in Darfur, I have never been a victim of genocide, I have perfect health (when I'm sleeping well), I have two gorgeous, loving sons. What the f* is wrong with me?

So, instead of praying for greater mobility, a new job, more money, a rich husband (sorry hon) and a cleaning lady, I need to begin praying in earnest for non-attachment. I need to be okay with who I am, right here and right now: a latent Buddhist apparently. Or an expletive-laden Christian. I'm just glad that God provides compassion and forgiveness. If this f* you phase continues much longer, I'm going to need 'em.

Locomotive Lungs

While describing the woes of my husband’s snoring, someone near and dear to my heart (a.k.a. my mom) told me that her husband (a.k.a. my dad) also had suffered from sleep apnea. When they were first married, she claimed that she worried incessantly that he would stop breathing during the night. After thirty years of sleep deprivation, however, she began a somewhat different prayer, “Please, God, let this be his last breath.”

I’ve simply begun putting headphones on or, because my kids often sleep together in each other’s rooms, I switch to an unoccupied bed or the couch. Until a few days ago, it seemed to be working. I’ll keep you posted on my thoughts in another 15 years. Or again next week if my inability to sleep continues . . .