i’ve reeeally not been a nap person. napping in the daytime makes me feel kind of out-of-it, like i have to start the day all over again. but in these new days of insomnia…sleeplessness…big swaths of night wide-awake…well, the circumstances are a little different.
it is much easier for – him – to take a nap.
fact of the matter is, it’s much easier for him to sleep. any time. any where. sleep. sleep. sleep.
i’m not sure how he does it, but he lays his head down and he’s gone. meanwhile, i am tossing and turning and trying to figure out why his even breathing is so utterly annoying. yes, i know – i am simply jealous of his sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
and so, i thought i’d give it a chance – a daytime nap. i knew it would never work. i knew i’d lay down and be wide awake, despite being utterly exhausted. i knew the daylight would prevent me from sleeping. i knew he’d sleep in a second and i would be yearning to just get-up and do-something.
so much to think about. the middle of the night is a mashup festival of thoughts.
sometimes our level of profundity in the night is astounding. we converse and deep dive and solve all the world’s problems, quoting nietzsche and rumi and mary oliver and john muir.
and sometimes, it is less deep, less intense, less – well – anything at all. just random. and one of us – i’m not admitting to being the one – goes on and on, pondering, pondering, pondering – all aloud – convinced the other one of us – again, no pointed fingers here – is actually listening.
meanwhile, the dogga jumps up on the end of the bed – groaning – and yawns, falling into a deep slumber, his paws running, running, running, in dreamland.
sometimes nights are forever.
*****
and, speaking of random…that reminds me of a great 70s song that has nothing to do with this because we are both right here….still, great song!
the blue cornflower corningware baked ziti casserole in the middle of the table, a tall yago sangria bottle perched next to it, blue cornflower plated place settings, a loaf of italian bread – it’s 1977.
tiny cut-up bites of grilled cheese sandwiches – the crust cut-off – it’s 1992, it’s 1994.
chicken-cutlet-on-a-roll-with-gravy from the hewitt square deli…or even suzy q’s and michelob – it’s 1977 again.
heaping bowls of coffee ice cream – it’s 1974 and my big brother is there.
kraft macaroni and cheese – it’s 1996.
burgers and fries and champagne – it’s 2013.
baked clams and lobster bisque – back at 1977.
it’s uncanny and an immense joy to time-travel through taste. we have spent hours laughing with our dearest friends talking about the candies and snacks of way-back, the adult beverages along the way, the meals and desserts of growing-up.
and in those moments of reminiscing, we are powerfully struck by the ability to taste-it, to remember, to hold onto something really precious for a few moments again.
the meme “yeah, i’ve tried shutting up. it’s not for me.” jumped out at me today. it made me laugh aloud.
and i guess it’s true.
i TRY to keep my opinion to myself. sometimes. i TRY to keep my mouth shut. sometimes. i TRY not to say what i’m thinking. sometimes. i TRY to remember i’m SOMETIMES better off not saying anything. sometimes.
yes, yes, two heads are better than one, for sure. particularly now. between us, we can have a complete grocery list, a complete song, a complete conversation. it’s like mad-libs, but real life.
how is it that these words – practical words…not multiple-syllabic barely-used thesaurus type words or foreign expressions or highly technical jargon…just words like avocado or ravioli or well, i can’t remember any more examples…how is that these words disappear into thin air? they are seemingly irretrievable, escaping all the umms and uhhs buying time to try and unearth them.
it is fortunate that we most often choose partners who are in our approximate age bracket. for there is grace when you are both punting for a word, jaunting into the vast recesses of your brain with a flashlight and bucket – sieve-ready – like you are panning for gold in an old gem mine deep underground. only not.
instead, you are just trying to remember the round green things that go on top of chili.
i’m going to try and remember my grocery list from now on. standing there in the middle of the market – gawking at each other – blank looks on our faces – going through the alphabet, certain that the word we are seeking starts with some letter (one that turns out isn’t even in the word) – can be embarrassing. people are staring. they are wheeling their carts around us – two statues in the fresh veggie section, frozen by the broccoli and brussels sprouts. we are causing a rubberneck situation in the aisle. we are certain to remember what we need – as soon as we get home.
in the meanwhile, we know that our people are here too. they are the ones who glance over with sympathetic and understanding eye contact. they calmly – without disdain – walk around us. they smile. because they, too, have a few wrinkles and – every now and then – they stand still in some aisle, a lost look on their face, gazing around in search of some elusive item. and then – you can see it – their face lights up and you know. avocado. that’s it.
and we all skip to the check-out, hoping it is 5%-off senior day. because by now, we deserve it.
the spaceship hasn’t arrived and i am still – the tiniest little smidgiest iota of a bit – procrastinating. not entirely, but yes…enough. i’m wondering if there is such a thing as an estate sale while you are still alive and well and living in the house.
tomorrow it is likely i will throw out every underwire, save one or two. i have had it. i will no longer participate in whatever torturous intention with which underwire bras were invented. done. i am convinced they are caveman mentality – with agonizing pain at its center. not one to be a prima donna about such things, i have endured – for years…no! for decades – the excruciating pain that is an underwire brassiere. i have not sought a solution until recently, when i decided i could no longer engage in the absurd wire-them-up behavior.
some chick named marie tucek invented the precursor to the underwire bra – a breast supporter that was an upgrade from a corset – good heavens! – so that we could all have “defined shape and additional support”. it’s a device. i am pondering as i write this why such a sensitive area of our bodies needs a metal device poking at it. as a woman who does not need “additional support” i am not sure that anything could provide me the “defined shape” of the idyllic american breast. for heaven’s sake, this is all insane! and so, i have finally jumped on the wirelesswagon, having asked for informant help from my sister, my nieces, my dear friend.
we shopped the other day. the older women trolling the bra department eyed david at my elbow, leering at him as if he were some sort of bra ogre, lingerie department lingerer, foundations fiend. he was stalwart, though, and stayed by my side as i sorted through hangers and sought out correct sizing. he was patient as i planted myself in the fitting room, ready for bra-war. trying on bras is trying on bathing suits to the exponential power. you out there know what i mean.
so there are wireless bras pretty much for everything…the lightly lined comfort, the no side-effects, the t-shirt, the super soft, the lift, side-smoothing, back-smoothing, non-banding, cloud-like… it is the TGI friday’s menu of bras. wayyy too many to choose from and slightly confusing. not to mention slightly terrifying. because – once you have purchased and worn this $42 miraclebreastholder, it is yours-yours-yours. and there are no take-backs, regardless of whatever bra-mistake you might have made. so this is a big decision, particularly if you are thrifty. and freedom isn’t free, as they say.
i guess my point here though, is that my new year will have at least one amazing and positive new difference. wire-free, i will walk in the world, smiling more and knowing that i will not have little black and blue marks on my body from my feminine undergarment.
yes, yes. we are the height of fashion, the apex of vogue, the pinnacle of couture, trend-setters and latest-style-forward leaders. uh-huh.
in this new world – where i’m applying for medicare (what?!!!) – we are quite possibly – maybe probably – an eensy-weensy bit definitely – lagging behind. we are jeans-wearing, boots-flaunting, blackshirt-donning … and not so much … ok, not at all … runway-following.
were we sooo consumed with the intimate-wear choices of the riche, we would only consider silk or satin, rayon or charmeuse in nightwear lingerie. but, ohmygosh, give me a break!
we are over that.
truthfully – if people were truthful – most are over that.
and so, we are here to reassure you.
at least about pjs.
now that it is cold out it is completely apropos to pull out the flannel. because flannel – a style unto itself – is cozy and warm, snuggly and forgiving. a classic. it is love in a fabric.
and the buffalo plaid?? THE most popular.
yes. yes. we will rest easier now. we are most definitely the cat’s meow.
toooo hot. i am waaaay toooo hot waaaay toooo often. this peri/meno/post thing just goes on and on and on.
i have friends – they know who they are – who have had “i-think-i-had-a-hot-flash-once” experiences. how – exactly – is this equitable?? perhaps – in some involuntary way – i have taken on their burdensome backpack full of hotflashes…i have – involuntarily – embraced hotflashes for the whole gender. it would seem so. speaking of gender – what – exactlyyy – is the yang-for-men of this – our yin?
hot flashes are “damnedable” as my sweet momma would say – pretty much the harshest of her language save for a few choice times. they wreak havoc. they turn the best of intentions into sweaty messes. good grief. even writing that gives me a hot flash. let’s just say they are … not attractive.
regardless of my distaste for these hormonal ridiculousnesses, they often happen at night – in the middle of my insomnia or, if i’m particularly unlucky, in the middle of a snippet of sleep.
so i try to plan ahead.
i open the window next to my side of the bed. i figure if i can feel the breeze coming in, i will feel better – refreshed and relaxed, ready for sleepynightnight.
it doesn’t matter what the temperature is outside. it’s still … necessary.
d doesn’t always agree. there he is – all zen-like, snugged into the flannel sheets, under the comforter and the quilt, his 32 degrees long underwear at the ready. reticent.
i mean, he always relents. thank goodness!
but i guess he’s imagining he is out there with agnes and chip hailstone, ricko dewilde, andy and denise, jesse, sue aikens – living life below zero – in the overnight.
i was the one. probably the one and only. the single person in the entire school who opened up my re-purposed hallmark card store bag to reveal a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich. now, if that isn’t bad enough, add to it the irreversible damage that this wrought: carrying a cucumber sandwich or liverwurst and mayo on smushy white bread wrapped in waxed paper. i mean, who eats this in elementary school or junior high or even high school??? it’s like that scene in my big fat greek wedding with the mean girls around toula portokalos taunting her lunch, “moose kaka???”. yes, irreversible damage.
and so, i have a thing about wax paper. this is probably not wax paper’s fault. it was innocently birthed in 1927 and has served the general public well. just not me in the school cafeteria.
while everyone else was flaunting their plastic sandwich bags – with their deli-ham-and-cheese sandwiches complete with prepackaged bags of chips and ho hos or twinkies – there i was – with my savory liverwurst on bread soggy with mayonnaise, an apple and, if i was really lucky, a prized yodel. there was no comparison. it was crushing.
so, the wax paper in the drawer in the kitchen comes with a little ptsd. it comes in handy, yes. but i’ll never ever wrap a sandwich with it. ever.
reverse threading 