Insomnia...Destroyed

Just woke up from night two of the great Melatonin experiment.

I think it is working! There was only one piece of evidence that I may have had some weirdness in the night. A text sent to myself at 5:15am that said, simply: "Salmon Al Dente" Not sure what that was all about...but it sure beats waking up crying.

I purchased a bottle of Melatonin at Fred's on Thursday. It did not occur to me until I got ready for bed that I had no idea how much to take. Of course the bottle said, "take 1 tablet", but I have never been one to follow package directions. Whoever determined that probably slept good the night before. The dosage for each tablet was 300mcg. I had no idea what an mcg was, or if that was even a real unit of measurement. Some supplements are measured in IU (international units...or something like that) which seems bogus to me. I need milligrams to be sure it is real. So, I googled "therapeutic dosage melatonin" and learned that I would basically need to swallow the entire bottle of Fred's Melatonin in order to achieve the benefits. 300mcg is roughly equal to .3mg. The therapeutic dose is 5 mg. I took 5 and went to bed. Once I got settled, my mind began to run the familiar race. I wondered if I had read it right, then began to worry that I had taken too many. I was a liberal arts major, after all...math was never my strong suit. Maybe if I had done better in math, I wouldn't have to listen to people bitch and moan all day. What if I die? Has anyone ever died from Melatonin toxicity? Then...I fell asleep. Obviously...1.5mg has some benefit. But at that rate, I would be done with the whole bottle in a few days.

Friday I went to Walgreen's, to get some "real" stuff. I purchased a bottle of 3mg (the mg means it works...for real) melatonin and was pleased to learn that it was a BOGO deal! I had enough to last me the rest of the summer and into the winter, which was great as sleeping is not an issue then. Last night, I put on my pj's, took Harriet out, gave the familiar brown bottles of pills the 'Nancy Reagan' treatment, then ingested two of my new and improved Melatonin pills.

Even though Friday was fairly stressful (I had to participate in throwing some dirty stuffed animals away, and my boyfriend and I talked about death), my mind was relaxed and I drifted off to sleep without the usual panic of "OMG WHAT DID I FORGET TO DO TODAY?!?!" Aside from the weird text message, my night was uneventful. I do feel a teensy bit groggy this morning, but it is nothing a nice hot pot of Fresh Market Summer Breeze coffee won't solve. I am working on that now, as I type.

So, it is still early yet, but I am going to go on and call this experiment a success.

Slumber Fail

I am having some trouble sleeping. Not so much falling asleep...I could fall asleep on a busy train track. But, staying asleep is not working out. So, I have been forced to turn to chemicals for assistance. Before I go on, I acknowledge that I was quick to pass judgement on my crackhead childhood friend in an earlier post. However, my situation is different. I have no children to witness my drug induced stupor, I am not currently involved in any sort of legal battle, nor do I obtain sleep aids from a myriad of doctors. Now that that's out of the way...

In my bedside table, I have a small pharmacy featuring both OTC and prescription medications. I obtained a prescription for a supply of pain pills recently, because I was actually in pain (OW MY LEG!!) and I found that in addition to easing my old-lady knee pain, the pills also provided me with a full night's sleep. I feel guilt every time I take a pill...knowing that my supply is dwindling. My knee has returned to human proportions, yet I continue to reap the sound sleep benefits.

I have used over the counter remedies before: Thera-flu, Nyquil, Advil PM, Benadryl, etc. This insomnia is nothing new to me. Trouble sleeping has plagued me for years during times of turmoil. If it weren't for Bendaryl, my divorce would have caused me to have a car accident. Thera-flu helped me sleep away my last serious break-up. Advil PM assisted me in forgetting about being unemployed. When the shit hits the fan, I hit the familiar foil sealed packs of snooze. In college, I didn't sleep for days, finally going to the campus infirmary (because I could not afford luxuries like over the counter medication). The "doctor" there gave me a sample pack of a new drug, one that was guaranteed to put me to sleep and keep me asleep, for only 8 hours, then I would wake up feeling refreshed. This was my first and last experience with Ambien. Oh it worked...and worked...and worked...and kept on working. How in the Hell was I supposed to function on that shit? I felt like I had smoked 10 blunts...and that was AFTER a full night sleep. No thanks. So, anyway, I have had off and on periods of living out a bad Huey Lewis song for nearly 20 years. (in case you missed the pop culture reference, it's "I Want A New Drug").

I enjoy having a drink here and there, but am no drinker. Therefore, alcoholism is out. It is too facking hot to do any sort of exercise, I consider getting through the day to be exercise enough. I don't chant. I don't do yoga. I don't meditate. Warm milk is creepy and god forbid some sort of gross skin forms on the top, because then I would have to give up all milk. I usually don't drink coffee after 9am. My insomnia is all in my head, truly. I worry. A lot. Usually, I can keep a handle on my anxiety and it generally does not affect my day to day life. However, when things pile up, it becomes unmanageable and there I go...reaching for the blister packs. For once, my anxiety does not focus on my personal life. My personal life would put Dave Attell to sleep...which is a good thing. Work really sucks right now and it keeps getting suckier by the day. It seems like the more I try to catch up and control things, the worse it gets. There simply isn't enough time. I could work an 80 hour week and still be behind, that is the nature of the job. Dealing with people is bad enough, but dealing with people who, by nature, have ongoing drama is the worst. They never close. They never shut off. The drama just keeps unfolding. And when I notate one thing, my phone rings and it is just another twist in the soap opera that I am being paid to watch. And so on until I am awakened at 2am by a panic that I didn't sign off on someone's utility assistance request, or I didn't remember to write down someone's appointment, which means I will have to phone them, which means I will have to invite additional conversation about shit that I really don't care about. And once I am awake...it's off to the races.

So, you can see where a dead stupor would come in handy here. Until last night. I opted for an old school pill last night, to make an effort to conserve my current supply. I don't even know what it was, Lortab or something like it, prescribed for some sort of dental procedure from long ago. So, off to dreamland I go. Little did I know, I had purchased a ticket on the crazy train and I rode that train all. night. long.

At some point, I woke up, laying on top of the bedding...freezing. Covering up, and quickly drifting off to sleep, I then had the longest, weirdest, and apparently(judging from the racking sobs that I woke myself up with)saddest dream ever. I won't go into details here, but will say that it involved someone I used to know, death, and pleading. Heartwrenching. Anyway, I woke up crying and after finally pulling myself together, I made another attempt at slumber. I then had a very happy (but strange) dream and slept the rest of the night in a pool of sweat. I got up with the alarm, drank a pot of coffee, and was applying make up when I realized that I did NOT win 5th row tickets to see Journey in concert.

It was then that I had my Huey Lewis moment. Haggardly looking into the mirror and thinking to myself that I needed a new drug. Maybe not a narcotic. Perhaps I should try Melatonin. Or Valerian root. Something, anything, that will put my mind to rest, without breaking my heart. Something that will neither raise or lower my body temp by ten degrees. Something that will not allow me to get up, prepare and eat a sandwich, and make TWO very ambitious to-do lists....all with no memory of the event. Something that will make me feel like I have had some sleep after I have had some sleep. Because if I don't get some good quality sleep soon...someone is going to get cut.

Things I Hate About My New Neighbors

As if on cue, just as I completed my patio paradise, something came along to blow it up. July 4th weekend, I got new neighbors. I didn't even realize the house next door had been vacant, the lady that lived there pretty much kept to herself. All of a sudden, raggedy pick up trucks were all over the scene, unloading a house full of bad decisions.

First, they unloaded the trampoline. Then the see saw. Then the various yard-ape accessories. Next, they applied Round-Up to the ENTIRE yard. Easier than cutting the grass, I guess. And really, a dirt yard seems to be what they are used to. All of the yard accessories were placed right next to the fence, so that as they enjoyed their things, they could keep an eye on what was happening in my yard as well. Neat. Oh! Then, the extra large batting cage. After all the hard work in arranging Six Flags Over Tipton, they relaxed by riding their four wheeler around the front yard. The lot is maybe 1/4 of an acre...and that is being generous. A child's bedroom suite sat out in the front yard, still on the trailer, for 3 days (and nights). That's gonna smell real nice when Junior finally gets to sleep in his own bed. There are three adults and what appears to be two kids, a young girl and a large (weight problem) pre-teen boy. It appears to be an arrangement that is quite common in these parts: early thirties/late twenties male, late to mid twenties female, late teen girl (an early start child or wayward sister), her toddler, and someone's loud obnoxious boy child who is obviously managed with food. It is a two bedroom home.

Terrific. Yes, I am a fairly intolerant person...I will be the first to admit that. I don't give people the benefit of the doubt, I pass judgement immediately...and guess what? It usually turns out to be right. I can spot a "situation" from miles away. And now, I have a "situation" next door. Next door to my tidy little home, in my tidy little neighborhood. I have an idea that this situation is fresh from the Hatchie River bottom. Something tells me that they lost their trailer, either to the Spring floods or the bank. Were there not any rental properties available in the county? On any given day, there are various vehicles in various states of disrepair parked in the front yard. Each night, there's a party on the 10'X10' deck. And all their rowdy friends are coming over tonight, to quote Bocephus.

So, in honor of my new neighbors, I have compiled a list of things I hate about them. This helps me laugh about the situation, until I can get a nice privacy fence built.

I hate:
1. Their olde English lettered tatoos.
2. Their Nickleback cd collection.
3. Their Fingerhut wicker bathroom collection complete with the "BATH" clock.
4. Their "Intimidator" Dale Earnhardt velvet wall hanging.
5. Their "Bless This Mess" kitchen wall hanging.
6. The velveteen waterwheel scene couch with wooden arms, complete with rings from the countless sweating Milwaukee's Best cans.
7. The shaved heads on the males, to help with the apparent lice issues.
8. The framed print hanging above the waterbed, an angel helping the two small children cross the rickety bridge...a hostess gift from the Home Interiors party.
9. The shellaced wooden "taters" and onions holder.
10. The cobalt blue and fuschia hair feathers that mama is saving up for.
11. The GED study guides.
12. The empty Dr Pepper two liters, bags of Doritos, and Oreo crumbs that litter the living room. All name brand because Junior's seasoned palate KNOWS the difference.
13. The high dollar Nissan Armada that they all spill out of during their weekly trips to the Cash Advance.
14. Their dream vacation to Magic Springs.
15. Their tan sheets...the after effect of hanging out in the dirt yard.
16. Their poor man's lottery of athletic ability improving gear...here's hoping their fat kid can go on to the MLB, NBA, or NFL to pull them out of poverty.
17. Their flagrant disregard of the leash law for their dingy dog.
18. The tension of having two hens in the roost.
19. The thick french manicured acrylics that are a week overdue for a fill-in.
and finally:
20: The $578 in combined food stamps that they unofficially receive.

Quick to pass judgement? Always. Accurate judgment? Maybe. Probably. Could it be worse? Of course. I can accept the fact that not everyone lives like I do...privately, neatly, and considerately. And I completely understand that my rights end where another's begin. And, apparently, serenity ends at the fence line. So, for now, I will just not wear my eyeglasses while outside; that way the line of demarcation is blurred into a jumble of earth tones and wife beaters.

Breakdown Ahead

Remember a few months ago, when I bragged about being a "do-it-myselfer"? I should have kept my mouth shut. La la la la, I fired my lawn guy. La la la la, my boyfriend loaned me a riding mower. La la la la, I will save so much money. La dee dee da dee da. Screw that.

It all started with the weedeater. The NEW weedeater that I purchased in the name of saving money. Gotta spend money to save money, right? So, off I go, with my new Ryobi trimmer, my slightly used riding mower, and my ol faithful Toro Power push mower. Oh, and my high dollar "professional" blower. I don't remember the exact chain of events, but let's just say that the weedeater went through a tank of gas in about 3 minutes, the blower puffed and then died, and ol faithful had a coughing fit. The loaner mower worked great! Great until I got to the surprisingly steep slope in the front yard that threatened to roll me right on out of the seat. "Ok, no worries", I said. I got more gas, added oil, made some adjustments, and came up with the following yard maintenance routine:

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Use push mower on slope and ditch.
3. Use weedeater on steeper ditch and edges.
4. Blow off driveway and carport.
5. Relax with Corona.

Done and done. That lasted a week. The routine then turned into:

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Use push mower until it mysteriously shuts off.
3. Use weedeater for 3 minutes, add more gas, use 3 more minutes, add more gas, use 1 minute, untangle string, use 2 minutes, add more gas.
4. Blow off area around shed, attempt to restart blower, abort mission and sweep driveway with broom.
5. Mutter expletives while chugging a Corona and giving the yard the evil eye.

This went on for a couple of weeks. Then it got hot. The routine evolved into this:

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Haul push mower out of shed and attempt to start. Slam it down on the ground and declare loudly, "THAT'S IT! I AM SELLING THIS FACKING HOUSE AND MOVING INTO A GOTDAMNED CONDO."
3. Roar at boyfriend when he gently suggests adding gas to the mower.
4. Attempt to crank weedeater. Watch as bits of flesh fall to the ground from fingers. Cry in frustration. Laugh in a hyena-like fashion when weedeater finally cranks. Consider drinking the contents of the gas can when string immediately becomes tangled.
5. Watch helplessly as boyfriend skulks off to Home Depot for fix-it supplies. Wonder if he is ever coming back.
6. Get misty eyed remembering a George the lawn guy montage.
7. Attempt to start blower. Give up.
8. Watch as boyfriend repairs weed-eater, fills up mower with gas, and finishes yard.
9. Wonder why marriage never works out for me.

This lasted a couple of more weeks. Then...it all fell apart.

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower.
2. Cut slope and ditch with 'ol faithful push mower.
3. Trim edges with weedeater with new and improved trimming head that does not use string, but dull plastic knives. Notice gas trail. Answer questions from nosy ass overly helpful neighbor about said weedeater.
4. Refill gas and tighten cap to Vulcan strength on weedeater and attempt to restart in carport, safely away from prying eyes. Exert brute strength on pull start. Punch side mirror on car with said brute strength due to cramped quarters. Watch as hand doubles in size and turns purple.
5. Work through pain and get it done.
6. Cry into beer.

Intermission: birthday, trip to Florida, twisted knee and subsequent limp.

1. Cut 3/4 of yard with riding mower. Consider taking chances on slope with riding mower but chicken out at last second a la "Footloose" tractor scene.
2. Feel optimistic as push mower starts on first try. Cut ditch and watch in disbelief as clouds of white smoke billow out over the neighborhood. Panic as the realization sets in that the smoke has reached the neighbor's house. Attempt to hobble the mower, sans power feature, back up to the privacy of the backyard before neighbor can make his way over to conversate. Fail.
3. Answer questions about smoking mower with standard, "yeah." "thanks." "yeah, it will be fine." "ok." "alright." "yeah."
4. Wish someone would stop and offer me $100K cold hard cash for the purchase of my home right then.
5. Start weedeater, now known as weed-caresser. Attempt to finish ditch by gently caressing the grass with machine. Recognize the futility. Abort mission.
6. Plug in electric blower, provided by sweet boyfriend, feel optimistic as clippings scatter down the driveway...until cord runs out...halfway down. Sweep the rest.
7. Look up symptoms of heat stroke on google.

Which brings us to last night...

1. Watch newscast about 110 degree heat index and decide to put off lawn work until sundown.
2. Haul push mower out and cross fingers that white smoke issue will have magically resolved itself during the week long time out in the shed.
3. Successfully cut two strips of slope. Consider laying down in the street when the familiar plumes of white smoke appear. Remember the episodes of "LOST!" where the white smoke comes to atone someone for their sins. Wonder what sins I am atoning for.
4. Hobble non working mower back to shed for permanent time out. Remember doctor's advice, "Stay off the knee." Wonder if doctor is married and who cuts her yard.
5. Crank weedcaresser. Attempt to trim calf tall grass with plastic knives. Run out of gas. Sling machine to the ground. Wonder if anyone is peaking out their windows at the impending nervous breakdown taking place. Exhale and watch sweat fly off face. Remember Michael Douglas movie, "Falling Down". Consider falling down.
6. Notice that entire exercise took approximately 2.5 hours...net accomplishment: 1/1000 of yard cut.
7. Sit on porch and smoke. Think about tomorrow, another evening of lawn maintenance. Remember that there is an entire backyard that needs cutting as well. Calculate time spent on yard. Realize that 75% of free time is spent on yard. Remember how important free time is. Wonder how other people do it so easily. Weigh out emotional toll versus monetary savings.
8. Pull out phone book, newspaper, and log in to Craigslist.
9. Compile list of people who make a living worrying about grass.
10. Cross my name off that list.

Saving The World, One Bear At A Time

Is it possible to have writer's block when you are not actually a writer? I picture a frustrated middle aged writer slumped over an old Smith Corona typewriter, doodling with a pencil, half full cup of coffee getting cold, the sound of a fan in the background whirring stale air. Ok, that isn't me. But, I just can't seem to get back into the habit of blogging. There are thoughts that cross my mind all the time, I just don't have enough to follow to make it worth my (or yours) time to enter it. Currently, I am watching an episode of "Hoarders" on A&E. On this episode, a former nurse hoards stuffed animals and dolls. Which brings two points to mind. One, it just affirms my belief that all. nurses. are. crazy. Secondly, stuffed animals-in-peril is a problem close to my heart.

If I won the lottery, I would open both a dogs-in-peril rescue sanctuary; as well as a stuffed animal rescue. It breaks my heart to see a teddy-in-peril. I hate to see bears that have fallen out of cars. Bears attached to the fence in front of a dead person's house...out in the rain. Bears in the trash. It near about kills me! It is my mom's fault. She thought it would be a good idea to give inanimate objects animation and feelings to entertain me as a child. However, she quickly found that it would be an effective tool to get me to do stuff. When I didn't clean my room, it made my stuffed bassett hound cry. If I said a cross word, my panda wept. Arguing upset the bunnies. So, instead of entertaining me, the sensitive stuffed animals basically gave me a huge guilt complex. To this day, I have never been able to throw a stuffed animal away. I can just imagine him sitting in the trash, thinking of why I didn't love him anymore, and it depresses me. Rationally, I know this is ridiculous. Emotionally, I feel attached to every stuffed animal I encounter. I have a rule in retail...if I pick it up, I am required to buy it. This applies to my shopping companions too. As I see my friend reach towards the pillowy soft toy, I blurt the rule out, "IF YOU PICK THAT UP, YOU WILL HAVE TO BUY IT!" This usually leads to a quick explanation of why this is, because if you pick up the stuffed animal, you get his hopes up that he is going to his forever home, only to have his hopes dashed when you discard him back into the pile of unwanted toys. This explanation usually leads to fewer shopping trips with said companion, which leads to fewer phone calls, and eventually, I become a joke shared between said shopping companion and his/her new best friend/shopping companion. Also, I should mention that my mom is a nurse.

So anyway, with my lottery winnings, I would purchase a large van. I would ride around and look for bears-in-peril. Not just bears, all things stuffed would be included. The bear would then be transported back to my shop (also purchased with lottery winnings) where he would be treated to a fine rehabilitation. The bear would then be displayed proudly. Not for sale. Not to give away to some ungrateful snotty child. Displayed and loved. By me.

Now, before someone calls A&E or Adult Protective Services, I am not crazy. My house is clutter free. I just have a tender heart and a very vivid imagination, which at times is not such a good thing. I am not a weirdo who hoards dolls. I would spend the majority of my lottery winnings on normal things, such as a condo in Pass-a-Grille and diamond bezel cut earrings that I would wear while playing tennis with the mediocre player that I hire to be on call when I feel like playing tennis. And, probably, some good intensive psychotherapy...which I think everyone could use a little of. But, it would make me seriously happy to give the "Velveteen Rabbit" treatment to every poor sun bleached soggy discarded stuffed animal I happen upon.

As I mentioned before, my home is clutter free. I find it only fitting that all those stuffed animals that I just could not bring myself to throw away, for fear of hurting their "feelings" are comfortably situated....

at my mother's house.