before (and during sleep) 11: buffalo wings and a few thoughts

Mrs. G. couldn't fall asleep last night because she was amped up about crashing to her fiery death flying, so she climbed out of bed and went and parked it on the couch to watch what she calls televised Ambien: Law & Order.

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Before Sleep 8: The Ritual

Mrs. G's pup Gus is never allowed to sleep on Mrs. G's bed, what with all the flouncing and French kissing. Gus only settles down and gets some shut-eye in his crate. Not one to play favorites, Mrs. G. would like to share a recent picture of Gus with you, but whenever she brings the camera anywhere near him, he shows his ass. Just trust her -- he's cute, still puppified.

Due to canine seniority, Chewie has free reign of the house at night and Mrs. G. lets him sleep on her bed only if she's not exhausted and in need of uninterrupted sleep, because he periodically snores, groans and yips while bird dogging otherworldly rabbits in his sleep.

But Chewie is a hoper and a dreamer and each night when Mrs. G. is finished brushing her teeth, she walks in her dark room and encounters this:

Chewie undercover, on the sly pretending to be an empty corner in the room. He doesn't move or make a sound. 

In case you can't see him above, here is evidence of his presence when Mrs. G. uses the enhance feature on her photo program her night vision goggles. 

If Mrs. G. is tired and in a mood, she flips on the light and shoos him out. He stands there like she can't see him for 2 to 3 seconds and then slides out like his whole existence in the room is a complete mystery to him.

If she can't bear to insult his dignity as a secret agent, she flips on the light and pats the bed and he jumps up on it like it's the first time he's ever been invited.

Dog gratitude is so raw and unfeigned.

And just like the stars, he shows up each night.

Under cover of darkness, foward-looking, faithful and eager, his chances always good.

Before Sleep 7: Just the Basics

Before Sleep 6

Last night Mrs. G. lay awake considering all the goals she should set for herself. Whenever Mrs. G. sets goals for herself they usually take the form of self-improvement. There is something about Sunday nights that slyly coerce her into taking a self inventory of her cerebral larder and she inevitably comes up short of fundamental, crucial staples: bread, eggs, milk, Oreos. Metaphorically, she lacks the essential ingredients of a bestelling, prosperous life.

Of course Mrs. G's heart skirmishes with her brain, calling bullshit on Sunday night and it's attending deliberations. She tossed, she turned, she flipped her pillow for the cool, cotton relief, she journaled, she read and, finally, she played her river card: a guided sleep meditation on YouTube where an Australian guy lulls her to relaxation, ocean waves lapping the shore in the distance. She fell asleep, her pantry fully stocked.

Take that, Sunday.

Before Sleep 5

Mrs. G. didn't sleep well last night. She tossed and turned and shoved her pillow around until around 2:00am and then gave up and opened her computer. She couldn't sleep sleep because of the following cold sober concerns.

~Mrs. G. went out to eat Thai with her friend Brenda and ordered the Spicy Noodles. A dish arrived with what she prays was thinly sliced, frighteningly large and limp squares of calamari peppered with vegetables and chicken. She was so engrossed in her conversation with her good friend, she just picked out what she liked and left a large pile of what she prays was thinly sliced, frighteningly large and limp squares of calamari. A half an hour after she finished eating, she interrupted Brenda and said, "Hold up, I ordered Spicy Noodles. That dish didn't have any noodles in it." Brenda concurred and then they began discussing their occasionally faulty memories. Mrs. G. isn't sure if she is more disturbed that she ate a dish she didn't order because she didn't remember what she had originally ordered or that she didn't actually eat what she prays was thinly sliced, frighteningly large and limp squares of calamari. What really kept her up? The calamari had the look and texture of tapeworm.

Mrs. G. has never eaten tapeworm, but she has this puzzling, on the numbers sense of the taste and texture of unknown foodstuffs. Like how Chloraseptic throat spray and lozenges taste like dirty Band-Aids, rosewater candy tastes like guest bathroom fancy soap and stuffed grape leaves taste like stuffed grape leaves.

~Mrs. G. is alarmed at the number of those Charmin toilet paper commercials with the halfwit bears dinking around the woods not being bears. When did wiping our butts become taxing, exacting work? 

~Mrs. G's hair is not acting right. It's been not acting right for some time but she didn't want to burden you.

~American cititizens are apparently bleaching their wolf holes. Just who can sleep with this floating through their consciousness? God help us if the Charmin bears get hold of this information. 

~She ate tapeworm.

~She ate tapeworm.

Before Sleep 3

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Before Sleep 2

Suspect soup, falling for Mamet and slumbering (happily) with bad cat art...

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Before Sleep

Photo by Pink Sherbert Photography 

It's 7:50pm and Mrs. G. is soon headed for her bed. She's sitting by the fire wondering what she should write, just a little something, a little something that feels right before sleep. She's feeling sentimental and grateful.

This community gives Mrs. G. so much, scattered voices all. She wishes she could rub each of your backs and ask about your day, maybe bring you a cup of tea and a handful of almond thins. She'd like to massage that web of flesh between your thumb and forefinger while you tell her what's on your mind.

Mrs. G. knows that in blogging and, actually, all social networking there are often boundaries not to be crossed or well meaning but empty words of love and light. From day one, Mrs. G. was less interested in shaking hands than giving bear hugs. She was a little clumsy with the lines of demarcation and this hasn't changed. But she would appreciate it if you wouldn't call her late at night and damn her to hell. Unless you really need to, then go right ahead. For you, she'll let it slide. Just say Job is calling and she'll wake up.

One of the best things we can all do for our health is reach out and connect with others, even when we are tired and up to here with the talking and the doing. We need fellowship, we need to feel valued and we need to love and be loved. We need to be brave and ask for what we need. Need to talk? Call Mrs. G. Need to borrow a stretched out $5.99 Old Navy turtleneck? It's yours. Clogs? You don't even need to ask.

It's scary to need and be needed, but not here. The success rate at this joint is in the positive numbers.

Besides Mr. G. and her kids, Mrs. G's biological family is down to two. Thank you for including her in yours. She welcomes all of you into hers. 

She promises to pluck your chin hairs if your pluck hers. Pinky swear.

These things matter.

Nighty night pals.