Counting Sheep

Insomnia.

It happens that every so often I have a little trouble falling asleep, but now that I’m retired, it doesn’t really count. I am not an afternoon napper, so lost sleep from nighttime is just that. Lost. I love my sack time. I can, and have, slept for prodigious lengths of time when needed. I have fallen dead asleep at a rock concert and had to be rousted from a “nap” during the seventh inning of a Dodger game at Chavez Ravine. Legend has it that my niece won a cool C-note off of my brother by locating her Uncle Mark on the Arizona State campus on the weekend of the Notre Dame game. Evidently I stood out amongst the masses even in repose.

I have Restless Legs Syndrome. There, I said it. RLS.

 I still crack up when I say it. Floppy feet. Right, a “syndrome.”  I used to see the ads on TV and squawk when I saw they assigned initials in a ridiculous attempt to mainstream this condition. My dear departed mother knew how to immediately address and cure this malady.

“You flop your legs one more time and I’ll give you something to flop about.” Pretty much condition cured. At least for the rest of the night. But I guess this RLS is a real thing and I do now know from experience. In addition to RLS, I have RSS which is Restless Stump Syndrome. I am not sure if there are enough amputees to have our own initials, but Karen tells me I flop around like a mackerel fighting for its life and both my leg or stump will flop depending on which way I am facing in bed. The way I know it is happening is that when I wake up in the morning, Karen, Murphy, and Bruiser have all relocated to the guest bedroom.

What do I do when I can’t sleep? Thank goodness for Bluetooth headphones. Movies. Lately I am digging space movies. Music. I am back writing new music and can’t wait to get started full-blast. I am also hooked on this online golf game I found much to Karen’s chagrin. I am not a big late-night or midnight snacker. Not the thing for a diabetic. I can have something seemingly “dangerous” for the diabetic condition, hot chocolate, but not the way I make it. This drives Karen, a self-admitted chocoholic, absolutely freakin’ nuts. I put just a sprinkle of chocolate dust into a glass of milk. The color goes from milk-white to something like a beige or tan. The way Karen makes it, she puts enough Nestle’s Quik into the milk, you can walk across it. Dark brown chocolate. I even commit the ultimate sin: I don’t put marshmallows into it either. Truly diabetic-friendly hot cocoa. She stopped giving me guff about it after I coolly retorted to her derision:

“No problem. I will make my Hot Chocolate a Death Drink like YOU want me to, so that I can continue having my body hacked away into little pieces, killing me to death one limb at a time. But at least, Thank God for Karen who will smile because I am drinking hot chocolate like SHE wants me to. Will that please you?”

She hasn’t given me any shit how I make my hot chocolate since then.

The only reason she is allowing me to finish this blogpost is so that I will stay off the computer completely tomorrow. No promises. I am up to Level 17 in my golf game. When all else fails, I can turn to Mistress Indica for nocturnal assistance.

Stay well.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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