A great ending!

“A loss of eight days”

    If a story doesn’t have a happy ending, you’re going to pretty well have to force me to sit through it. That makes me a sheltered person who misses out on a lot of great sad stories.

    That being said, have I got a good story for you! A true one, too. It all started the afternoon of March 21. It’s not completely over as of this writing, but all of the scary parts are behind us.

    The story involves our best friend Virginia Pliler. Virginia had been suffering from a nagging earache for a couple of weeks. The prescribed antibiotics turned out to be snack food for the infection. Antibiotics are tricky little devils. You can never be too certain what they’re gonna do. Kind of like Robin Williams on a talk show. Any talk show.

    Virginia’s infection eventually entered her non-infected ear. After that, it got serious. On Thursday evening Virginia’s mind left the building. By the time the ambulance arrived, Freeman was explaining to her why a broom is shaggy on one end.

    Several hours and two hospitals later, Virginia was in a coma at Memorial Hermann in Houston. The diagnosis was bacterial meningitis. The head doctor told Freeman that it was the worst case anyone could have. “Your wife is one sick girl, Mr. Pliler.” That’s what she told Freeman. What she didn’t say, but later confessed was that she didn’t believe Virginia was going to make it. 

Kay and I instantly notified our family and friends to make sure that God was continually hearing Virginia’s name mentioned. -- “Yes, this is God. Yes, I know she’s sick. I know EVERYTHING. You realize that, don’t you? But, yes, your prayer means a lot. – Hello? Yes, this is your Heavenly Father. It’s about Virginia, isn’t it?” -- That’s pretty much a caricature of how I hoped the volley of prayers would transpire.

The next ten or so days got weird. The doctors at one point noticed an improvement and agreed that Virginia was likely to make it, but they were fairly sure she would end up with some permanent and severe brain damage. And, she might also end up blind or deaf.

The main doctor said that during the swelling inside Virginia’s skull, a piece of her brain was pushed into her inner ear. In other words, her brain was trying to come out her ears. I’ve seen enough Scrubs, Grey’s Anatomy and House episodes to know that that can’t be good.

Virginia was in a coma for a total of eight days. She is currently conscious and suffering no bad side effects.

When she was lucid enough to talk and to recognize me, I asked if she had a chance to see the bright light. She didn’t. Did she have an “Eight Days in Heaven” experience? She didn’t? How about eight days in purgatory?  Nothing. Well, then what did she remember about her time in a coma?

She said, “Mark, I don’t remember anything. I completely lost eight days. One minute everything goes blank, the next thing I know I’m in a hospital bed listening to your ridiculous questions.” -- She was back.

As soon as I thought she could handle the news, I told her that I had forgotten everything she told me about how she wanted her funeral. Truth is I didn’t forget anything, ‘cause I wasn’t paying attention during the instructions. Oddly enough she took the news well. Told me to do better next time. 

As of this writing, Virginia is still at Memorial Hermann trying to win back some energy and trying to lose a blood clot that formed in her leg due to too much bedtime. At one point she was hooked up to a couple dozen I Vs. Now she’s down to two.

That’s what I call a happy ending. Some would call it happenstance. I don’t believe that to be the case, but I have no evidence that would satisfy an agnostic or believer in fate. Nor do I have an answer for those who have prayed and prayed for loved ones, but whose stories did not end well at all.

I’m reminded of a quote from a “Daily Walk” from one of Dr. Mark Denison of First Baptist in Conroe submitted to The Courier. Denison quoted missionary Helen Roseveare as having asked a question from God’s perspective: --“Can you trust Me with this experience, even if I never tell you why?”

The quote appears nonsensical to many. As do all things of the spirit, when reasoned through the minds of those in a world of earth and air. But, to those who have chosen to believe, it is the evidence of things unseen.

I would like to close with this passage that also helps me trust in what I can’t see. It’s from I Corinthians 13:12 – “For we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know fully, as I have been fully known.” 
   
Thank God for happy endings.

end

My day of being a chili judge.

“Judging chili”

    The only reason Bob thought to choose me to judge the chili contest was because of my friendship with food critic Brad Meyer. Brad’s coattails have carried me into many an eating venture. Of course, I always tried to add to my credibility by pretending to know stuff like what wine to have while eating iguana eggs.

    Regardless how I got there, there I was -- in a room with three other judges. There were supposed to be seven. After a couple of minutes of careful computation, I determined that three judges had dropped out. At this point I was getting the least bit leery.

“This is going to be a blind judging,” Bob told us. I thought he meant we wouldn’t know whose chili we were eating. I had no idea he was referring to the ocular condition I’d develop while in the room.

The other three judges were wisely selected. Mike is a big guy who drives a big rig. He’s a sweetheart. -- Let me change that. -- He’s a really nice truck driver, who has consumed some of the best and worst chili in the country.

Then there’s Roger. Roger is the smartest person I know. He’s got a doctorate in math… or maybe one of the sciences. Roger is the person Stephen Hawking calls when he gets stumped.

Finally we have local attorney Scott Golemon. Scott knows more about BBQ, chili and outdoor cooking than anyone in the world. Possibly. Scott has prepared food for more charity events than anyone I know. He dragged me kicking and screaming to help out a time or two. I only did it because… well, he dragged me kicking and screaming.

So, there you have us. I’m thinking -- four judges with maybe ten samples to assess – we’ll be outta there in 20 minutes. Turned out there were 22 chili’s to sample, each given a coded number between one and 100. I’m now realizing that I have stepped into something really bad.

The 22 samples were divided into two groups – Eight were classified as “Real Texas Chili.” The other 14 were classified “Alternative to Real Texas.” Apparently, alternative chili is anything that has beans or other foreign matter in it. Who knew? Everyone except Mark.

Fortunately, the chili was served up in small cups, and we were given tiny spoons. I heaped my spoon with the first chili. It took about two, maybe three seconds before I went to my knees. My first bottle of water was drained in a nanosecond.

I could barely comprehend what Christi, our judging supervisor, was saying. Sounded like “Never farm a school flag pole.” After my fourth “What?” I determined she was screaming, “That was number 82, Mark Farkle! So, score it from one to five with five being the best!”

Eight Texas chili’s to assess and we’re using five numbers. It made no sense, but, at that very moment, little made sense. Through swollen, watery eyes, I searched for my left shoe.

“Okay, now here’s the second one. It’s number 37, and you need to—“ Christi’s voice trailed off. Forty minutes later, the “Texas Chili” samples were gone. I had the top of my shirt in my mouth and was holding a sheet of paper with a bunch of ones on it.

The next thing I hear is Scott saying, “Okay, guys, let’s discuss each of these. I hate to just add up some numbers without a discussion.”

I worked my way out of the fetal position in the corner and said, “Scott, I love you like a brother, but I don’t give two hoots to hear what you, Roger Einstein or Breaker 1-9 over here think about what we just ate. Christi, tally the numbers!” – The part of my brain that deals with tact had obviously been seared.

I was so sure Scott was going to take back my special lawyer discount. I never know when I’ll need a good lawyer, so I put Scott on speed dial. Instead of getting upset with me, Scott said, “Okay, Mr. Fussy Pants, let’s just tally the thing.” I had never heard him utter the words Fussy and Pants in or out of a courtroom. It just seemed so unprofessional.

The Best Texas Chili award went to— I don’t remember. Nor do I care. What I do remember is looking at 14 new cups of alternative chili. The cups appeared so much larger.

I can’t tell you much about what happened after that. I see images of me stealing Roger’s bottled water and him going all Quantum Physics on me. I think I may have slugged Mike’s fist with my face. It was all a blur.

Kay told me that after about two hours Scott came out dragging me by the seat of my pants and plopped me in a chair. He said, “He’s all right, Kay. There’s still a faint pulse.” He told her to let him know when she was ready leave, and he’d drag my ornery carcass to the car. 

Kay said she didn’t recall Scott mentioning anything about a lawyer discount. – “Hey, how ‘bout helping judge a chili contest? It’ll be fun!” There’s not a big enough rope.

END

You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com.

Daytime Roofsit

“Keep that bunny away from me!”

Adult kids playing of Annie Over

    ROOFTOP – When I climbed up here last week, the birds were apparently home watching cartoons. They were not stirring a bit. This evenin they’re out in force. Just singing up a storm, like someone was handing out free seed-shuckers. 

    Late evening has always been my favorite time of day. Started when I was a kid playing with the gang on Camille Street. We generally began our outdoor games in late evening.

Right now is perfect for “Annie Over.” When night falls, you can’t see the ball coming over the rooftop for anything. Makes the game more exciting, but just a tad dangerous. We’d come charging around the house trying to bean the other team members with the ball and end up running smack dab into somebody.

My worst Annie Over injury was when I stepped on a nail while running between our house and Cynthia’s. It was back when I could run barefoot without looking at the ground and picking the smooth places to step. I ran in reckless abandon mode.

Because of that roofing nail, I got my first tetanus shot. Right in my rear. Back then, everything bad happened to your bottom. Shots, spankings, pinches, kicks… That’s where the saying “He’s so klutzy he couldn’t grab his rearend with both hands.” (“Source of Stupid Sayings” by Scooter Dalburn, 1988.)

Speaking of rear ends, I’ve gotta ask, did you ever have to sit on the Easter Bunny’s lap? – “Come on now, Sweetie, Mommy want’s a picture of you with the Easter Bunny.” – Did you ever have to actually sit on that frightening hare’s lap?

If I had ever had my picture taken sitting on the lap of a Giant Bunny, my life would’ve taken a drastic turn. Once the other kids got a look at the picture, I would’ve spent the remainder of my days hunting muskrat just north of Sleetmute, Alaska. You have to be six months or younger to get past a documented bunny-sit.

Who came up with the concept of sitting on the Easter Bunny’s lap? What’s a Giant Easter Rabbit supposed to say to a kid? – “Hey, little girl, do you prefer real eggs or plastic?”

I have it on pretty good authority that there has never been a kid in the world who ever said, “Hey, Daddy, please, pleeease can I sit on that giant rabbit’s lap?” Giant rabbits are scary as all get out. You’ve gotta ask yourself, what kind of person thinks that climbing into a rabbit costume is right? I thought the Spanish Inquisition pretty well burned that notion out of society.

About a week before Easter, Jill sent me a picture taken back in 1958 of two kids sitting on the Easter Bunny’s lap. It was the most frightening thing I’ve seen since Keith Richards was taped singing “You Make me feel like Dancing” in a hotel lobby in Gisborne, New Zealand.

Instead of a fluffy rabbit head, this guy was wearing a hard plastic rabbit mask. He looked like the creep in horror movies who butchers co-eds when they back into dark rooms. Here, I'll stick the picture at the end of the article.  Please hide it from the view of little kids… say below the age of 15. They’ll freak. Not as bad as I did, but it could still mess them up.

Okay, enough with the Easter Bunny. I’m sorry you brought it up. Let’s get back to the sights and sounds of the evening. After all, we won’t be able to stay out here much longer before we’re completely covered in yellow powder.

My house, my car, my lawn chair, Kay… everything around here is covered with pollen. I have to shoo bees and hummingbirds away from my nose. My lungs are caked with the yellow dust. Come summer, my chest will be the site of a mixed forest of pine and oak, sitting on a carpet of ragweed. – I assume you get the point. There’s a lotta pollen.

And, at the moment there’s somewhat of stiff breeze. Look at Luis’s multi-colored whirligig across the street? That thing is spinning to beat the band. How many cool breezes could we possibly experience before summer? I fear, not too many. I’m glad we caught this one while on the roof.

As for the Easter Bunny talk? That’s just some of the stuff that surfaces when I’m above ground level. You’re no stranger to that. – Next time.

end

g

Jill visits for Spring Break

“Spring Break”

    Kay and I have made it a point to stay close to home from mid-March to early April. We made it a point immediately after renting a beach house with the Plilers during spring break of 2003. What a stupid time to go to the beach.

We saw things that still bother me to this day. Just think, without the binoculars, I would’ve missed a lot of it. Anyway, I protect Kay from stuff like that now. Virginia and Freeman? Oh, you can catch them in some of the spring break footage that appears each year on the news. It changed the couple. -- Virginia is either laughing or in the process of calling me.  

True to form, last week Kay and I stayed put during spring break. But, we still had a blast, ‘cause my sister Jill came up and spent a few days with us. My kid sister works at a college south of here, so she’s a big fan of the break known as “Spring.”

I’m a fan of her visiting ‘cause we talk about old times, test each other on the lyrics of the old songs and we laugh a lot. Oh, the best part is that Jill treats us to IHOP for breakfast. She used to take us out only on Christmas mornings, but has recently decided to treat us during each of her overnight visits. I keep insisting that she stop doing that, but each time I hand her the check she takes it. Whatta sister!

At last week’s IHOP visit, I finally got the red velvet cake pancakes. It was either that or the banana caramel. I asked the waitress which she preferred, and she said the ones without the bananas and caramel. I developed an instant liking for Kathleen. 

And also for red velvet pancakes. They have now edged out the cinnamon pancake as my favorite. Kathleen told me that I’d better eat as many red velvets as I can, ‘cause in the near future they’re gonna drop ‘em for something else. She was almost in tears when she said it.

I tell you that as way of encouraging you to notify the IHOP front office and urge them not to kill the red velvet pancake. These people have lost their minds.

Besides IHOP we went to Kroger. Kay and I go there usually twice a day, ‘cause one of us can’t remember to occasionally refer to the grocery list. Hey, that thing usually gets misplaced over in produce. Either that or someone is stealing it from me. 

Before leaving Kroger, Jill told the kid who bagged our groceries that he looked like Eric Burdon. The boy did not change his expression, so I said, “Eric Burdon of The Animals?” Nothing. Then I said, “House of the Rising Sun?” He looked up to his right as if he were thinking of the song or hoping I’d leave him alone. 

I decided to sing him some of the lines to jog his memory. “There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun--” Kay dragged me out of the place. She said, “How can a guy who didn’t recognize a single song or recipient during this year’s Grammy Awards, expect a high school kid to know who Eric Burdon is?”

After a lunch of Vernon’s fried chicken (I really like Fried Chicken Tuesdays) we went to the movie to see “The Great and Powerful Oz.” We went because we’d already seen “Jack the Giant Slayer.”

Turned out, OZ was really quite bad. Great special effects and the 3-D look was superb. However, the movie stank on ice. Jill blamed it on James Franco, the guy who played OZ. Jill said that Franco is not suited for comedy… or drama. I believe her words were, “The guy can’t act and can’t even pretend to act.” You have to weigh that awhile before it makes sense. Once it registers, it’s near profound.

Kay actually agreed with Jill. Kay is so sweet that I like to hear her say something negative. Makes me feel better about me. – Oh, and the good news about the OZ outing  was that the popcorn was good.

And, do you want to know a coincidence? The night before Jill left, we watched something on PBS about the songs of the ‘60s. Sure enough, there was Eric Burdon. I reached for the phone to call Kroger, but a sane mind prevailed.

    During the rest of Jill’s visit we managed to squeeze in a lot of other fun stuff. I don’t think the bag boy at Kroger would’ve thought it all that much fun, but, hey, youngsters? Unless they’re on the beach, they never look like they’re having fun.

    Speaking of which, I’m fairly sure that incoming call is from Virginia. – “Hey, kiddo, it was a joke. I joke, okay? Sheesh…” -- Next time.

Earlier days: I'm in the middle with a tight grip on Big Al. 

Jill is trying to help.

End

Whataburger meet

This isn't Merle, but he kind of looks like him.

“Too much”

I ran into Merle and Lucy at Kroger the other day. Kay and I were trying to find the cookies when I made eye contact with Merle from mid-aisle. It was one of those deals where you recognize somebody, but you don’t know from where. 

Fortunately, Merle knew from where. Sensing my unease he said, “Whataburger.” I just love people who don’t make me guess. I don’t have the stamina for it.

Of course, it was Whataburger. Merle and his wife go to Whataburger almost morningly. They sit with several other of the less young and solve a multitude of life’s preponderancies.  

Kay and I occasionally hit Whataburger right before we do some of our in-town chores. On each occasion we’ve seen Merle and Lucy sitting there talking with the gang. I always get a reciprocal smile and nod, but don’t join in. Some gangs have initiations that are quite taxing.

For breakfast at Whataburger, Kay and I always get Breakfast on a Bun… bacon. It’s the best, Jerry. And, get this -- seniors get a discount on their drinks. I can get a small coffee for free! They’ve got the best breakfast sandwich, they play old rock ‘n roll hits on the radio, and they serve discounted drinks to old people. If they put a wading pool in the parking lot, I’d spend the whole day there.

By the by, Kay looks too young to be a senior citizen. They have never asked for her ID, but it would tickle her if they did. Crazy thing is, the girl is two weeks older than I am. We’d look equally young, but I didn’t think to take care of my face… or my hair. Look at me now. Just look at me! Don’t let this happen to you.

All right, let’s get back to Merle. He’s standing there in Kroger over by the salad dressing waiting for Lucy to decide on a brand. – Sidebar: Lucy is not Merle’s wife’s name. I think it’s Lucretia, but I have no idea how to spell that.

So, Kay and I got to talk with Merle and Lucy for a little while in the store. Nice couple. Strange taste in salad dressing. (I just made that up.)

Just this morning, at Kay’s insistence, we went to Whataburger before grocery shopping. Seems I’m a most impulsive buyer of stupid stuff when I’m hungry. My thinker repositions all its saneness back there with the names of the State capitals. A lot of dust back there.

Bottom line, when I’m hungry, I end up doing stuff like buying a carton of Blue Bell Grandma’s Pecan Apple Butter and a carton of Chocolate Grease Nut Cookie Dough. Next morning, I have no recollection of the purchase.

Because of this morning’s Whataburger breakfast stop, I didn’t buy anything stupid in Kroger. Kay thought the pecan pie unnecessary, but what does she know. I told her that she oughtta buy a Stick-in-Mud Pie with Walnuts.

While leaving Kroger I checked on the progress of the HEB across the street. In my neck of the woods, they’re building a giant H.E.B. right across from Kroger. There’s gonna be a battle of the food depositories. It’s a gastronomical perfect storm.

In anticipation of the HEB opening, the Kroger boss is shuffling stuff around. Store bosses go to school to know the best place to put stuff. You don’t even wanna know where they put the crackers. Nor will you. Why is it that no one ever consults me before making major changes in stuff? I know things. Use me!

Before the Kroger shuffle, I had the place completely figured out. I was actually helping old ladies and Californians find stuff. Not now. Now, I’m reminded of a line from Shakespeare’s brother: “Use resides with me not. I am become the asker of where stuff is.” (From “Three Guys of Syracuse.”)

Two big grocery stores right across the street from one another. What will I do? What WILL I do? I only wish I had thought to ask Merle and Lucy their thoughts on the matter.

Me? My first concern in choosing between two competing grocery stores is variety. I don’t want too much, nor too little. Life is too short for too much.

An example of too much variety is breakfast cereal. Last year 38 new types of cereal arrived on the market. Thirty-eight new boxes to overlook on my search for Wheat Chex.

Soon there will grocery malls. – Okay, darling, I’m going to the Cereal Store, while you head to the soup over by the penguin pond.

Too much of a good thing. That’s what came across my mind after making eye contact with Merle. The origins of some articles are just weird as they can be. Fortunately, the articles themselves end up making perfect sense.

By the way, did I mention that Lucy isn’t Merle’s wife’s real name?

End

You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Faster than a pancake

An actual drawing of Esau and Jacob from Dead Sea Scrolls.

“Food algorithms -- Beg pardon?”

    Do you have any idea how long it took to prepare food back in The Good Ol’ Days? A long time. So long that the course of history was occasionally determined by the length of time it took cook a meal. Case in point:

    Are you familiar with the Jacob and Esau story in Genesis? They were twins. Esau was the older by about 18 seconds. Give or take. As the eldest son, Esau got the bulk of his father’s inheritance. There’s no justice in that.

    One day, Esau came home starving as a result of an unsuccessful hunting excursion. Who hasn’t been there? Jacob had prepared a pot of soup, but refused to give his brother a bowl, because… well, he was acting the jerk.

Esau, fearing he might die of hunger any minute, agreed to give Jacob his inheritance in exchange for a bowl of soup. Logic being -- What good is my birthright if I’m dead?

That’s all Biblical. Movies have been made. However, if that same episode had happened today… well, it wouldn’t have happened. Esau would’ve come home and said, “Hey, how about a bowl of soup?” Jacob would’ve declined, and Esau would’ve scrounged around and eaten a grilled cheese sandwich or peanut butter and crackers. Maybe some Honey Nut Cheerios.

The entire course of Biblical history could’ve been altered because of the length of time for food preparation. That’s one reason that most of us are a lot bigger than Jacob and Esau. Jacob and Esau must of weighed, what, 28 river stones apiece? Sounds about right. On average, most of us weigh closer to 52 river stones. (“Ancient Measurement Conversions” by Arnold Brackett, 1921.)

This whole speed-of-food preparation algorithm visited me last week and sat heavy on my brain. – What? Algorithm? I don’t know. But, I like the word. -- Algorithm.

Saturday, Jill had the greatest idea in the history of idea-dom. My kid sister invited the family over for a pancake lunch. Can you believe that? Not spaghetti, chili or barbecue. Pancakes! For lunch! (It’s okay to use exclamation points when mentioning pancakes. I looked it up.)

Lunch was to start at noon, so everyone showed up at about 12:15. Jill had fried up a plate of sausage and mixed up a gallon or so of pancake batter. The sausage was staying warm in the oven. The batter was just sitting there on the cabinet.

Do you know how long it takes to make pancakes for 84 people? Longer than for the 11 of us, but it still takes a long time. You’ve got to get the griddle hot. Toss out the first few pancakes ‘cause they’re… I don’t know. The first pancakes are cursed. 

So, we’re looking at pancake supper, not lunch.  In her e-mail, Jill had assigned the pancake-making to Big Al. It’s 12:30 and Big Al is sitting on the couch waiting for… what? I had no idea. Eleven people, a cold griddle and a cook who was unaware of algorithms. -- Boy, I like that word.

I couldn’t ask Al to get started, ‘cause I’m the Hayter brother who always tries to take charge of stuff. There’s a reason for that, but there’s no need to discuss it here. Meet me at Starbucks shortly after you finish this thing.

I eventually went over to Kay and asked her to the pancakes. Big Al would kill me had I usurped his authority, but he wouldn’t touch Kay. Al likes Kay. Everyone likes Kay. One reason they like her is ‘cause she never usurps. She can’t. Well, she does usurp me, but I’m the only one. – Usurp? Not that good a word. Let’s drop it. 

So, I went to Jill and asked if she had any idea how long it would to prepare pancakes for 11 people. She said, “No, how long?” -- Zombies! I was surrounded by zombified doodle heads. They’re the worst kind. Jill, then turned and said, “Hey, Alan! Mark thinks you should start the pancakes."

Al making pancakes... as I remember it.

D’oh! Had I been Esau, I would’ve had to turn over my birthright right then and there. All because I was impatient to get my pancakes. I wasn’t going to die from lack of food. I could live for months off of the fat stored in the area just above my hips.

But, nooo. I wanted syrupy flapjacks with sausage, and I wanted ‘em 30 minutes ago. -- “Mark, thy name is Esau.” That’s in Malachi somewhere. I’m paraphrasing.

And, there you have it. A tale of impatience, of gluttony, of pride and pancakes… with a few algorithms thrown in. So, take a lesson, dear reader. Be patient, less indulgent, more humble. Oh, and go to IHOP… if sanctity of family means anything to you. – Next time.

End

You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com. You can find a stockpile of his articles at www.rooftopwriter.com. 

Jimmy Legg -- 546 in dog years

“Restless legs”


    Did you know that it’s possible to take too many naps? I had no idea. A tendency towards daytime dozing is a sign of something. There is a 73 percent chance that it’s something bad. I may have read that somewhere.

    According to my sleeping nurse, I nap too often. Sleeping nurse? That sounded bad. She’s a family nurse practitioner (FNP). That’s what she is.

    My FNP told me that napping could be a sign that I’m not getting enough sleep at night. My first thought was – Who told you I’ve been napping? Turns out, my machine told her. She had the printout from my CPAP machine right in front of her. CPAP stands for “Blow Air Up Your Nose” machine.

    Kay and I both use a CPAP. Have for years. As long as you don’t take a look at me wearing my mask, I don’t mind you knowing about it. Some of the CPAP masks give you the look of a jet pilot. If you have trouble nodding off, you can pretend to be in a dog fight. Kay always makes me fly the MIG-29, because she wants to be one of the Blue Angels. She’s such a child.

    Turns out Kay and I were both told we needed to go the sleep clinic… again. It would be Kay’s second visit and my third. A sleep clinic is where you get a room with several other people and talk about sleep. No, that’s something else.

The sleep clinic we went to was really a place where you get hooked up with wires on your head, face, arms, chest and legs. Once you’re completely wired, you’re told to go to sleep on a bed that feels much worse than yours. It’s a blast.

    Kay and I went to the same clinic, but were given separate rooms. They apparently fear that, if you get the least bit amorous, one or both of you are liable to get electrocuted. That’s just a guess.

    Kay was the first one to get wired, so she had some time to kill before lights-out—uh, lights dimmed. So, she walked into my room looking like a giant chia pet. The minute she laid eyes on me, she started laughing. The girl looks like Medusa unchained, yet has the gall to laugh at how I look. For some odd reason, they didn’t have mirrors in the sleep clinic.

    During the night, your every move is videoed, while a computer takes readouts from all the wiring. Our night in tangles ended at six a.m. We could’ve stayed longer, but we had a reservation at I-HOP.

We walked into the pancake palace with red gel in our hair from where they stuck the wires. We would’ve cleaned up better, but there were no mirrors. I thought I told you that.

A couple of days ago, we went back to our FNP for the results. Kay’s doing okay. She just needs a chinstrap to keep her mouth shut at night. And, she needed her CPAP jacked up three more points to shoot more air up her nose. She’ll be fine.

Me? The nurse needed to increase my air power four more notches. And, get this, I’ve got the jimmy leg. RLS. The ol’ restless leg syndrome. Apparently, I move my leg 78 times an hour. That converts to 546 in dog time. (I don’t know what that means.)

As long as Kay hadn’t complained about my night-kicks, I didn’t see a problem. The nurse told me that each time my leg twitches, it wakes me up. She had the readout to prove it. I was waking up 78 times an hour. Had I been a dog I would’ve dug a hole in the mattress.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been diagnosed with restless leg. The last time, I was prescribed a pill that gave me headaches and made my breath reek. I quit taking it. My new nurse told me not to worry. They’ve come up with a patch. A patch that, without insurance, would be affordable by only one percent of the nation’s population.

    I now wear a patch 24 hours a day. I’m in the constant state of patch. Side-effects? – I’m not making this up. – The patch makes me hungry and it makes me want to nap. Fortunately, it hasn’t caused nausea and mood swings, two of the other possible side-effects.

Okay, let me sum all of this up for those of you still awake. -- If you take too many naps, it may be a sign that you’re not sleeping well at night. But, again, it may be a sign that you’re sleeping well at night, but the medication that helps you sleep at night  makes you nap.

     If you scratch this thing, you’re gonna find someone in the pharmaceutical industry laughing his rear off.

End

You can contact mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com