A Day in the Life

I get home just after 7 a.m.  It was a relatively slow night at the 911 Center, not much to speak of other than a few wrecks in the rain.  Idealistic me, I applied for this job because I wanted to help, to make a difference in some small way.  I accepted it because of the incredible insurance.  

Eighteen months later, I rethink that decision almost daily.  Working thirds is hard on the body, a strain on our marriage.  As I walk in, Luke is in his sit-me-up booster seat.  He smiles as soon as he sees my face.  He recognizes me.  And somehow it is all alright.

After getting him dressed and in his car seat, I hug Mrs. Bone goodbye and get ready for bed.  I can't shut off my mind.  I replay calls from the night before, mistakes I might have made, what I could have done better.  It is something after 8:00 the last I remember.

I wake around 1:30.  The five-plus hours is the most sleep I've gotten in four days.  I've been in a rut of waking up between 11:00 and 1:00 and not being able to get back to sleep.  Around 2:30 I give up and decide to get a couple of errands in before I pick up Luke at daycare.

First up is a stop at the grocery store where I pick up some fruit, nuts, and cheese -- snacks for work -- and some Martha White self-rising flour.  I've taught myself to make something close to biscuits over the past few months.

Next is a visit to Walgreens.  Desperate for sleep, I pick up some Melatonin and Calms Forte.  I avoid taking medicine if at all possible, to the point that my doctor will begin sentences, "I know you don't really like to take medicine..."  But at some point I figure the lack of sleep becomes unhealthier than the pills.

Then it's off to get Luke.  I skip the interstate and take the two lane, enjoying the ponds and pastures, trees and sky.  The 15-minute drive has become my "me" time.  I roll down the down the window, turn up the radio, and enjoy the one bit of my day where I'm not sleeping, working, or responsible for another human being.  

The first thing I notice is Luke is not wearing the same outfit he left home with.  This is a not uncommon occurrence.  He has had what we in the parenting business refer to as a blowout.

On the way home, we stop off at the Sonic.  Once a week I treat myself to a small shake and small chili cheese fries.  It's a guilty pleasure.  Besides, I got cheese and nuts and fruit for work so it balances out... ish.

The first order of business once we're home is to let Sunshine outside.  Sunshine is the cat, though we would never refer to her as "the cat" because doing so might imply she is just an animal, that she doesn't have a personality, that we don't consider her our daughter.  And nothing could be further from the truth.

She showed up at the back door a few years ago, starving and bloody-tailed.  After an ever-so-brief attempt to find her a home, we decided to keep her.  Honestly, she never gave us much choice.  Our lives have since become a "Who rescued whom?" bumper sticker.

Next I unload the dishwasher and start some laundry.  Not at the same time, that would be a trick sure to astonish.  The squeaking you will soon hear is the sound of the dryer dying.  The repairman gave it six months to live.  That was over two years ago.  She's a fighter this Whirlpool.

Luke gets fussy after a bit and when I pick him up I feel something wet.  It is blowout number two of the day.  It is the worst one I have experienced to date.  I may as well wear the Spray 'n Wash in a holster.

Mrs. Bone gets home and we begin the nightly routine: feeding Luke, giving him a bath, and putting him to bed.  

Our Hello Fresh delivery didn't arrive on time this week so we order Mexican.  (I'm gonna have to eat a lot of fruit and nuts to make up for this day!)  While I am at the restaurant picking up our food, I get a text: "Guess what just arrived."  Perfect.  I don't mind though as we have mostly found Hello Fresh to be more aptly titled Hello Bland.  

We eat while watching a couple of "General Hospital" episodes.  Luke wakes up during the first so I go and rock him back to sleep.  I doze off during the last, grabbing a much-needed fifteen or twenty minutes before it's time to shower and get ready for work.

It is 9:30.  Sunshine demands five more minutes of outside time before I leave.  I oblige.  Then it's another hug goodbye and I'm out the door.  

As I back out, Sunshine sits in the doorway and watches me leave.  Beyond, Luke sleeps peacefully in his room while the woman I married is going to bed, hoping to catch two or three hours before the little guy wakes up again.

Some decisions you never have to rethink.

"These are some good times / So take a good look around / You may not know it now / But you're gonna miss this..."

Becoming "that" person

Thanks to everyone who has participated in NaBloSoFroDraWe (also NaBloSoThaDraWe). It's kinda cool to have several participants this year. And remember, NaBloSoFroDraWe continues all week long. So you still have time...

A couple of weeks ago, around 5:00 on a Monday morning, I was awoken from my midsummer night's slumber by a sort of rumbling noise. As I was coming to consciousness, I sifted through possible causes. Was it thunder? No, I was pretty sure it wasn't. A truck with no muffler? Quite prevalent on my road, but again, no. My stomach? Maybe.

I ventured downstairs where it became evident that the loud, booming noise was coming from next door. It sounded like a Buddy Rich rehearsal was going on over there, except without the cursing. (Not really, but I've been trying to work in a Buddy Rich reference for over a year now and figure this is as close as I'm gonna get.)

At 5:00. On a Monday morning. Seriously?

What could I do? I went back upstairs and tried to get to sleep. And tried. And tried. But all I could hear was this pounding bass that seemed to be growing louder and louder, even though I'm pretty sure it wasn't. I gave it a valiant effort, but finally after about 45 minutes, I gave up. And that is when I officially became that person.

No, not the person who bangs on the wall and hopes they get the hint. And not the person who goes next door and gets into a heated dispute. You know, the kind that ends up on COPS where one or more of the subjects don't have a shirt on. Nope, what I did was even worse.

I called the property manager and complained that the neighbors were too loud.

Yep, that person. (And I'm still cringing as I type this.)

I can't help it. I love sleep. And I need sleep. If I don't get at least six solid hours of sacktime at night--and a two-hour afternoon nap at least three or four days a week--I'm not myself. I'm not Bone.

Finally around 6:30 that morning, the noise stopped and I was able to get back to sleep for a few minutes. Needless to say, I was a walking zombie at work that day. (Is "walking zombie" redundant? And if it was needless to say, why did I say it anyway?)

Thankfully, the next few nights were pretty quiet. Then about a week later, it happened again. This time it was around 2:30 in the morning, again on a school night. So I called for the second time.

That was about a week ago and it's been quiet ever since. I figure if it happens again, I'm just going to have to move. I can't continue being that person.

The other obvious issue now is that my neighbor knows someone has turned him in. And as the townhouses are side-by-side, as townhouses are wont to be, then he doesn't have to be real smart to know that it was either me or the neighbor on the other side. So all I have to do is avoid seeing this one person--who happens to live next to me--for the rest of my life. That shouldn't be too hard.

So far, I've taken a few drastic measures toward this end. These include but are not limited to: peeking through the blinds to make sure no one is in the parking lot anytime I start to leave; making sure I'm on the phone anytime I come home so as to lessen the likelihood of any possible awkward encounters; and... have I mentioned that I tend to be non-confrontational?

The thing is, I've always considered myself a pretty amicable neighbor. In the nearly four years that I've lived here, this is the first time I've complained about anything! I mean, I didn't complain when the previous neighbor set that hideous plastic dog with the solar-powered lantern in its mouth outside the front door. And I never say anything when the lady on the other side of me screams things at her kid that even frighten me a little. (Actually, the Buddy Rich reference would fit better here.)

How did this suddenly turn into the crime of the century? Besides, he's the one who broke the rules. I'm well within my rights. It clearly states on page seven of the voluminous tenant agreement (which I'd never actually read before now): "Any noises in the building or parking lot that are disturbances to other tenants will not be tolerated."

All I want is some peace and quiet, an apology, and for him to be evicted.

"Well, I can't sleep sometimes but I've been told, it's a lonely condition called growing old. Let me stumble sometimes..."

A bachelor looks at thread count

"I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?" ~ Ernest Hemingway

I think I may have made a big mistake.

I purchased some new sheets this past weekend. They were of the higher thread count, extra soft variety. And now all I want to do is lie in bed. Granted, that's mostly all I wanted to do before, but now it's even worse.

Have I ever shared with you my deep affection for sleep? I love sleep. Literally love it. I think I could marry sleep. Really. I'd have no problems with the vows. In sickness and in health? Till death do us part? Please. I sleep when I'm sick. I sleep when I'm well. I'll sleep till I'm dead. I'll sleep dressed in red, said Fred.

Sleep and I have had a long relationship. At times we've been almost inseparable. When I was little--and by little I mean between the ages of seven and eighteen--it was so difficult to wake me that my mother resorted to dripping icy cold water on my face. In thirty-five years, n'er a day has passed that sleep and I haven't spent time together. I thought I knew love, er, sleep. But I didn't know anything until I met these extra soft high thread count sheets.

To me, sheets were always kinda like underwear. Just something to help keep you from getting itchy. Often, my parents would get me some for Christmas. And when I did buy my own, I went for the lowest price. After all they were just sheets, right? Oh, how naive I was.

Now, it's like sleeping on a happy, fluffy, velvety cloud in a Bob Ross painting. No, make that a velvety fog. Yes, that's it. It's like sleeping on Mel Torme's voice. Sometimes I just lie in bed and run my hands all over her, I mean, them. Throw in a new foam mattress pad and it's a horizontal Xanadu!

I may never get out of bed again, save to golf and work and go to Bama games. And work would totally be negotiable except that's the only way I can afford to do the other two. And by can, I mean, can't really but do anyway. The only thing that bothers me is that I'm just now discovering this. I've basically deprived myself of thirty-five years of velvet fog sleep that I can never get back.

Well, here's to making up for lost time. As if it wasn't hard enough for me to get out of bed in the morning already.

"I've been a-waiting for you most of my life. Now that we're together and we're where we belong, I can't help but wonder why, why did it take so long?"