This is the time in summer when my body clock finally readjusts to not having to get up at 7, and I frequently manage to sleep clear ’til 8. Woo. I will have five weeks of this until I have to start getting up at 7 again. Alan sometimes wonders why I don’t sleep until 9 or later, and the answer is: I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t. That’s the insomniac’s torment: It’s not that you don’t want to. It’s not that you’re not tired. You just can’t.
Lately I’ve been noodling around with a short story about a man who starts to hate his otherwise wonderful wife because she can sleep and he can’t. I worry that it would seem far-fetched to readers who aren’t sleep-disordered. But as one who has for years lain [Crusty Old Editor — is that the correct form of the verb?] beside a man who is troubled by sleeplessness only once in a blue moon, I don’t think so. You lie there, the day’s obligations already settling on your shoulders like a hod full of bricks, and think, Are you going to keep doing that? That steady, rhythmic breathing? Don’t you know there’s a war going on? Is the roof leaking? What if advertising falls another 15 percent this quarter, then what? Can we afford private health insurance? WHY ARE YOU ABLE TO SLEEP THROUGH THIS?
A small market, perhaps, but I know my fellow insomniac.
OK, then. I don’t have much today (yet), but I do have some bloggage, so dig in and enjoy. First, however, a question for the green of thumb:
The books all tell me that if I want my Christmas cactus to bloom at Christmas and not Halloween, I have to put it in a closet on Labor Day, and leave it there until…when? This just seems like planticide. Can one of you plant people help me out? And what do I do when it’s in there? Keep watering? Take it out for a daily 10-minute walk around the yard? Mine has pretty much recovered from a near-death experience with a squirrel — the last time it was allowed outdoors — and this year I think we should go for the big holiday bloom. But this advice sounds crazy. (On the other hand, ignoring it always got me a bloom in October. So there’s that.)
You never notice how many Rs are in the lyrics of “Folsom Prison Blues” until you hear someone who has a little problem with R pronunciation singing it:
HT: Laura Lippman, who probably never shot a man in Weno, just to watch him die.
What would we do without Jon Stewart? I ask you, America. Why can’t the Republicans come even within 25 blocks of the ballpark? Is Dennis Miller the best they got?
Top 10 Foods That Cause Car Accidents. They always blame coffee, while paella acts all innocent and gets away with murder.
And now I must be wollin’ wound the bend myself. Back here later, I think.