Recommended wine for today’s entry: As a sophisticated wine connoisseur, I elected to try tonight’s wine based on a sophisticated thought: It has a funny name. And a silly picture on the label. Especially if you have the maturity level of a sixth grader. With that admission, I have to say that my glass of La Bastarda last night was very drinkable and light. The text next to the picture of the fat man in a coat, tie, tutu and toe shoes reads, “This bianco (white) from Tuscany is produced at the La Bastardo winery east of Firenze and is Rich, Fat and Luscious! I will have another tonight. And soon you’ll see why I’ll need it.
I would like to point out that I often boast that I am about the only person I know (over the age of 40) who doesn’t suffer from insomnia.
Everyone I talk to seems to be afflicted with this problem. Just last night, although I’m reading a really good book (Famine by Todd Komarnicki), I became very drowsy at about 11:30, twenty minutes after my magic Benadryl. My bedtime, unfortunately, is about the time my husband gets garrulous (no, it’s not sexual, it means talkative, sicko). So I had to tell him to shut up; I was falling asleep. The last thing I heard before drifting off was his voice, far away, saying, “You don’t know how lucky you are. It’s a blessing – being able to sleep like you do.”
Well, thanks for the hex, man-witch.
At 2:17, I was suddenly awake and my entire body itched as if I had a thousand feather dusters dancing across me. It was worse than my worst case of poison ivy EVER. Why? I wondered, trying to maneuver my arm out from under the pile of cats swarming my pillow. What the hell itches? I’d had no maladies when I went to bed…
Since you know my husband is a bad sleeper, you can imagine my dilemma. He falls asleep normally, but if he’s awakened, say, by a loud teenager or a cat fight or a dog with twitchy legs, he’s up for hours. Not wanting to cause that kind of distress for him, I tried to scratch the itchy spots very quietly and discreetly.
But the itches were like whack-a-mole … you know, you just get one taken care of and another rears its ugly head.
I became frantic. I gingerly wove my leg around the Labrador and extracted myself from the flock of felines and ever so silently (except for my toes, which have cracked with every step I have ever taken) crept down the bathroom hall, to the far end of the bathroom, where, aided only by the light of the full moon through the window, I found the Calamine lotion. Then, because I’m brilliant, I went into the shower stall and used the light in there. 52 mosquito bites. Egad, I thought, because I think that’s a fascinating word, 52 freaking bites.
Once I was doused in the foul-smelling ointment, I cracked my way back to bed. His breathing was still steady and he wasn’t cussing. So far, so good. I crawled across the two cats on the edge of the bed and almost made it when, THUD. The blind, deaf and declawed cat hit the hardwood. I guess when she started sliding backwards, she had no choice but to go down. And the crap about cats always landing on their feet? Not Blackie.
I held my breath. Still asleep! Now, I thought, I just need to count some sheep. But instead, because I have an inquisitive mind (and my Benadryl had worn off), I laid there wondering when I’d been bitten 52 times and didn’t know.
I rehashed my outdoor day: I’d weeded in the pool area, but didn’t see any flying demons there. Then, oh, and this may have been it … I went to throw some leftover zucchini and cucumbers out for the deer and bunnies, and because my husband was watching I had to act like I don’t routinely throw them right by his vegetable garden, because he hates that. He thinks it lures them to his garden … like a colony of rabbits doesn’t actually LIVE in there already. Come on… But he was outside, so I went down by the creek. Maybe there.
But more likely, it was at dusk. They’re active then, the skeeters are. And I’d been outside on a Japanese beetle hunt. I always get the little bastards at dusk because they’re either asleep or mating or both and you can nab ‘em really easily. So I’d de-beetled my beloved miniature weeping cherry … and suffered the consequences. Ah. After retracing my steps (I had a vision of when they do that on Family Circle comic strip), I was REALLY wound up. Then I got the freaking theme song to Green Acres in my head. Now it was 5:17. My Benadryl was worn off; my calamine lotion was worn off and “f-a-a-r-m living is the life for me!”
Tonight, a glass of Bastarda and two Benadryl.