...in the night and leave me W I D E awake.
Yeah, it's 3:00 a.m. Again. And I'm up.
I find myself up on many a sleepless night contemplating the air in my head and the lint in my belly button, but I rarely pose really pressing questions. In truth, and if I did, you would really learn what keeps me up at night.
For example, why do teachers always seem to have bad breath?
The other day, I left a comment at Quiet in the Stacks where I said, "I now it's not nice to laugh at pregnant women..." and then I thought, are there any other kind?
Whose idea was it to invent front loading washing machines? Worst and most ineffective invention ever.
Why has Dick Cheney not been hauled off to the War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague? Is there no justice in the world?
Why do sleep aids sometimes make you restless and wide awake? Isn't that counter to what they're suppose to do?
In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Ron breaks his wand, rendering it largely useless. For Christmas, Hermione gives Ron a new wand. So, why, a few chapters later, is he still using the old, busted wand?
See what I mean? The questions of deep and lasting import that could just very possibly change what I eat for breakfast. It's more than I can bear. More beer? (And if you can name the movie that line came from, I'll be really, really impressed.)
Gilahi was observing on his blog the other day that people seem to be running out of things to write about, his present company included. To fill the white space, he wrote about his colonoscopy. That was a fun read.
Thinking I might feel inspired, I thought about telling everyone how well being on birth control is working for me (HELLO! Why the hell didn't I get on this stuff YEARS ago?!), but then I decided no one needs all that detail and information.
Then I thought I'd rant about the pet crematorium where we took Bee's recently deceased cat, Frieda, but I'm saving that up for later. (And believe me, there will be a rant.)
I could write about how I'm editing a collection of personal histories, written by my cousins and aunts for a book my mother and her sisters are putting together for next year's family reunion, but no thanks.
See what I mean? I got nada.
Which might not be such a bad thing, come to think of it.
Normally, I'd be working in an office setting, which would provide me with infinite possibilities of things to write. Now all I have is me, my Darth Vader bobblehead doll, and the Dirty Bastard Cat. He doesn't say much. Darth Vader, that is. The DBC, on the other hand, has an opinion about everything. When he really wants to make his point, he hurls.
The other day, we had guests over for dinner. When we do, the DBC goes to the basement. Otherwise, he's weaving in and out of people's legs, begging for food (he's worse than a dog that way), and generally being a nuisance. All of that, coupled with the fact that we also have friends who are allergic to cats, results in him going downstairs for the evening.
Needless to say, this makes him very, very angry.
Along the wall going down to the basement is a neat little DVD rack I bought at the loathsome IKEA. The Swedish furniture wonder recommends you hang the rack, made up of wooden boxes attached to a stick, vertically. Ha. What a joke! I installed them horizontally on a ledge going down the stairs. Perfect.
Or it was until the DBC discovered that he could express his opinion about being confined to the basement during all the fun and festivities by pulling DVDs out of the rack. Nothing like opening the door to the basement at the end of an evening of friends and frivolity to discover Breakfast at Tiffany's, Prime Suspect, Harry Potter 1-5, To Be or Not to Be, Peter Pan, The Mission, The Italian Job, Remembering 9/11, and Pirates of the Caribbean scattered down the stairs.
Hm. I wonder if I could trade the DBC to Barbossa for his monkey?
See? This, and many questions like it, keep me awake at night.