The Graduate As I sat through two graduations during these past few weeks when so many of our children were graduating, the strangest word popped into my brain: Plastics. You may remember the 1967 film, The Graduate. Dustin Hoffman plays a recent college graduate who was unsure of what to do with his life. At his graduation party a well meaning family friend pulls him aside and tells him he has one word for him, “Plastics.” Evidently that’s where he felt the future lay for the very confused lad. Thankfully, unlike Dustin, both my girls have a good idea of what they where they’re heading. We began our celebrations with Mariel, who was graduating from the University of Arizona with a Masters in GeoSciences. As many of you know, my youngest is madly in love with rocks and the earth that they come from. Her interest was ignited by a fantastic Canton Middle School science teacher, ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬Ms. Birtwell, a father who loves science, and a family trip to a Hawaiian volcanic caldera. The only thing that I can say is that I bought her a bag of pretty rocks when she was eight. We set off for a long week-end in Tucson, excited, yet a bit apprehensive. I no longer love flying the way I used to thanks to all the rules and regulations involving liquids, shoes and clothing removal. On this trip Steve and I were introduced to body scanners. We could have chosen to be frisked but I had heard from friends how “intimate” that could get, so I opted for the scanner. It was strange. Not only do you remove every extraneous article of anything on your body, but you stand spread-eagled with your hands above your head while the scanner finds out if you intend to blow up the eastern hemisphere. Just my luck I was also randomly chosen for a body pat down. “Why me?” I wailed uselessly since random is random, yes? I like to think that it wasn’t random at all—that I was chosen for my great beauty. We flew to Houston without incident where we were scheduled for a four hour layover. However the gods were not smiling on us. Due to mechanical malfunctions and Texan storms we ended up waiting for eight hours till we were finally allowed to board our plane. Half of us on that plane were scheduled to attend graduation at the U of A the next day but we were the only ones whose ceremony was at 8:00 in the very early morning. After landing, figuring out the time change (Arizona does not change its clocks) and picking up our rental car, we were blitzed. Thank goodness our hotel was across the street from the rental place. After four hours of sleep we groggily set out. At 7:15 am Steve and I shook hands congratulating each other that we had made it. Now all we had to do was stay awake. The ceremony, which was only for the school of science, was held in a sports arena so there was a jumbo-tron hanging from the ceiling. Instead of the usual pictures of people going nuts when they saw themselves up there, the names of the graduates, their degrees and parting comments were shown. These ran the gamut of, “I love you mom!” to various existential quotes, to “Meet you on the unemployment line!” It was hilarious. When it was Mariel’s turn to be “hooded” for her masters, I tried in vain to get a picture while enjoying the moment in real time. It went by so quickly I didn’t even have time to cry. I took a few deep breaths and tried to get used to the fact that I was old enough to have a daughter with a master’s degree. Thank goodness for Lisa’s graduation we did not have to separate fluids or be body scanned. All we had to do was drive into Boston on a beautiful summer’s day. Lisa was also graduating in an intimate venue, Boston University’s Agganis Arena. She was getting her master’s degree from the School of Public Health. Unfortunately it was as cold in there as it is when the hockey team is playing--I could have sworn I still saw ice on the arena floor. And because everyone there was getting a masters or PhD, everybody was being hooded, which meant that we had plenty of time to enjoy not only every second of our daughter’s moment, but of everyone else’s child’s as well. And that was actually wonderful. Sitting there in the midst of hundreds of proud parents, knowing that our children were part of the lucky few who were beginning their professional lives with degrees; knowing that there were doors that would open for them because of their education, was at once gratifying and humbling. As I knew so well there were countless others who would not even finish High School, whose futures were mortgaged before they even began. Lisa and I have often joked that we want to try and save the world. I have since narrowed that down to my local world and then even further to one person at a time in my neighborhood. One by one, step by step. And hopefully all of our graduates will go out into the world and save a bit of it too. It all adds up.

The Jewel of Beacon Street My husband, Steve runs a business from our house which means I never get to see him anymore. Well, okay I do pass him in the hall or the kitchen but lately we’ve become ships in the night. When he used to work a typical nine-to-five job, our week-ends were reserved for family and chores. But when you work from home, work-time and home-time blur together. Add my hectic job schedule to the mix and it’s a wonder that we still recognize each other without a pink carnation stuck in our lapels. So whenever I have a day off I ask my husband out on a day-long date. We always look for something to do in Boston since we never tire of walking around the city enjoying the sights like any other tourist. If it’s cold it’s a bit harder to find an activity since I love museums but Steve only likes the smaller, quirkier ones. Last Presidents’ Day we arrived at the Isabella Gardiner Art Museum only to see a line weaving down the street and around the block. We sighed then drove off to find an adventure in a less crowded venue. It was then that I remembered another place that fellow library trustee and friend, George Comeau, had recommended a while back. George’s face glows when he speaks about the Boston Athenaeum. He’s been a member there for years. When he heard that I had never visited he was horrified. I kept promising him that I would eventually, but somehow eventually never came. As it turned out that February day was not the day, but another April day was. We hoped that the weather would cooperate so that we could squeeze in our usual walk around Boston before we visited the Athenaeum. Happily it was gloriously perfect. The sun was out and even the wind decided not to appear that day. We parked our car in the South End where we planned to have lunch and walked over to Beacon Street. We stopped to admire old buildings, spring flowers, cute dogs and Boston skylines. We waved at the tourists on the Duck Boats, bumped into hordes of them peering at maps, and felt infinitely superior to the bunch excitedly gathering at Cheers. Approaching the Common we finally found 10 ½ Beacon Street. I gaped at the two large red doors flanked by heavy carved ones. We entered silently and were welcomed by the receptionist who told us that we were welcome to visit the first floor reading rooms and art gallery but the rest of the building was for members only. We hadn’t even been there for five minutes and already I wanted desperately to be a member. This place has that kind of affect on you. Free and open to the public, the Boston Athenaeum, was founded in 1807 by members of the Anthology Society, who began with a plan to have a reading room but then expanded their vision to include a library encompassing books in all subjects in English and foreign languages, a gallery of sculptures and paintings, collections of coins and natural curiosities, and even a laboratory……. in 1809 (they) bought a small house adjacent to the King’s Chapel Burial Ground, and in 1822 moved into a mansion on Pearl Street. In 1849 the current location at 10 ½ Beacon Street opened We tiptoed in, barely breathing at the sheer loveliness of the space. High vaulted ceilings, graceful moldings, huge windows, sculpture and paintings everywhere. Books filled the central room and the art gallery led to small niches where people could rest and read. I was standing in the central room when I saw a dignified gentleman waiting for the elevator. I couldn’t resist asking him, “Are you lucky enough to work here?” “I am,” he answered, and something in my wistful expression must have urged him to say, “Would you like to see the most beautiful room in the building on the fifth floor?” “Oh yes!” I said, “Could I really?” And so Robert took us up to the fifth floor reading room reserved for members. It was a jewel, echoing the design of the rest of the building, with tall windows, private research nooks, paintings, sculpture, and peace. Again we tiptoed, (this was definitely a tiptoeing space) as he took down several first editions to show us. A Labrador slept peacefully beneath the desk of a researcher. Even dogs were respectful of this place. Robert took us out to a small terrace overlooking the city and we chatted about Boston, books and life. After thanking him for the unique gift that he had given us, we returned to the first floor. As I wandered I discovered yet another treasure adjacent to the children’s room, a small children’s reading room named, Chris’ library. The room was covered in soft, starry-night-blue carpeting whose theme was reflected in the overhead light which was designed as the earth revolving around the sun. There were two spacious yet cozy, cushioned benches opposite large windows overlooking the Granary burial ground. Tourists milled around the tombstones while I sat peacefully longing for a child to bring here. When we came home we looked up the Athenaeum staff to find that our wonderful tour guide had been Robert R. Ashton, Director of Development. Thank you Robert for turning a simple visit into a joy. And thank you George. I owe you one.

Spring Laughter A spring day can’t possibly be lovelier than this. The sun is warming the temperature up to the 70’s, the few clouds in the sky are the fluffy cotton candy kind, and the birds haven’t even stopped for a breath. And I am lucky to be sitting in my favorite place, my back porch. Snoopy is lying in a patch of sun having given up begging to be let out. Spring drives him crazy. The moment the air hints of warmth and the light grows lighter his only desire is to be out and running, chasing anything including the smells of spring. Unfortunately he has to wait for someone to walk him. I swore that I would not write a spring column. I do it every year, first the swearing and then the capitulating. Every year I make myself crazy trying to find new words to explain why this season awakens every hope that I bury during the winter, every desire I thought I had tamped down, every longing that I was certain I had very maturely shed. And then the warmth stirs the air and I crack open my window at night. The tree frogs pipe continuously and the birds return to my feeders. And the light—oh that light--expands and stretches and disappears later and later each evening—and once again I’m hooked. No other season makes me want to be seven again the way spring does. It stirs up pools of memories bringing them to the surface. My senses remember everything, jostling and crowding each other for attention. I smell the woods after a rain when the salamanders would creep out to sun themselves on the moss. I taste the grass that we would blow as whistles. I feel the slight chill riding on the warm air and watch trees grow thicker and greener everyday. But today for the first time, thanks to something I read in this morning’s paper, I finally understood why spring now leaves me not only restless and hopeful but also aching for the past. Spring was always the prelude to summer when, unknown to my parents, I would leave my bed in our bungalow colony bedroom in the Catskills, to creep outside so I could listen to my parents and their friends talk and hear my dad telling one of his wonderful jokes. Today I read the obituary of a man I had never met, never even heard of, yet I felt like a member of my family had died. His name was Lou Goldstein. According to Joseph Berger of the New York Times, Lou Goldstein was: The consummate tummler, one of a zany species of entertainer who kept them laughing, long ago in the borscht belt hotels of the Catskills. A tummler (pronounced TOOM-ler) — the job title comes from a Yiddish word for someone who stirs up tumult or excitement — was a jack-of-all-trades social director who was supposed to amuse the hotel guests with jokes, songs and shtick, as they sat by the pool, emerged from lunch or headed for bingo. One of Lou’s favorite jokes was, the one about the mother whose son excitedly announces that he has been picked for the part of the Jewish husband in a school play. The mother replies, “You tell the teacher you want a speaking part.” Lou, the son of a tailor, was born in a small town outside of Warsaw, Poland. He and his family immigrated to Brooklyn when he was five years old. Eventually he ended up living and working in the Catskills near a town called Liberty. From everything I’ve read about him he was a very funny man. My father was the son of tailor from a small town outside of Warsaw who immigrated to Brooklyn when he was a young man. He was also a very funny man. But unlike Lou he didn’t live in the Catskills he just vacationed there with his family every summer. My dad wasn’t a tummler though. He was a quiet comedian. He and my mom would be sitting with their friends when he would say a few words and suddenly everyone would be holding their sides. When I was older I would be one of the group that could no longer breathe because I was laughing so hard. But when I was younger most of what I heard was my father’s voice and the inevitable laughter. Lou Goldstein worked at Grossinger’s, the premier Catskills resort from 1948 till 1986 when it closed. But our family couldn’t afford to spend our summers at Grossinger’s. Instead we went to bungalow colonies in the area from June till September. Summer was wonderful but spring was anticipation, the best part of everything. Spring meant that in a few weeks I would leave the city where grass grew in small squares, trees popped up one at a time, and squirrels were the only native wildlife, and live it the way it should be felt—bursting in the woods, across stretches of lawns--and if I was really lucky, in the early morning hours as a doe and her baby nibbling the grass outside my window. Now every spring I listen for my dad, the quiet tummler, regaling his friends with one of his many jokes, while I still try not to laugh but always fail. And I’m so grateful that my dad always had a speaking part.

A Day in the Life

A Day In the Life

The alarm rings at 5:30. I feel like a diver that has gone too deep and can’t find her way to the surface. It can’t possibly be time to get up. But it is and no amount of complaining is going to get me any more sleep. I fall out of bed. In the shower I go through my usual litany of questions: “Why am I up when even the birds are still sleeping ? Why does 5:00 seem like such an evil time to get up? Why should I care if my teachers stand outside in the cold waiting for me to show up and let them in?” But I care, I know I care, so I dry my hair, slap some color on my face and head in for coffee.
I have my usual half hour to gulp down some oatmeal and coffee and catch the train. I just hope that the Snoopster will stay asleep so that I don’t have to take him out and get his breakfast--but no luck. I hear him stretching in the hallway. Does this dog have an appointment that he has to go to that I don’t know about?
I get to the station just as the train pulls in, but happily I meet Harry on the platform. We get two seats together on a three-seater. As we sit down the woman near the window huffily moves her things so we can sit. When Harry and I begin to chat quietly she informs us rather nastily that this is the quiet car and we should basically shut up so madame can fume in silence. I am sorely tempted to whack her, but I behave, merely thinking evil thoughts about her during the ride. After such a rotten start I have the sinking feeling that this day is going to be a doozey.
The walk to school is blessedly uneventful and I begin to think that everything will be okay after all. I unlock the door and see that our classroom water cooler needs a new bottle, so I begin the process of hefting it onto the cooler. After I turn the bottle over I notice that there is a crack in the bottom. Suddenly I hear a loud whoosh and then a furious flow of water. I watch horrified as a flood runs down the sides of the cooler and onto the floor while a hissing noise signals that something may be burning.
I decide not to panic. I pull the bottle off, throw it in the trash and unplug the cooler. I am now as wet as the floor. I rethink my former decision and decide that panicking may be the thing to do. This is a mess that paper towels won’t handle. Thank goodness I have the custodian’s number and Kevin, bless him, is there in five minutes with his mop. My knight in shining flannel. I pray that the water hasn’t caused a short in the electrical wiring.
In the middle of this mess, as Kevin mops and I wipe as fast as I can, my GED teacher arrives unexpectedly early. He stands there cluelessly, looking like he’s about to step over Kevin and into the room. I inform him that if he wants to live another day in my school he should make himself scarce for a while. I flee to my office, take out my tiny hair dryer and begin drying my skirt and sweater, desperate not to go through the day soaked to the skin. Yes indeed, blow drying yourself at 7:30 in the morning is a great way to start the day.
Kevin puts another bottle on the cooler (at this point I’m ready for a bottle as well, and I’m not talking about water) assures me that the day will get better and leaves me with a nice clean floor. I’m still damp but at this point I don’t care anymore.
It is now 8:30 and I have two minutes before the hoards descend. I gulp my coffee wondering whether I shouldn’t just pour it over my head for maximum caffeine effect and slap a smile on my face. By 10:00 a semblance of peace has descended—or at least until the students in my GED class decide that they’ve had it with their teacher and begin a revolution.
My assistant, Lalitta and I can hear them telling him that he needs to get organized; that they’re tired of doing the same lesson over and over because he’s forgotten what he’s taught, and they don’t want to learn words like “pentathlon” because when were they ever in their lifetimes going to use them?!!
Quietly agreeing with my students, I wish that I had thrown him into the river that was the classroom this morning and ended all of our suffering. I have spoken to him countless times about his teaching but he’s very courteously not having any of it. This is one teacher who will not be returning next year, Harvard degree and all.
The rest of day slowly slides downhill—the copy machine dies, we lose our heat, our lights go out. Somehow I get through it and go home to crawl into bed. Thankfully it is Friday—perhaps on Monday we will have heat, lights and a copy machine. Then again Haley’s comet may show up as well. I remain optimistic.

Sleep Like the Dead

Sleep Like the Dead
The last time we bought a new mattress was during the Norman Invasion. We didn’t have many choices back then, it was straw or straw as I recall. So when I told Steve last week that I believed that I was waking up every morning sore and achy was not because a squirrel was beating me up at night, but because we might need a new mattress, he was not happy. The word “new” always means that there is shopping involved and whenever shopping is involved Steve is not.
Steve and I have an interesting history when it comes to major purchases. We bought our house in a couple of weeks having chosen not only the town we wanted to live in but the school district, (our realtor told us that she considered herself lucky that we hadn’t narrowed it down to one street!) our cars usually take us a week and lately, if something can be ordered online and delivered to our door, we don’t even leave the house. This is nirvana for Steve.
But a mattress is tricky. All the web sites say that it’s difficult to make equitable comparisons between mattresses since every brand has its own styles, and every store its own brands. Since the important stuff is pretty much hidden, purchasing a mattress is akin to buying the proverbial pig in a poke.
The first stop on our mattress hunt was the store where we had bought mom’s bed. She was happy with it so we figured we had a chance of success. The salespeople wore white lab coats perhaps in the hope that you’d defer to them as you would your doctor. Either that or they were going for a lab tech image, but why I would buy a mattress from someone who does research on small animals puzzles me. I kept thinking that at any moment they would be asking me for a blood sample.
Most of the shoppers had brought their extended family--kids, uncles, cousins, nephews, to give them advice. They were all lying down pretending to sleep, bouncing, arguing, and offering their opinions. The two of us felt a bit bereft but we were shortly assigned a “sleep technician”, who after asking our price range, promptly steered us to a mattress that was at least $500 more than the figure we had named.
We tried “sleeping” on a few mattresses like Goldilocks but I was too self-conscious to find anything that felt just right. Lying down in a busy store dressed in a coat and boots was not the optimum experience for figuring out my comfort zone. I asked Shatz to snore a bit to create our usual sleeping ambiance but he refused.
The couple next to us was having some serious comfort disagreements. The wife said that she loved that the mattress was firm while the husband said it felt like he was lying on cement. She sighed that the two of them would never agree on a mattress. I suggested that they investigate those sleep number gadgets where everyone gets to choose their mattress firmness. She told me that her parents had one of those and hated it. Her mom was tired of looking up at her dad at night. It turns out that the firmer you like it, the higher your side of the bed grows--like blowing up a balloon.
Steve and I discussed a memory foam mattress but I was hesitant. Our friends, Nancy and Harry, bought one a few years ago. She told me that after sleeping on it for one night they called to have it removed. “It was awful!” she said. “I felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper into the bed and that I would never get out!”
I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be tapped in my bed like quicksand, especially if I wanted to get up during the night. The idea of having to wake Steve so that he could push me out didn’t exactly appeal to me. This is one old lady who doesn’t relish having to fight her bed in addition to gravity just to go to the bathroom.
According to a web site Shatz found called, Sleep Like the Dead, memory foams have disadvantages. One of them is off-gassing. This is when your bed smells like Old Faithful due to the gas in the materials. I won’t even comment on that.
We also discovered that memory foams tend to sleep hot meaning your mattress builds up heat as you sleep. This last was confirmed by a friend who told me that during the summer she felt like she was sleeping in an oven. She kept dreaming that she had died and gone to hell.
But it was the column titled, “Good for Sex?” (which has nothing to do with sleeping hot) that convinced me. I quote, “What complaints there are tend to involve models with memory foam; See Mattresses and Sex, for more info.” I decided not to, since the visuals dancing in my head were already disturbing enough!
This week-end we’re off for another try. This time I’m going in my pajamas and bringing the dog. I’ll throw him on one of the memory foams to see if he can get out. If he can’t we’ll definitely cross it off our list. I have enough stress in my life without worrying if my mattress is gong to eat me.

Snowshoeing in the Streets

Snowshoeing in the Streets

What a day! The sun is out, no clouds, no wind, 50 degrees. And it’s February. This is my idea of a winter that I can live with. For years I’ve said to anyone who will listen, “I wouldn’t mind the winter so much if there was no snow and the temperature stayed in the fifties.” A pipe dream for Massachusetts, but this year it’s a pipe dream come true. This morning even though I shivered at the train station, I knew that on my way home I would no longer need my scarf, but my sunglasses instead.
Today has been an easy day. I’ve accomplished everything on my to-do list and a few people canceled their appointments, leaving me breathing room. The community center office upstairs is quiet and no one has rushed into my office with a crisis.
Yet for some reason the date seems familiar. The Super Bowl is over, Valentine’s Day isn’t here yet, it isn’t anybody’s birthday that I can think of so why does this date refuse to leave the edges of my mind? And then on the internet I see a small story at the bottom about the blizzard of ’78.
The small blurb informs me that 34 years ago today the heavens dropped twenty-seven inches of snow on Boston and the rest of New England. On a beautiful day like this it’s hard to imagine being buried in over two feet of snow. But we were. Thirty-four years ago I couldn’t push open our front door and could barely see out of our second story apartment window. I still remember the excitement of having work canceled, classes canceled, usual life canceled because of a relentless snowfall that showed no inclination of stopping anytime soon.
After listening to governor Michael Dukakis reassure us that even in this state of emergency we would all be fine if we just stayed off the roads, we headed across the way to a state-of-emergency party that had just been called by a neighbor that we had never met but were about to.
Today old-lady-me would be staring nervously out of the window, checking to see if we were stocked up on batteries, candles and food and praying to the electricity gods to stay put, stay on. I would imagine freezing to death on the couch, or starving to death in the kitchen or…you get the picture. Thirty-four years ago I simply gazed out dreamily, happy to be with Steve, never even imagining that this would be anything but some fantastic experience that we would enjoy together.
I sit here in my office knowing that it all happened to me but feeling like it’s a fairy tale that someone has told me that I’m only just remembering. That seems to be happening more and more lately—feeling that the events of my past life are only fairy stories and not my history. Most are vague and faded like the photographs on my wall that I’m having restored. Maybe I can ask the camera store if they can work on my memories as well.
I can clearly see us tramping off for groceries to the nearest STAR Market, but can barely remember what else we did with our days. And as our days turned into a week, while the plows worked to unearth us from our snow castles, I remember feeling bored but not bored enough to want to return to real life. It was too much fun staying home playing with friends, building snowmen, even digging each other’s cars out from under mountains.
Even as the stories began drifting in about people being stranded, people unable to get home, people with no power for days, people dying in the snow banks, we somehow never worried that any of that would happen to us. We were too young to think that this would be something other than a lark. How I miss that girl! During our latest Halloween snowstorm I spent the entire day worrying about the really important things in life like, how would I ever be able to go to work unless I dried my hair and how could I dry my hair without a hairdryer?
Is this what growing older is about? A double whammy of losing your memories and fearing life? In ’78 I saw people snowshoeing on the roads and wanted to rush out and join them. Now I gaze out of the window and feel old and too likely to break a leg if I dared try.
During snowstorms I no longer party or recall past parties, instead I watch our trees and wonder which one will break and land on the roof. I watch the driveway and worry about when the plow guy will come. I watch the electric lines and will them to stay up. I watch and worry and miss seeing what is right in front of my eyes—a life that should be lived in sharp Crayola hues and not worried to death.
Today, on this sunshine filled day, I have nothing to worry about. I will get up in a few minutes and enjoy my walk to the station in balmy February weather. But there is snow forecast for Saturday. Maybe I should go out and get myself some snowshoes before I remember to be afraid. And then I should go out and find some new memories.

All Through the Night

All Through the Night

I get up at 5:00 am every day to catch the 6:39 commuter train into Boston. That insane wake-up hour gives me time to shower, dress, eat and make it to the train with seconds to spare. Since I’m barely conscious at that hour I prepare everything I need for the morning the night before. Coffee is in the espresso maker, oatmeal waits in the bowl, even the milk glass sits waiting. If I could figure out a way to eat in the shower I would do it. If I wasn’t so prepared I would have time to dress or eat but not both and would probably walk out the door wearing two different shoes.

Knowing that I have to get up so early in the morning makes me a nervous sleeper. Each night I wake up five or six times to check the clock to see how many more hours of sleep I have left. It goes something like this:

6:30 pm: I prepare the next day’s lunch and breakfast. Lunch is always a celebration of the gustatory senses—a tuna, bologna or turkey sandwich. Of course the fact that I eat my lunch running from one thing to another means that I usually have no idea what I’ve just eaten anyway. There have been times when I have asked my secretary if she’s seen me eat my lunch because I have no recollection of doing so. She just sighs and points to the saran wrap filled with crumbs on my desk.

7:00 pm: Having completed all my preparations I head for the bedroom followed by my faithful companion, Snoopy. I grab our special blanket and a cup of tea and we settle in for a couple of hours of togetherness--if that’s what you can call me at one end of the bed and him at the other. He doesn’t want to actually snuggle or be near me, he just likes to know I’m there. I watch some TV and read for two hours until…

9:00 pm: When it’s time for the Snoopster to go for his final outing and me to go to sleep. Yes folks, I go to sleep week nights at 9:00, depressingly early, but if I stay up any later I go around the next day searching for my brain.

9:15: I fall into a wonderfully deep sleep guaranteed to rejuvenate me for the entire week.

9:30: I wake up feeling like I’ve slept for hours only to glance at the clock to see that I’ve been asleep for exactly 15 minutes. It will take me forever to fall asleep again.

9:30-10:30: Toss and turn trying desperately to find a position that doesn’t feel like every part of my body is lying on nails. I look at the clock hoping that maybe I’ve been asleep for hours without know it but no dice.

10:35: Finally fall asleep and manage to stay that way until…

10:55: When Steve lands in bed like a cluster bomb, throwing the covers and tossing himself around as if he were a crepe in a frying pan. He adds a few sneezes and grunts and voila! I am completely and utterly awake and ready to kill my bed mate.

10:55—11:30: Lie in bed dreaming up ways to torture my husband or at least wake him up. How can he sleep so deeply while I’m over here planning his untimely demise? I tell myself to relax and start counting something, anything-- sheep, enchiladas, kittens, to find some sleep.

12:38 am: Finally fall asleep again after having checked the clock at least a dozen times to see if I had just dreamt being awake.

2:00: The snoring concerto kicks in, bass section and all. I look over at mi amore, see that he is lying on his back so I give him a gentle tap on his arm (okay, maybe I whack him a good one but at this point can you blame me??) which is his signal to turn on his left side so that his snores will calm down to snorts and we can all get some sleep. I check the clock once again and utter some words that cannot be printed in a family newspaper.

2:30: The dog decides to meander in and begins to shake, stretch and then lick every single part of his body. The slobbery licks make me so nauseated that I threaten to dismember said animal unless he goes to sleep. He looks at me as if I have lost my mind.

3:38: I look at the clock and see that I have exactly one hour and 62 minutes left before I have to get up at 5:00. I try to count my blessings (enchiladas sure didn’t work) and all I can come up with is that I may be exhausted but at least the snoring and licking have stopped.

4:45: I finally fall into a deep, deep rejuvenating sleep.

5:00 am: My alarm goes off and when I realize that I have to get up I decide to ignore it and go back to sleep. At that point a cold nose pokes itself into my side demanding to be fed. It’s been a long day’s night.