That hateful demon Insomnia has once more reared its ugly head, depriving me of the rejuvenating slumber that my aging body and mind so desperately need. And all the hours I should be spending in sweet dreams of turtle cheesecakes, sunny beaches and half-price shoe sales, I am instead ticking away while staring at a clock that never moves, punching my pillow and pondering life’s mysteries big and small.
You know, important stuff like . . .
Why hasn’t someone invented a tortilla chip hardy enough to withstand the amount of spinach dip I want to pile upon it? Or why didn’t Mr. Redenbacher invent a popcorn with kernels that completely dissolve in the popping process so they never, ever get stuck in the unreachable spaces between my back teeth?
How do some women get by with just a tiny purse–or no purse at all? Where do they store their three sets of keys, six tubes of lip gloss and three bottles of hand sanitizer? How do they have room for hand lotion, pepper spray, Band-aids, ticket stubs, expired coupons and forgotten bills? And where in the world do they stash that Coke for later, the chicken strips leftover from lunch or the book intended to calm them during the two-hour wait at the doctor’s office?
Why will my insurance company no longer pay for a blood pressure medicine that I took for years because it is not on the company’s revised “preferred drug list”–but will pay more for the two drugs it took to successfully replace the one? And why is it cheaper for me to pay for another prescription out of my own pocket rather than run it through the insurance company and be charged the co-pay? Does this make sense to anyone?
Why do vitamins smell like insecticide?
Why do certain television chefs handle raw meat and then just wipe their hands on a towel instead of washing them first?
How could the attorney of convicted killer Michael Taylor argue (unsuccessfully) that his client should not be executed because pentobarbital, Missouri’s execution drug-of-choice, might cause him “inhumane pain and suffering”? Twenty-five years ago, when Taylor and another man abducted 15-year-old Ann Harrison from her school bus stop in Kansas City and then raped her before stabbing her to death, were they at all concerned about the “inhumane pain and suffering” they were inflicting upon an innocent child?
Why is it that my dog–who breaks the necks of armadillos, snarls surprise visitors back into their vehicles, and would face down a black bear or a mountain lion in order to protect me–is so terrified of the distant, low rumble of thunder that he will tear through the screen door to cower at my feet?
Why would anyone bother to eat a pomegranate? I mean, as much as I love fruit, those things require way too much effort.
How is it possible that I could be offered a senior citizen discount at the grocery store and carded at the liquor store–both in the same week? The lady scanning my prunes and oatmeal was implying that I looked like I could be over 55 (I wanted to cry), while the nice lady ringing up my bottle of wine insisted she had to card everyone who looked like they could be under 30 (I wanted to hug her).
Do other people really “enjoy the go”? A Charmin toilet paper commercial professes that, “We all go. Why not enjoy the go?” Really? I don’t mean to be crass, but I’ve used the Charmin brand in my home for as long as I can remember, and I don’t remember ever having an “enjoyable” bathroom experience. No one in my family has claimed to have such an experience, either. Are we doing something wrong?
What if there really are zombies? After my sons tricked me into watching an episode of The Walking Dead with them (which freaked me out), I’ve devised several survival strategies for an attack–just in case.
Why am I forced to pay $20 more when I have to sit in the “exit row” on a plane? Everyone sitting in that row has to agree that, if the plane goes down, they will help others off first before exiting the plane themselves–and for agreeing to be a good Samaritan, they must pay more? And yes, I realize the exit row provides a little more leg room, but I can assure you, I don’t need it.
Why is it that my car can be covered in bird droppings, but there never seem to be droppings on the ground next to the car? Are birds on the fly really capable of aiming that well?
How can people spell my name wrong after I’ve just spelled it or written it for them? Good grief, people, pay attention!
Why is it that I’m the only one (in this house) who continuously has trouble operating the television remote? Could it be that I’m the only one (in this house) who doesn’t have countless hours of practice? Or am I really that technologically inept?
How can I bike 100+ miles in a week without losing a single pound? I thought if I ate all the cookies and cake early in the day instead of late at night, I would have time to burn off all the calories–isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?
Due to recent, sky-rocketing propane prices, we turned down our house thermostat from 68 degrees to 65–so why did that three-degree difference make the house feel 20 degrees colder?
How is it possible that (if reflexologists are to be believed) a person’s feet can reveal much about his personality and character? For example, a person whose big toe is longer than his second toe is supposed to be a clever, creative thinker–and since my big toe fits that description, I’d like to believe that the rest of the statement applies to me, too. But seriously? The only things I’ve known my big toe to be good for are poking holes through my sock and being one toe in a two-toe endeavor of picking up dropped items when I was eight months pregnant and too fat to bend over.
Do people really click on those internet weight loss advertisements that feature an emaciated Oprah or a skeletal Paula Deen–advertisements that are so obviously Photoshop fake? And how many of those weight loss supplements does Dr. Oz really recommend?
How can a company justify charging over $400 for a pair of jeans–and how can anyone justify spending that much money on two legs and a butt of denim (denim that was probably sewn together in the same factory that manufactures an almost identical $40 pair)?
Why does my in-vehicle communications system (SYNC) have such a hard time understanding me? My accent is minimal, my speech is slow, and my consonants and vowels are clearly enunciated–and yet, this is how a typical conversation begins (expletives deleted):
Car: “SYNC. Please say a command.”
Car: “Connecting . . . Services. Which service do you want?”
Car: “Did you say ‘tramp stamp’?”
Me: “WHAT?! NO!”
Car: “Which service do you want?”
Car: “Directions. First, say the city and state you’re going to, say ‘home or work,’ or say ‘operator.'”
Me: “Joplin, Missouri.”
Car: “Gary, Indiana–is that correct?”
Car: “What city and state?”
Me: “Joplin, Missouri.”
Car: “Truman, Arkansas–is that correct?”
Me: “NO! JOPLIN, MISSOURI!”
Car: “I’m having a hard time understanding you. Did you say ‘Joplin, Missouri’?”
Car: “Say the address you’re going to or say ‘find a business.'”
Me: “Find a business.”
Car: “What business or type of business?”
Me: “Schifferdecker Park.”
And believe me, it went WAY downhill from there.
This tired ol’ brain needs some down time, and this tired ol’ body needs its beauty rest–so here’s hoping that demon Insomnia takes tonight off or at least terrorizes someone else for a change (and I’m sorry if that someone else turns out to be you). If not, I don’t want to be held responsible for all the weird thoughts that might be lurking in the shadows, just waiting for their chance to explode into the darkness.
Why am I so intrigued by sunsets?
And will Spring EVER get here?