Sleep Talking and T-Rex Advocacy

My husband talks in his sleep, but only when he’s dog-tired.

Typically, it’s the kind of unintelligible drabble that dissipates in a minute or two, followed by soft snoring (I’m sorry honey, did I say snoring? I meant “breathing”). I’ve been known to talk in my sleep before, but it hasn’t happened in quite a while (that we know of).

Recently I’ve discovered his subconscious has decided to take this one-way conversation to the next level. The outcome of this hilarious turn of events is my newfound appreciation for my husband’s surprisingly tender-hearted advocacy for fantasy creatures, great and small.

One night when we were out of town, my husband fell asleep while watching a movie. I tried to get some sleep myself, but mere moments after turning out the lights, I heard the quiet, concerned murmurings of my husband lying next to me:

“Humpty Dumpty….”

“Why can’t they put him back together?”

I opened my eyes, wondering if he was awake. I had my back turned to him, so it was hard to tell. He repeated the same question, a slur in his voice:

“Why can’t they fix Humpty Dumpty?”

“Send all the knights and horses…”

I snorted, grabbing the pillow under my head to stifle it. There was no doubt about it, he was sleep talking. There was a long silence after that, and I thought it might be the end of it. But then I heard a sorrowful sigh, and then a voice that dropped an octave to deliver a serious accusation:

“It was the king.”

I sat up a little, intrigued by this turn of events. It was like a soap opera in his sleep.

“I think Humpty forgot to bring something to his party, so that’s why he did it.”

“…the king murdered him.”

I stuffed the entire corner of the pillow into my mouth to prevent myself from laughing, probably more out of amusement than actual consideration, if I’m being honest. My body shook, and even though my husband isn’t a light sleeper, I was surprised it didn’t wake him.

I choked on the pillow Then I laughed again. I choke-laughed.

“Do you think they’ll serve Humpty at his funeral?”

-Pause-

“Because I think that would be inappropriate.”

My whole body wracked with laughter. I began rolling around on the bed in an absolute fit. I only wished my phone was nearby so I could record it. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

“Do you like egg salad?”

“I don’t really like it, but you should eat it soon because he’ll go bad quickly.”

That was it; my poor lungs – not to mention my heart – couldn’t take it anymore. I ran over to the light and turned it on as my laughter rang unabashedly throughout the room. Hopping on the bed, I shook my husband awake. He stared at me with a sleepy expression, probably wondering why I had just interrupted a good sleep.

I had a hard time repeating what he’d said through my fits of giggles, but afterward, he told me I should write it down so I wouldn’t forget. I did just that, transposing his little story of intrigue, espionage, and betrayal on my phone. I told him his conversation reminded me of the Five Stages of Grief, except there was apparently a sixth stage, called “Eating your Loved One” at the end.

If that were the end of it, I’d find it funny enough, but a week and a half later – this time, in our own apartment – he did it again. And as I stated before, I didn’t forget my phone this time and recorded it:

“T-Rex…mwfgsjhfdkl….”

 “T-Rex’s have a bad rap…”

“It’s not fair.”

“Why do they always make them bad guys?”

“Maybe they don’t want to be meat eaters. Maybe they’d be nice if they ate plants.”

“Are they bullies? Are they bullied? I don’t know.”

“Does anyone know?”

“I think long necks are the real bad guys; they’re too peaceful.”

I’m saddened to say that there was more, but I couldn’t make out the words. On the one hand, I hope he continues to talk in his sleep, because who couldn’t use another laugh or two? On the other hand…

I’d like to actually sleep too, and I don’t think laughter is the best medicine for THAT.

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"It's just a Flesh Wound!"

Have you ever had one of those days where everything is going according to plan, nothing is out of the ordinary, and then, out of nowhere, you suddenly have a knife protruding from your leg and you’re bleeding in the parking lot?

Oh, so just me then?

Cool, cool.

My clumsiness knows no bounds. I once slammed my finger in the kitchen cupboard, turned around and tripped over the family dog, stood up, and finally stubbed my toe on the base of the banister. It’s a miracle I didn’t fall down the stairs while I was at it – really go for the gold, you know?

And, despite my predisposition to break in every door and baseboard in the house by running directly into them, I have never broken a bone (not officially, anyway).  Not even as a small child, when I ran circles around my family in the living room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and slipped and ran headfirst into the metal fireplace holder. I did get a very stylish butterfly bandage, though. Nor the time when I fell (twice!) out of the van because I missed a step and bit through my bottom lip.

Let’s not forget the innate toddler curiosity that spurred me to place my hand squarely on the stovetop burner. I still have the scars to show for it.

And so, it’s not terribly surprisingly that I would end up, at some point, with a kitchen knife in my leg – not when you really think about it. I didn’t get the normal injuries other kids had – broken bones and sprained ankles from playing sports. No, I go for the spectacular, the kind that make doctors cock their head to the side and say, “How did you manage to do that?”

I’m kind of exciting to doctors. I’m much more interesting than your standard common cold.

About a year and a half ago, I was dog sitting for my parents while they were out of town. My husband and I brought this spunky, Yorkie-Schnauzer mix named Stuart to our apartment to stay overnight, and we planned to drop him off the next morning at my parents’ so he would be comfortable while we were at work. On this morning, I decided to pack a lunch. I wanted one of the best staples there is for lunch food – a classic tomato sandwich.

However, trying to be clever, I decided instead of slicing the tomatoes at home and risking the mayonnaise on the sandwich turning them into a mushy disaster, I would take the whole tomato with me and pack one of our kitchen knives, so I could slice it fresh at work.

You know where this is going. I decided to pack a razor-sharp kitchen knife in my lunchbox. Which was nylon fabric, by wrapping it in paper towels as “protection”.

Nothing penetrates paper towels! Nothing!

Everything was peachy keen as I brought Stuart down to the car in our parking lot. I pushed his hyper, wriggly body over into the passenger seat and set the lunchbox down on the driver’s seat so I could do so. Momentarily forgetting about the existence of the knife (if I only remembered one thing that morning, it should have been the knife), I leaned over the lunchbox to get the dog settled.

And that’s when it happened.

It felt like a schoolyard bully pinching me as hard as they could. I couldn’t figure out what it was – at first. Did I just kneel on the seatbelt buckle? Was there something on the sea-

Oh.

Yes, there was something on the seat.

Remember my tomato sandwich?

For a few seconds, I didn’t do anything. I thought, “maybe I can just stay here in this position, and never find out what I’ve just done. Maybe if I don’t move, I can rewind time. I’ll just turn to stone, here in the parking lot.”

It’s not that I’m super squeamish about blood, it’s the injury that comes with it. I don’t like gaping wounds, or legs that bend unnaturally, or puke. Wait until I become a mother, won’t that be fun?

I closed my eyes and gently sat up. As I did so, the knife that had gone through layers of paper towels as well as my nylon lunchbox, slid out of my leg.

Now, before I tell you what happened next, let me preface by coming to my own defense. I couldn’t feel any pain, and Hollywood has taught me that if you can’t feel pain when you sustain an injury, you’re basically dead. So, there I was standing in the parking lot, basically dead. I watched in horror as my jeans went from a dark blue to red, blood pooling around me. I was in shock for the first couple of minutes because, you know, I was BLEEDING, so I pressed my hand against the wound.

Meanwhile, the dog panted in the passenger seat, completely oblivious of my imminent demise. He smiled at me. I wished for Lassie, or Old Yeller, or the dog from the Cesar Savory Delights commercial.

Nooo, instead I had Stuart the Wonder Dog, as in, it’s a wonder he can be so clueless.

I saw an older man walking on the other side of the parking lot, and I called to him – once, twice, three times you’re out. I know what you’re thinking – maybe he just didn’t hear you? Well, this was a small parking lot and my yells scared away the birds; he wasn’t THAT old.

It was impossible to tell, as I couldn’t feel any pain (remember, I was on my deathbed) how deep the knife had gone, or where exactly the injury was. I saw a hole in my jeans and plenty of blood, and that’s about it. In my confusion, I even used my jacket to tie a tourniquet just in case it was worse than I thought.

Of course, a tourniquet would have been better if I tied it ABOVE the wound and not BELOW it, but hey, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.

I called my husband to let him know I had been stabbed, and to please come get me.

I know, I know. That came out wrong. Again, hindsight.

A few minutes passed and my neighbor came into view, heading toward her car, which was conveniently parked next to mine.  With a polite, “Excuse me?” She looked up and I watched as her eyes widened to saucers. I asked if she could put Stuart back in the apartment, as I was a little…preoccupied.

Sometimes you meet people under the strangest of circumstances. We became friends. We bring her the family chocolates that we make at Christmas time, and she allows me to pet her temperamental bird. I learned that the strange screaming noise we randomly here when watching t.v. is not, in fact, a dying puppy, but a very vocal Aves. The more you know.  

My husband and my mother-in-law arrived a few minutes after my neighbor had helped Stuart into the house, and we got a good look at the knife wound. It was minor. It was embarrassingly so. I guess I wasn’t dying after all.

While my husband drove Stuart home, my mother-in-law took me to InstaCare. I walked in, in a pair of very oversized shorts (my husband’s), limping up to the front desk.

“Hello, I’m here for InstaCare.”

The lady in glasses reluctantly pried herself from her phone screen and looked up.  “Please fill out the tablet. What are you seeing us for?”

“Oh, right. I stabbed myself.”

There were several other people waiting for InstaCare, but for some reason, I was the next person called.

Remember how I told you I made doctors’ days more exciting? This was no exception. He didn’t try to hide the look of glee as he came into the room to do my stitches. “This breaks up the day, between all the coughs and upset stomachs.” I’m sure it did.

I was glad to be of service.

Maybe next time I can up the ante and come in with an axe in the back of my head?

 *Update: I went axe throwing. I did not get an axe in the back of my head. Poor doctor.

*Image Credit to Respective Owner.

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Dear John

 

 

Dear John,

I am not a stalker, we’ve never met before, and I certainly don’t know what color of socks you’re wearing (although if you have tennis shoes on, I sincerely hope you ARE wearing socks). However, over the course of the last two years, I feel like I’ve come to know you...on a personal level.

Intimately. One could say we’re even best friends.

For example, today the Dominos pizza guy called to tell you that he was ten minutes away from the Air Force base, and to please send someone to let him into the facility.

You are a lover of pizza.

A few realtors have texted, reminding you about open houses and asking for you to contact them for pricing. This has happened for years – you must like to dabble in the great housing adventure. In other words, you live on the wild side.

One of your friends wanted to make sure you were still “down” for game night at his house, because he had the Xbox ready to go.

Another friend sent a verbose inquiry as to your state of mind and physical wellbeing with a “What’s up?” text message. When I informed him I was not John, he tried to initiate the animal mating ritual of flirting, and was disappointed when he discovered someone had already put a ring on it.

Your grandmother would still like you to visit, as she has a permanent place set for you for dinners on Friday. You should really let her know where you live, John. THIS IS YOUR GRANDMOTHER, JOHN.

The salon would like you to confirm your haircut appointment, which I assume you never did. I wonder if you walked around with shaggy hair for the next week because you forgot. It was a cheap place, so you must be a “no mess, no fuss” kind of a guy.

Various – and I do mean various – political campaigns have been trying to reach you to secure their next donation for the cause. I’m actually unclear if this one was you, or if some random mischief maker gave my details out to multiple political parties for the fun of it. Feel free to make the donation directly through me this year instead. I’ll make Sure it gets to someone who really needs it.

You’re a young, politically minded, pizza loving, video gaming, real estate dabbling, forgetful employee of the Air Force who might be a bit of a cheapskate. Yes, you may use this as your blurb for Match.com. All those are nice and well, John, but what my friend really wanted to know when I mentioned you was whether you were single. If you wouldn’t mind getting back to us on that, we would appreciate it.

I think it’s fair to say that given enough time, you can really get to know a person by the type of phone calls and text messages they get. I appreciate that your acquaintances are much less vexing than the person who used to have my last phone number. I was getting awfully tired of the Collections department of various agencies ringing me around the clock. Gina must have been a real shady character.

Nevertheless, I suggest that next time -unless you want a total stranger knowing the inner workings of your life – please remember to update your phone number. Otherwise, I might have to tell the next Dominos employee who calls me that I accidentally messed up the address and I’ll have a nice, cheesy lunch on you.

 *Image credit to their respective owner.

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Response: Gaines Family and USA Today

An Orem, Utah resident named Darryl (I'm excluding his last name for privacy)was featured in a USA Today opinion piece, where he criticized the HGTV “Fixer Upper” stars, Joanna and Chip Gaines. In his comments, he stated that he thought they were not spending enough time with their children and focusing too much on their work.  Later, Chip responded to this article, emphasizing how important his family is to him, and if his job were in any way negatively influencing that, they would quit immediately.

This struck a chord with me for a few reasons. One, I felt it reflected badly on other Utahns (such as myself) and made it seem that, as a very family oriented state, we are quick to judge others in how they raise their own families. Two, I enjoy the Fixer Upper show for the very reason that Chip and Joanna Gaines are, by all appearances, a good and stable family who have their priorities straight. Thirdly, that people in our society feel that they have the right to criticize parents if they parent differently than themselves, and that it’s acceptable to publicly reprimand them. Finally, the idea that someone cannot be successful in their profession unless they are somehow neglecting their children is highly archaic.  See also: Backwards.

 Let’s not forget that these are real people behind their tv personalities, and making a judgment on someone’s parenting without personally knowing them is one of the harshest statements you can make. A good parent can be profoundly hurt by anyone insinuating that they’re a bad parent in some way. It’s further insulting when, as Darryl suggested, he somehow knows the inner workings of the Gaines family – from watching them on television. I would hope that most people can understand that “reality television” is anything but, and what may appear on screen as two people doing all the backbreaking labor to renovate a home is probably due in great part to a huge team behind them. In other words – it’s highly probable that the Gaines have more time to devote to their children than their tv show makes it appear.

 Beyond the television show, Darryl states that they must be too busy to spend time with their children because they run a ranch, have a real estate business, a restaurant, etc. Again, most “celebrities” have their name used as a marketing point, but are not personally running these ventures themselves. And, as I can attest, having a blog does not take up a great deal of time. Appearances and reality are usually two distinctly different things. He states that the Gaines are doing a disservice to all other families by making it seem like you can have such success and still have time for your family. I don’t believe this is a disservice at all. I think adults are intelligent enough and logical enough to understand what their own personal limitations are, and discern fact from fiction. If not, that’s really a personal problem, isn’t it?

I can’t go into every point that Darryl brings up in his opinion piece, because I don’t want my blog response to be as lengthy as the article. However, to view the entire opinion piece, please follow this link: https://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2018/04/27/chip-gaines-joanna-gaines-fixer-upper-family-first-column/554044002/

Why am I defending the Gaines family? Because I think everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt, because I have enjoyed watching their show, and because I think it’s not only judgmental but rather callous to make such a serious accusation. As Darryl said that he was a parent himself, I am further flummoxed as to why he would try to degrade another family. I don’t know if he believes himself the crusader of family values or if it’s for a different reason. I’m going to try not to presume. I simply do not know why he feels this way, but I can say, I think the only disservice here is the one Darryl provided to the Gaines family.

Someone’s level of fame should not make it socially acceptable to publicly blast their parenting skills without adequate justification.  There is an important difference between “I personally know the Gaines family and have seen their neglect of their children” and “I have watched the Gaines family on tv and think they must be bad parents.”

First cast out the beam out of thine own eye.

 

 

*Photo Credit to respective owner.

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Immigrants did WHAT?!

As the newest round of insults are being flung between the two major political parties in this country - not unlike monkeys flinging their sh – I mean “poop” at one another, I find myself wanting to stop talking to people altogether. It amazes me when people don’t know that they’re covered in poop themselves, before throwing a handful at somebody else.

But poop aside, I can’t resist commenting on a certain topic that was touched upon by the (currently) most famous politician in our country. The reason why is because of how morally reprehensible it was, but more than that, it wasn’t factual in the least. I can’t in good conscience not acknowledge the cruel and inaccurate message that the leader of our country tried to instill into the hearts of immigrants who came to our country for a better life. Most of them don’t have expectations of grandeur, they simply want to live in a place that has access to clean water, healthcare, and where they don’t have to constantly worry about a violent end to their lives and the lives of their children.

Immigrants are not a blight on this country – in fact, they are quite the opposite. And you don’t even have to take my word for it! After all, who am I? I’m not a scholar, I don’t have a position of power. I’m your friend from across the hall, your cousin that you see every few years, that one coworker addicted to caffeine. I’m an average American with average opinions. So, if you’re looking for facts to support my claim, there are numerous academic articles from college professors, politicians, business owners, research market analysists, and more on the topic. I think that’s the primary problem with our opinions today – a lot of our opinions are just that: they have no facts to back it up with. Your brother’s best friend’s cousin works for ICE and they say immigrants are bad, and they obviously know what they’re talking about.

Just the other day I was reading a book called “The Millionaire Next door”, by Thomas J. Stanley. It was published in the 1990’s, which means that there are more updated resource materials you could look at. However, the reason I bring this particular book up is because it is so well supported by research. Stanley and a group of other well-educated analysists were hired by a corporation to interview millionaires in the United States. They wanted to know what millionaires were actually like, outside of how the media portrays them. They interviewed a wide selection of millionaires and found out some surprising information. For example, did you know that the majority of millionaires are first generation? Most of them come from a background of poverty, and they built themselves up from nothing. They also never spend money on flashy cars, a huge house, a fancy suit. Very, very few millionaires today received their money from inheritance, because most inheritance millionaires are from decades past. Most of those prestigious families already spent all the money they had, because they never had to understand the value of a dollar.

Why am I talking about this? Because another interesting fact is that a high ratio of millionaires in America (at least in the 90’s), are immigrants. That’s right – those “lazy” immigrants the president is referring to started with no money in their pockets and built a future for their children, and their children’s children. And do you know how they did it? Through hard, honest work. By getting up at five am and coming home at seven pm every day. They are entrepreneurs, owning gas stations and sheet metal scrap businesses. When it comes down to the number of people in this country whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower, there’s a lot. But when you calculate how many hundreds of thousands of non-immigrants there are by the percent of those non-immigrants who are millionaires, guess what? The immigrants have it. They are hard-working, they are industrious, they are our future.

So, if you want to prevent immigrants from coming to our country, just remember that a lot of the businesses that are the backbone of our society are a result of their hard work, not yours. Immigration is not a “pick and choose” program. Let’s just see how this plan works out for us, huh?

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