Sleeping Duty II – I’m Talking about Sammy and Underwear

Been reading over the paperwork for the sleep study in more detail. Apparently it is run by a bunch of puritans because participants are not allowed to sleep naked. What-evs. They prefer pajamas or a t-shirt and shorts. I own only one pair of jammies, a red and green tartan pair that I wear on Xmas Eve only. My usual bedtime attire is an oversized Steelers t-shirt with just knickers on underneath, no bra. I wonder if I can get away with just that, or if I should dig out a pair of shorts to wear. But what about a bra? I hate wearing bras at night. If I wear one it could interfere with my sleep and throw off the results. Maybe I will try sleeping in shorts and a bra the next couple nights, to get used to it.

Also, in my excitement at doing something so cool like a sleep study, I forgot about Sammy. In our four-and-a-half years together, I have never left him alone overnight. Longest we have ever been apart was 14 hours once, when I had to do some overtime; he was not a happy camper when I got home that night, so I am not sure how he is going to react to an all-nighter. I’ll leave him plenty of food and water and the lights on and the TV switched on to Animal Planet and I’ll just hope that I do not come home to a chewed-up, pooped-on disaster zone. Or get attacked as soon as I walk through the door.

Then, there is also this: apparently, I talk in my sleep too. This could prove to be even more embarrassing than my choice of night wear. Like, what if the tech doing the monitoring is really cute and I tell him or her that in my sleep? Or what if they are a Denver Broncos fan (I am sure some exist) and I trash talk their team? Shown to the bone.

Sleeping Duty

My snoring is legendary. Anyone who has been in the same room as me when I am asleep will tell you. Actually, it is so bad you do not even need to be in the same room - just ask the guy in the room next to mine in a Best Western in Buffalo whose pounding on the adjoining wall would have woken up my co-worker had she been able to sleep anyway. I was keeping them both awake, but I slept through it all, his pounding and her tossing and turning. We were on a business trip but it was so bad she got her own room the next night at her own expense. Not sure what happened to our neighbor. Went out and bought himself earplugs if he had any sense.

Anyway, I was talking to someone the other day who said that after he did a sleep study and got set up with the mask thingy you wear if you are diagnosed with sleep apnea, he lost 50 pounds. Fifty pounds! So guess what I am doing on Wednesday?  Yep, a sleep study!!!

How cool is that? Like you see on TV, with wires and electrodes stuck to you and things plugged into machines and all sorts of stuff like that. Actually, I have no idea what is involved. The paperwork says participants can get up to use the bathroom (thank the Universe! I have a tiny bladder and get up at least once a night (of course that probably has more to do with the amount of liquids (liquor?) I consume at night, rather than bladder size)). So yeah, if you can get up to use the bathroom, I wouldn’t think you’d be attached to much because that would be a major deal, having to unplug and unstick everything just for a bathroom run.

 
Anyway, what is also cool about the entire thing is that my appointment is for the night before Thanksgiving! I’d decided that perhaps a brunch might be the way to go, no invitations (pity or otherwise) having materialized. But I am such a homebody that once I am in, I usually stay in. But this way, after the study is done on the morning of T-Day, I am out anyway, might as well stay out and go grab breakfast somewhere.

Ah, Holidays

I really don’t have to tell regular readers of my little blog how much I hate holidays, right? My holiday blues came on really strong this weekend. I blame the Food Network and all their Thanksgiving-themed shows (mmm, gravy). But the blues were so strong that, for a moment, I actually considered accepting any invitations that might come my way. Then my hatred of driving anywhere kicked in and I realized that is not going to happen. Unless the get-together was taking place in my apartment building. Or the hotel on the left. Or the casino on the right. I am my own worst enemy. If only I could get over this hatred of driving. Because I am sure that if I dropped enough hints (who am I kidding? I don’t drop hints, I ask outright) I am sure I could wrangle a few pity invites. But no, I shall stay home, play Blackjack on my iPad, let Sammy chew my wrists, and eat potato chips and Hot Pockets, washed down with some Red Stripe. Ah, good times.

Today I Am An American

Getting my citizenship was one thing (can you believe that was a year ago?), and voting for the first time will be another (yeah, sorry, didn’t vote last week because no one outside the library stopped me and asked if I was registered so I completely forgot), but to me, I firmly cemented my Americanhood last week when I went to a drive-in movie theater!!! I was obsessed with all things American growing up, with drive-ins being way up there (and the Harlem Globetrotters, for some reason). Perhaps because we do not have drive-in movie theaters in England. (Or basketball teams.) Well, there might be some there now (I should look that up) but when I lived there, there weren’t. All I knew about drive-ins I learned from Grease. Not sure if there were any in Pittsburgh when I lived there; I know there was one in Denver but I just never got around to going. So when I first moved to Vegas and discovered there was one here, I was determined to go. Six years later, I finally made it. Went with L. and we stayed for about 30 minutes because it wasn’t about the movie, it was about the experience. It was magical. It was all that I’d imagined it would be. It was so… American. Even after all this time in this country some uniquely American things still have the ability to surprise and delight me. I’ll go back if I ever have the opportunity (I’d really like the full-on experience  - you know, making out) but if I do not, I’ve gone at least once and that is enough for me.  And that is another one of my American-obsessed childhood dreams realized. Oh! I just remembered - I saw the Harlem Globetrotters in Denver once. So now all I have to do is marry The Six Million Dollar Man and my American dreams will be complete!

Fat or Pregnant? A Mathematical and Moral Dilemma

Last week, someone asked me how many weeks pregnant I was. It is not an outrageous question, given my size and the fact that at the time I was in an OBGYN office (annual lady-parts exam). And it has happened before so I wasn’t all that fazed by it (first time it happened? That memory is seared into my mind it was so disturbing). For one brief second I considered just throwing a number out there because well, I could easily get away with being pregnant (size and location, see above) but I suck at doing math in my head. I mean, yes, I know a pregnancy lasts nine months and I know there are four weeks in a month but I just could not calculate fast enough what a believable number would be. Fifteen weeks? Thirty weeks? Fifty weeks? What is nine times four? Another reason I contemplated lying was because I have noticed how embarrassed the asker gets when they realize they’ve made such a mortifying assumption. But my crappy math skills let me down and I had to answer that no, I am not pregnant, just fat. And then I patted my stomach - WTF?!!