When is sleep, not sleep?
When it’s a woman doing it.
Meredith of Mom of the Year blog recently lamented the Logic of Midnight plight. It plagues mothers from Montgomery to Minneapolis, in the middle of the night. Women have a tough time just falling asleep.
Her post explained so much to me.
A woman looks like she’s sleeping. Then she’ll fire a question about locked doors or kitty liter. The lights are out, but you, lady, you’re open for business.
(I realize that with we fellas, sometimes the lights are on, and we’re out to lunch.)
For a guy, half a page in a novel is like a thousand Ambiens. (Yet, we’ll stay up to see the 3 a.m. SportsCenter highlights. Marvels of nature, we are).
Meredith’s post inspired me. I want to give women from Mesquite, Texas to Miami, Ohio (and even Florida) a rare, and beautiful, glimpse into the male mind.
At least, just before REM sleep takes hold.
I am willing to unzip my head and reveal what goes on as you stress next to us over PTA and armed robberies and spring fashion.
There’s 17 seconds between our last get-in-bed grunt and our first box-spring-shaking snore. And in that span, man covers the universe. And back.
# # #
Midnight snack: Eggs, or quesadilla?
It’s too late, and Dr. Oz says eating after 7 p.m. will wreck your colon. Or did he say eating eggs would wreck your colon? Let’s not think about colons at all.
What does Kirsten Kukowski wear to bed?
Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my open ears, inciting and inviting me. What’s more revolutionary, the run option offense or Copernicus’ heliocentric model?
I want my girls to take three songs from me. They’re Daughters, by John Mayer; The Middle, by Jimmy Eat World; and Mr. Blue Sky, by Electric Light Orchestra.
Which is stronger: Thor’s hammer or Captain America’s shield?
The final stanzas of Mr. Blue Sky are much like the elements in the final movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony. It takes shape, it dissolves, it comes together to end and reassemble and stir our hearts like few musical pieces can.
Does Kesha eat quesadillas? I bet Cher Lloyd would have a rum & coke with me. I’m pretty sure Ingrid Michaelson would have both with me. In bed.
Watching Wacked Out Sports.
Provolone, or Havarti?
In the 4-2-3-1, a field-changing pass is impossible if everyone stays home. And prevents the unmarked attacker. My defensive mids will have to also turn the counterattack and support it into the scoring third of the field.
Laura Linney. Glass pack mufflers on a 1979 GTO. Home Depot, or Lowe’s?
Why did that girl in Trader Joe’s cover her name tag when I asked about raw vinegar? El Nino will prevent water temperature in the Atlantic from reaching 80 degrees. It will hinder high wind shear, so how can a category 3 or stronger storm even form during El Nino?
So how did Hurricane Andrew get so strong in 1992?
What if Johnny Manziel played soccer? What if my kids picked spelling bees over soccer? Good gracious, Stella Stevens. You were born too early.
Guacamole should NOT have salsa in it. Burritos shouldn’t have rice, and … you know, none of the girls ever had an imaginary friend.
Blackmon, Cuddyer, Tulowitzki, Gonzalez, Morneau, Arenado … man, what a lineup. Uncle Gilbert, Shane Becker … thank you for your service. And the ultimate sacrifice.
Salmon, or steak? Who haunts Stonewall Jackson School? I want to go. No I don’t. I would. What’s the worst that could happen? If I heard a ghost?
What could be scarier? Pushing a cart in Garden Ridge on an NFL Sunday? Eating quinoa at a public barbecue? Having to hear that new John Legend song over, and over, and over?
OK, Eli. Not the best thoughts when you’re supposed to be asleep.
*choral finale begins*
Salmon, with dill.
Kirsten K. in an Rockies sleep shirt.
A celebration, Mr. Blue Sky’s up there waiting and today, is the day we’ve been waiting for.
Oh yeah … definitely heliocentric model.
Staying power and all.
Lights … out. Six hours to breakfast.
I got this.