Key to the Wallet

Confucious say: Man who loses key to girlfriend's apartment get no new key.

 

Rodney Dangerfield say: I was so ugly my father carried around a picture of the kid that came with the wallet.
 

According to Wikipedia, which is almost as accurate as a dollar store dart gun, wooden keys were in use in Egypt some 4000 years ago. The article didn't fully explan how earlier Egyptians got into their cars, although I suspect they gained entry through the use of an early form of the Egyptian Automobile Association.
 

The word “key” comes from Old English (AD 450 to 1150, although I do know some old Englishmen who were born somewhat later.) It was spelled “caeg” and was impossible to pronounce without coughing up a furball.
 

Wallets, on the other hand, are much, much older. Using a form of research popularized by the tobacco industry, known as “imaginative fictionalization”, it has been postulated that wallets were originally invented by noted Neanderthal scientist and philosopher, Oot Groont, in the year, 500,000 BC (Before Cupcake). The brilliant cave enthusiast had devised a sack out of a piece of mastadon skin to carry the fire making tools and arrowheads he had just manufactured in his new quarry. It also carried change for the parking meter.
 

The word, “wallet”, is also much older than the “key” word. According to sources (that rhyme with “icky-pedia”) the word was coined in the first century, AD. They know this because they asked my brother Bob who was there at the time.
 

Like the fine folks back then, modern man (and ladies) love our keys and wallets. They come with us everywhere. They are like expensive jewellrey we refuse to leave at home because we can't. We NEED our keys and wallets with us at every moment. They are more precious than our children... almost.... although WAY less fun to replace. And expensive, too!
 

Consider, if you will, the loss of a wallet. I misplaced mine recently and immediately began to mentally enumerate all the pieces of paper and plastic I hold so near and dear. It wasn't just the credit cards and debit cards and health cards and auto cards and grocery store member cards and government cards and “air mile” cards, and a submarine shop card that only needed three more visits to get a free sandwich but a myriad collection of little bits of life. They sit largely unused, unnoticed but still treasured. It is the scrap of paper with the phone number of that old buddy I ran into at the mall a few months ago. It is a business card from a dart shop where the scrawled name upon it had promised to give me a great deal on a set of tungsten hammerheads. It is all those flakes of day to day that accumulate and we are so loathe to throw them out, let alone lose them.
 

And yes, I was choked about the cash inside the wallet, too. I had a lot of money on me. I feared that it was twenty bucks I'll never see again, although I rationalized it would have been well worth it to get the rest of the wallet back intact. To replace all those little bits of plastic and paper would have been a pain since you need ID to get ID. Where does one start nowadays? Before, you just went to a registation office and told them how you'd lost your drivers license and they'd just give you a new one. Not so now. They are so afraid of identity theft, you have to prove upside and sideways who you are and need a notarized affadavit from Ed Stelmach himself just to get a replacement.
 

Losing a set of keys wasn't so bad at one time, either. You simply swiped your wife's spare set and went to the local hardware store to get a replacement. If it cost more than a buck and a half, you felt ripped off. Nowadays, however, with computer chips imbedded in the plastic grip of the key to our precious vehicles, to replace a lost key is more than the price of a muffler. You can get a brand new windshield cheaper than an ignition key. In fact, it is worth more than my bi-weekly car payment!
 

Of course not all keys are as important to us as our car keys. There is the collection of keys we have that hang on the key ring holder in the porch. It holds about three dozen keys of various descriptions that we have managed to accumulate over the years and have no idea what they open. We are afraid to throw them out, however, because sure as Christmas ads follow Halloween, we would need one of those keys the day after we tossed them.
 

As far as my errant wallet goes, I was lucky.  This time.
 

I had inadvertantly put the wallet on my son's headboard when I was hanging up my pants after work. Since he's gone to live in the dorm, Cupcake has been slowly moving all my clothes into his closet. All the while it was misplaced, however, I developed a new admiration for my old wallet.
 

 could say although I'd lost my wallet, I'd gained a new perspective. Frankly, I'd rather just have the wallet, thanks!

OH NO H1N1!

There is much concern recently regarding the  “swine flu” or “H1N1” virus and in the public debate, there are more discordant voices than a junior high chorus in the throes of puberty. The many questions I have about the ailment are echoed by the vast majority of people I have discussed this with. Okay, so I only discussed it with Cupcake, but the vast majority of her agreed and I've found if we both actually agree on something, it's got to be true.

The questions we have are basic. How great is my own, personal risk? How can I tell if it's swine flu or regular flu? Do I need  a doctor's appointment, every time I get the flu just to find out what brand it is? And most importantly, is it still okay to eat Bac'n Puffs?

So called “expert opinion”  regarding the relative danger of H1N1 over competing flu flavours is as polarized as an arctic bear. Some say that,  although some people do die of swine flue far more people die of “regular” flu. Now that's a comfort! Others claim it's the second coming of everything from Spanish Flu to the Messiah Himself and that we're all doomed if we don't wash our hands every two minutes and cough and sneeze and otherwise issue phlegm into our armpits.

I must interject here that I am not an early adopter of the whole coughing/sneezing into your upper body thing. The reason we cough into our hands is in case SOMETHING IS THERE!  Coughs can harbor anything, from a glazed coating to a deep lunger, waiting to leap out and decorate the bicep area of your best wool sweater. Let me tell you, fellow traveller, I would much rather have mystery moisture in my palm than on my shoulder. This way, you can continue your conversation while discretely sliding your hand in your pocket since the disgusting dampness looks better there than on the outside of your pants. Do  not, under any circumstances, look at the contents of your hand at any time while it is occupied with the aforementioned bodily semi-fluid. We want discretion with our secretions. I am glad I got that off my chest.

You see, they're taking this prevention thing far too far, They don't allow hand shakes after soccer but kids touch every straw in the carton when getting a fountain drink at the store. They don't take socks back at clothing stores if worn but if you go bowling, they make you wear shoes previously sweated in by dozens, if not hundreds, maybe thousands of feet with nothing but an anti-bacterial spritz in between. Ewwww!

Reality is, germs are everywhere you want to be. Sure, you can disinfect your hands with one of those sanitizer wipes at the grocery store but once discarded, you're touching products, money, keypads conveyor belt, grocery separators, etc,  and eventually, touching your eyes, or mouth or nose. Next thing you know, there's a single microbe in your system that duplicates and copies itself almost as much as Hollywood's “creative” machinery. The little virus and/or bacteria dudes  grow in size, strength and numbers until your immunity system recognizes the threat and starts to wage war on the interlopers. There is no effort at diplomacy. There is no political squabbling over the necessity for the conflict. The white blood cells (so named for the colour of their cowboy hats) simply drop the gloves and go toe-to-toe in hand-to-hand combat with their microscopic adversaries. Make that flagella-to-flagella combat.

The bottom line is you can be a germ Nazi like Michael Jackson or those two creepers from the Listerine commercials but there are no guarantees. Poor Michael is now as dead as the careers of the Listerine schmucks.
So what can we do to keep ourselves safe?
Here are some tips. Follow them at your own peril.
DO stay home from work if you're sick. Sure, you'll get fired since the boss drags his sorry butt in no matter how awful he feels but at least you can feel superior as you stand in the lineup at EI.
DO line your pockets with plastic bags filled with hand sanitizer. Keep your hands in your pockets at all times and get others to open doors for you, etc. If you have other pockets, keep them full of tissues for wiping off your shoulder.
DO avoid all other people and anything others may have touched. For best results stay hidden under your bed as much as possible.
DO NOT listen to the public health messages relating to H1N1 and other wellness matters as they just stress you out and stressed bodies are an easier target for disease to invade.
DO NOT follow the “five second rule” for food that has hit the ground. This is especially true for food that has any moisture to it at all. The only foods that are truly safe to eat after dropping are nuts in the shell and bourbon balls which have a higher alcohol content than Roughneck beer and can kill H1N1 at ten paces.
DO NOT assume your husband has the swine flu just because he's a male chauvinist pig. MCP is far more prevalent than H1N1, Just ask Cupcake.  Just don't start with “Hey, Wench!” or swine flu will be the least of your healthcare worries.

Bonjour la Bonjour

I love live theatre. There's an edge to it you just don't get with TV. I've been onstage when the wheels came off a production; the cast all wearing their best “deer in the headlights” look, desperately hoping a castmate will save the day. It gets the ticker beating faster than cops in the rearviews. When it's live, anything can happen.

However, when my son invited me to a Red Deer College production, I was hesitant. Red Deer is a ways away and it was snowing intermittently. Plus, Matt was rather evasive about the play. “It's by a Canadian playwright, Dad,” he reassured me. “Mike Something or Other. You like Canada, don't you? Patriotism etcetra.” Matt was motivated to include me because his buddy, Dan was in the play. Matt knew if I went, we'd take my car, use my gas and eat on my debit card. Being a student he's so broke, he's been hitting up  homeless guys for spare change. He finds it much easier being an arts supporter if I supply the bridge financing.

“Maybe Mom will do my laundry while we're gone,” Matt remarked as we discussed the play.

“Don't be ridiculous!” I chastised him. “Mom has better things to do than your laundry. I've been needing some mending for weeks but she's too busy. What nerve!”“That's okay,” chimed in Cupcake sweetly. “I will do his washing. I don't mind!”

I looked at her like she'd grown another head.
“But I thought you said...” I began.
“No no! It's okay! Really!!” Cupcake hastily interjected.

Her voice then fell to a coarse whisper, “If doing laundry encourages him to come home....” I sighed inwardly. I'd forgotten the goal was to get him to visit. I'd thought we were helping him become more independant. Apparently I was wrong. Again.

“Whatever,” I shook my head in resignation, “Is this play a comedy? I love comedies! Nothing like a silly farce to hit the old funny bone, eh? Beats that 'artsy fartsy' stuff all to pieces.” “Actually, Dad, I'm really not sure,” he gulped. “It's probably hysterically funny! You know us college types... always drunk... never serious.  Ha ha! See? Come on, it will be fun.” “Okay, fine,” I caved. I knew no matter what, he would go anyway and couldn't really afford it. At least I could ensure he got a decent meal in him. His cheeks had started looking a bit sunken. After he hoovered up an appetizer platter for two and Cesear salad like it was an vacuum cleaner demonstration, we were off.

When we arrived just minutes before showtime and still managed to get front row seats to the “theatre in the round”, mental alarms began clanging loudly. Also, the set didn't look at all like a living room or anything normal. It was a series of wooden platforms piled up to look haphazard with just a single, ancient recliner in the middle. Under and around the piles of wood were shards of glass symbolizing something terribly important but I had no idea what.

“Bonjour, La, Bonjour” was the name of the play, I noticed, as I peeked at the program. The playwright was a Quebec Nationalist named Micheal Trembley, a man who, according to the bio, declined an Order of Canada.

“Oh no. It's going to be artsy fartsy!” I cringed. “So much for patriotism!”

“Shush, Dad,” my precocious offspring snapped. “It's starting.”

The actors filed down to the piled up lumber and stood on the flat portions of the platforms. Dan, playing the lead character, “Serge”, stood beside Matt to start the show. The other characters; four sisters, two aunts and a deaf father who reigned over the piled platforms from his recliner, would speak to him as the lights would engulf them.

In varying degrees of French-tinged English, the characters addressed only Serge. Each dialogue with him was charged with more raw feelings than a catfight on “The View”. Each character was like an   emotional sponge drawing their lifeblood from him. Eventually,  it became apparent he'd had an incestuous relationship with each of his older sisters (!) and they were all screwed up as a result. Or they were already screwed up and thus had the incestuous affairs. Beats me.

One sister craved food and was fixated on how fat she was getting, one was addicted to some kind of pills, while the eldest by quite a few years, was having a fling with one of Serge's buddies. Nicole, another sister, seemed the most normal, although in that family, it'd take little to win that title.

Afterward, in the hallway with Dan's parents, I had to laugh. Dan's younger sister ran over to give her brother a hug for his stellar performance. Her mother grabbed her.

“There will be none of that in THIS household!” she joked. Everyone in earshot busted out laughing.

I will say that despite the weird plot, the acting was wonderful. I actually enjoyed myself. Now if I could just figure out what it all was supposed to mean...

Radical Femininity

What is the difference between a  sumo wrestler and a radical feminist.? Sumo wrestlers shave their legs.

I got in trouble for my last column. The editor told me to expect some negative mail regarding a thoughtless and insensitive comment I`d put in the piece. I struggled to remember what the article had even been about. I hadn`t read it in a week and in my mushy memory, last week`s effort usually slips away faster than dreams of Catherine Zeta-Jones upon waking. I certainly didn`t recall writing anything that was liable to draw a crowd bearing pitchforks and torches. That`s Brian`s gig.

"You used the phrase, `the little woman` when referring to Cupcake," he said, striking what I heard as an accusatory chord. "The radical feminist lobby will be all over you. This will be worse than the time you referred to her as "the wife"."

I sighed. It is so hard. Writing about women in general and my wife specifically, It is practically impossible not to offend certain segments of society if they are whiny and perpetually offended by trivialities. To say "the wife" is seen as objectifying females and mentally filing them alongside other possessions as "the house", "the car", "the ride 'em lawn mower", and what have you.

Okay, so what is the alternative to "the wife"? What is the difference between "the wife" and saying "my wife"? Doesn`t the word "my" signify a possession as in "my house", "my car", "my little pony" etc., just as much as the "the" word?

"Don`t be purposefully obtuse," Cupcake snorted when I broached the subject with her.  Actually, she used a euphemism for "unintelligent donkey" but this is a family paper. "Most women are not hung up on such niggling little matters. I kind of like being called `the little woman`. It sure beats some of the more accurate alternatives. But what we females dislike is to be treated like and referred to as some kind of chattal."

I turned away and rolled my eyes. (If she catches me eyerolling, I get a lecture about taking her feelings seriously or some such.).

"It`s pronounced `cattle`", I sneered. "The point is that women do that "poor me" thing but essentially run the show. There may be men at the heads of the ships of state but it`s their wives that hold the rudder. Women are now the ruling class."

She fixed me with a squinty stare. "And don`t you forget it!" she spat as she stomped off. So much for trying to open lines of communication and all that blah, blah, blah she goes on about. "Exchanging meaningful dialogue indeed".

Literarily speaking, women have it easy. They have tons of ways of referring to men, such as "guys", "fellas",  "dudes", "boys", "the hubby" and in some circles, "johns". For the most part, these synonyms are pretty innocuous and  non-judgemental. What do we have for women? "Dames", "broads", "chicks", and the oft-employed word for a female dog word. Very negative. Some don`t even like being called "girls". Others bridle at the term "lady", believe it or not.  And my gosh, if you call the wrong woman "ma'am or madam", you may just as well as called them an ugly old bag or the head of a house of ill repute.

You never know when a term will offend the easily offended. "I`m not a lady, I am a woman," sniffed one woman haughtily to me when the subject came up. I immediately slotted her in that female dog category.

The social mores against criticism of women is a concern. Like racial minorities, they have an equal right to be portrayed as silly or stupid but such is not the case. Caucasian men have become the last people allowable to make fun of on TV, Little Mosque on the Prairie, notwithstanding. Everyone else is part some kind of minority that allows them a free pass from being a joke butt. The last black guy that European-North Americans were allowed to laugh at was George Jefferson, oh and Shaun Majumnder, but only because he`s from Newfoundland

Women, of course, are a whole different kettle of fish. They are actually a majority but it isn`t politically correct to make jokes about women because.... because... well, I`m not really sure why, frankly. The last vestiges of sexism are pretty much outweighed by the reverse-discrimination that is rampant. There are, for example, many exercise places that do not allow men; Lady Fitness, Curves, Sweatin`to the Oldies... Oh wait, that last one was a Richard Simmons video series. My mistake. Still, the point is that there are no men-only exercise places because the minute they try, they have more placard waving, foaming-at-the-mouth radical feminists demanding to be allowed inside than legitimate workout customers. The fact that they appear to have spent far more time inside a Wendy`s, rather than the inside of a Lady Fitness is, apparently, irrelevant.

I responded to Brian`s concerns quickly."Don`t worry, Boss," I reassured him. "I haven`t had a hate letter since my last Rita MacNiel fat joke."

Rules I Live By

I've been married a long, long time. Cupcake and I were just kids when we tied the noose. I mean knot. I was 21 and Cupcake was... somewhat older than me. I can`t tell you by how much as that information is only available under threat of death. In either case, it truly was a loooong while back. Our marriage, I mean, not Cupcake's birth date.

The year we wed was 1982; a past so distant, on TV were M*A*S*H episodes that weren't re-runs. We also enjoyed such fare as “The A Team”, “The Love Boat” and “T.J. Hooker”. Okay so maybe “enjoyed” is too strong a word for “The Love Boat”. This was the year NBC premiered their new show, “Late Night With David Letterman” which thrived on having Reagan as their presidential target.

Making records at the time were Jennifer Warnes teamed with freakishly spastic singer Joe Cocker singing “Up Where We Belong” and The Oral Thermometer's mega-hit, “Up Where It Don't Belong”.

The point I'm underlining is that Cupcake and I have been in a relationship for decades and in all that time of wedded bliss, you'd think by now we had enough rules. You'd think that every petty dispute possible will have been worked out to this point. You'd think I'd have finally wised up. You'd be so wrong.

You see, like the average hubby, I bumble along trying not to makes waves with the little woman. Life will be just dandy and all of a sudden... BAM! A new insta-rule. “You must not ignore your spouse when talking with the guys”. You didn`t even know what hit you.

Insta-rules come in three varieties. There are the ones you`ll be saddled with for the rest of your life, such as, “If you look at another woman like that again, I will kill you with my bare hands” rule. Then there are the shorter term rules that slowly fall by the wayside, such as the “No having the TV on during supper” rule which was amended twice... once to exempt my Hockey Night in Canada and once to exempt Cupcake`s “Survivor”. Then there was the “No teaching the boys to play poker” rule which wasn't repealed until the boys both reached adulthood. I should never have told her we were playing for their allowance money. Little did she know they were both up fifty bucks on me when the rule was made. Luckily they believed me when I said it was just for pretend, anyway.

Then there are the real short snappers; rules don`t last long at all, “Whoever is the last to shower has to dry the cabinet with their towel before tossing it in the laundry” rule. Yeah, right. That will happen.

“Hang your jacket up properly in the closet, not draped on the back of a chair.” I just wait for her to forget herself just once and then it's back to chair draping until next time the rule is re-introduced.

Another rule that has been created through clenched teeth was “If you make the bathroom rug wet by any means whatsoever and I get my socks damp as a result, you will be punished.” Apparently, I`m not too old for a “swirly”.

There is a certain evolution (Sorry, Brian!) to the rules that crop up, however. It will start out as something like “No eating crackers in bed”, which becomes “No eating crunchy or crumby food in bed” which is followed by “And no eating food in noisy packaging, either” and finally, “No eating in bed except for quiet food with no aroma whatsoever.” So far, all I`ve found that fits that bill is plain tofu or cheese curds in a bowl. One is gross and the other bungs me up worse than a plastic cork.

The rule we`ve had the longest tussel about, however, involves bed making. Cupcake thinks the rule should be, “Whoever is last out of bed must make it.” This is because she leaves for work three hours before I do (he said trying not to sound smug). She's also first up on weekends to finish her repose in the recliner in the livingroom so she can enjoy television even while she's asleep. This conveniently ensures I have to make the bed every day.

I followed the rule for a while but then rebelled and suggested the rule should be, “Whoever is first in bed and messes it up should have to make it.” Suspiciouly, Cupcake readily agreed to that one. Said we could try it. Then she chuckled menacingly. I was scared.You see, my rule didn't specify when the bed had to be made. That night, Cupcake was first in bed, as always and, at 4:45 AM, upon waking, began to follow the dictates of my poorly thought-out rule. She straightened her side of the bed as vigourously as she could, making sure to jostle the mattress so enthusiastically, it felt like a tiny, localized earthquake had hit our bed that was at least 12 on the Richter scale.

After a couple mornings of waking to shaking, I suggested a compromise rule. I would make the bed on weekdays before she got home, while she did it on weekends after I was up. Unfortunately, her people have yet to get back to my people. The bed remained unmade over the weekend. Life as we know it, somehow, continued...

Arrgh, River Pirates

Avast me hearties! Give ear to me tale of hardship and woe on the raging waters!  Last Sunday, preparing to celebrate International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I stood alone at the boat launch in Devon's river valley. I'd tried the rustic facilities beside the launching area, but dry-heaves from the stench quickly drove me out.  After a lengthy internal debate over retrying the iffy biffy, an old schoolbus finally arrived with a half-ton truck. Both were towing hi-rise canoe trailers. What had been a lonely, desolate, windy place was suddenly transformed into a hubbub of cheery activity. Everyone seemed excited at the prospect of a canoe trip down the Mighty North Saskatchewan River. (Cue Arrogant Worms song, “Pirates of the North Saskatchewan”).

The weather had been great all week but Saturday night saw the temperature drop faster than Paris Hilton's britches at a hottub party. It went from 25 the previous day to just 15 the day of our river ride. The once sunny skies became more threatening than a grizzly bear with a dozen rye and cokes in him. What was worse, however, was the wind was almost strong enough to name, like they do hurricanes.

There was no way I was going to cancel, though. I'd paid over thirty bucks to this Rent-A-Canoe dude and I wasn't going to let a little thing like dangerous winds thwart my pursuit of adventure. Besides, I'd planned ahead and wore layers and layers of clothing in order to stay warm. I also ensured I had a lot of high energy snacks such as trail mix which I was able to enjoy guilt-free for once, since I was actually doing something active.

After a half-listened to safety speech by Mr. Canoehead, we loaded up our voyageur-mobile and headed out on the water. I sat in front on the seat with Judy on the floor in back. This worked about as well as a solar powered tanning booth.  I probably outweigh Judy two-to-one. This inequity caused the bow of our boat to be much lower than the stern, making our canoe go in circles. The other fourteen boats were already way ahead of us when we decided to give up and land in order to change positions. By the time we got back into the stream of things, we could barely see the other canoers in our armada.

“We are going to be the last ones to arrive,” I moaned. “I don't want to be last!”

“Oh, stop your whining,” grumbled Judy. “We can catch up to them when they stop for lunch.”The thought of lunch made me feel a little better. I put my back into closing the distance with the other vessels with visions of my ham croissant dancing in my head.

We began making pretty good time once we'd figured out the whole steering thing and no longer going in circles. The others had seemingly all decided to wait for us although as we approached we could see that they were still paddling madly. The reason for their lack of progress, and ultimately, ours too, was that the river had taken such a turn, that the gale-force winds that were once at our backs were now in our faces. We laboured to paddle our tiny craft against wind and wave as we encountered meter-high whitecaps kicked up by the gusts. Snatches of the song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” kept racing through my mind.

We attacked the waves with gusto, our muscles straining to keep moving forward. It wasn't a case of not giving up as that wouldn't have helped. With the velocity of the current below us and the wind at our bow, you couldn't coast. If you stopped paddling for even a second, your canoe would slough sideways and be turned over by the huge waves, So paddle we did. Mentally, I swore that if we got out of that patch of river alive, I was going to give up canoing permanently.

As soon as we made another corner, however, the wind instantly abated and the river's surface was calm once more. The sun even came out. We headed to shore for a well-earned bite and a chance to rest our arms which were ready to rebel and fling themselves from our bodies. We didn't care how far ahead the others got. It was snack-time.
At the halfway mark, we pulled off shore to find a gaggle of giver-uppers too pooped to continue. Their boats were already loaded onto the trailer. My shoulders, arms and fingers all voted as a bloc to bail on the rest of the trip but the Scot blood coursing through my veins would not allow not getting full value for my money. As they say, the difference between a Scotsman and a canoe is that canoes tip.

We pressed on. After we fought two more gale force sections, and beaching in the shallows like confused whales, we finally drifted under the Quesnell Bridge in Edmonton and landed at Laurier Park. I knew we weren't the last, at least, because another couple had pulled in a minute after us. It was only then we found out that we had actually arrived first and that of the 15 boats at the beginning, only three would make it all the way. Ten teams quit halfway and two had to be rescued by the RCMP!

I slowly, carefully and gratefully slipped  into Judy's car for the comfy, effortless ride home, a funny little ditty dancing in my head.

And it's a Heave (HO) High (HO) Comin' down the plains, Stealin' Wheat and Bareley and all the other grains...

Sleep Depraved or Deprived?

As I type out these words, I am strugging. My mind is more sluggish than escargot. My eyelids feel like two heavy steel garage doors that have come off their tracks. My mind hasn't experienced this much fog since I watched that BBC special on English weather. The cause? Going to bed and waking up in the same morning without enough morning between those two activities.

For most of us, there is an almost religious adherance to getting “the right amount of sleep” and we all know exactly how much that is. What each of us considers to be the right amount can vary widely, of course, but for most, no matter how much sleep we feel is right for us, according to surveys, just like everything else in life, besides calories, we aren't getting enough.

Sleep stats indicate the majority of society stagger from day to day suffering from Sleep Deprvation Psychosis or SDP. (Not to be confused with the engine oil additive). You can pick out the SDP sufferers as they are the ones biting off the heads of their co-workers while breaking into tears at the slightest criticism. (“You wore THOSE steel-toes with that plaid jacket, Buck?” “Waaaah!”)

Those afflicted with SDP are so short on shut-eye, they drop off at inopportune times, such as at work, when driving and while smooching with the spouse.The latter is the most serious, being cause for justifiable homicide. Getting a female judge is the ticket to “old sparky”..

Our lives are throttle-wide-open fast and stealing from our sleep time is the only way to get more hours from a day. Unfortunately, those hours come at a cost. Lack of sleep leads to such horrible, debilitrating illnesses as headache and, worse, “sleepy-tummy”; the latter, a disease where you don't so much feel crampy or nauseous, but just a little... icky. Add to that the epidemic levels of the aforementioned SDP that make both swine and bird flu fans envious, and it is easy to see our sleep gap is wider than the gap between the teeth on a smile at a Willie Nelson concert.

Still, not everyone is sold on the value of sleep. One of the most famous anti-sleep crusaders in history was Thomas Alva Edison;, inventor, innovator and brainiac. This poor guy was so driven to be productive, when he was tired, he would sit in a chair with a pencil in his fingers over a pie plate. When he would fall asleep, the pencil would slip from his grasp and clatter onto the pan, waking him up. That was all the sleep he afforded himself before getting back to work. An amazing man, truly, mind you, I bet he was a Productivity Nazi as a boss.

Although there is nobody in my large, extended family I know of that is as hard core as Edison, (all their pie plates actually have pie in them) we still have quite a variety of sleep-types contained therein.
Take my siblings... please. (Ha! Sorry, Henny!) Obviously products of the same genetic material and upbringing, more or less, they still have sleeping habits of a variety wider than Julia Roberts freakish mouth.

My brother, Bob, for example, is ex-military. Very punctual. Despite his love of camping in the great outdoors, (he makes that guy in Man vs Wild look like a city slicker) he is ruled relentlessly by the clock. No matter what he is doing, no matter how much fun he is having, he makes sure that at precisely ten o'clock, or “2200 hours” as he would call it, he is in bed. He then reads until 10:29 and then puts his book down, sets his alarm and I'm sure, hears an order (“Company...Commense SLEEP!) and obeys instantly. He is generally, and probably majorly and corporally, out by 10:31 to rise again at “Oh six hundred” exactly.

His routine is the ideal, according to sleep experts as his wake/sleep cycle is as regular as an Ex-Lax addict.
My sister, Kathy, however, is different from Bob in so many ways. She is thin. Learned, too; she is a doctor of neuro something-or-other and has all these letters after her name. The letters are abbreviations of Greek phrases that can be translated as “Way smarter than you.”, “Makes more money than you”, etc. In order to achieve what she has, however, she had to develop a sleep routine that involved her only getting four or five hours of sleep per night. Going to bed at 10:00 but getting up at two or three, was her strategy for getting ahead in the dog-eat-dog world of whatever it is she does. The more sleep-minded among my other siblings viewed her as the black sheep of the family.

Myself, I love to stay up late. It's a hold-over from when the kids were young and the only time I had for myself was late at night when the family were all safe in their beds and I could relax. I appreciate every day I have on the planet and have a hard time letting go of each one. I do not go gentle into that short good night. I love to sleep in, however, and like nothing better than the occasional ten hour sleep marathon on a weekend augmented by a nap mid-afternoon.. That is a rarity, however, because, although I enjoy sleeping, as long as I get my seven hours, I'm good to go. In fact, extra sleep makes me tired and groggy. Like I am now. Hmmm... Now I am wondering whether I didn't get enough sleep or too much? Cupcake thinks it was the beer and tequila.... hmmmm....