Johnny Weissmuller, What Is Your Sleep Number?

I have addressed many things as well as the effects of those same things on me and/or my family. Such topics include (but are not limited to) the following: mall shopping, higher education, communicable diseases, and libraries. For the purpose of this writing, I’d like to focus on an issue that has become very important to my wife and me after 17 years of marriage – sleep.
Before your mind begins to wander (or wonder), let me be clear. I am not going to address the marital perspective of our sleeping quarters. After all, this is a family show. I am here to talk about the rapid-eye-moving, excessive-pillow-drooling, Metallica-stops-recording-their-new-album-because-your-snoring -is-too loud state of sleep. I am talking about that state of rest between the point where your head hits the pillow and the palm of your hand slaps the alarm clock with the force of a Hank Aaron homer. There are two entities that greatly assist my wife and/or me with getting a good nights sleep: a CPAP machine and a sleep number bed.
The CPAP machine, though a blessing to both of us, is primarily for my benefit. I have a condition that many people suffer call sleep apnea. To describe this as succinctly as possible, without the benefit of my CPAP machine, I will literally stop breathing (multiple times) during my sleep. This can result in many less than restful nights, extreme fatigue, and horrendous snoring that has threatened the structural integrity of the windows in my house. Needless to say, we LOVE having this machine in our lives. Mind you, the machine also requires me to be tethered by a nasal mask connecting me to the machine. This forces air into my airway while I sleep so that I don’t stop breathing. I am of the opinion that breathing while sleeping is good. I may look like an alien SCUBA diver but I’ll take breathing over vanity any day.
The sleep number bed, though a blessing to us both, is primarily for my wife due to a back injury she suffered some time ago. The mattress is essentially two long bladders of air (one for each side of the bed). We each have a hand controller that allows us to set the pressure for our side of the bed to a specific number (ranging from 0 – 100). We each have our own sweet spot, or sleep number, to have a comfortable night’s sleep. My wife sleeps comfortably with much less aggravation to her back injury. Needless to say, we LOVE having this bed in our lives.
However, having two different sleep numbers has proven to be problematic every now and again. My sleep number ranges from around 55 – 80. My wife’s sleep number is considerably lower. Part of the problem is my wife’s sense of humor is similar to my own. If I get out of bed and leave the room for more than five minutes, she inflates my bed to 100. This means that she gets to watch me come back into our room and plop myself into the equivalent of an eight foot long brick. She then giggles while I am now reaching for an ice pack. The other problem occurs when one of us leaves the bed while the other is sleeping. If I am out of bed and my wife rolls over toward my side, she ends up with her nose firmly pressed against a wall of air mattress. This gives her the sensation that can only be compare to those stuffed kittens you see on the window of a station wagon. On the other hand, if my wife is out of bed and I roll to her side, the end result is quite different. I fall into the deep chasm that is my wife’s side of the bed. Since I am tethered to my CPAP machine, I look something like Tarzan trying to pull himself out of quicksand. There are two key differences: a) since I have forced air blowing into my lungs, I will not suffocate and b) no one is likely to confuse me with Johnny Weissmuller.
I pull myself back up by my CPAP tubing back onto my side of the bed sweaty and hyperventilating (with forced air pouring into my lungs). My wife comes in shortly thereafter. She notices my perspiration and heavy breathing and asks me if I am feeling OK. I beat my chest and tell her the lord of the jungle is fine. She giggles at me with confused oblivion. She then rolls over and falls back asleep like a newborn child. Like I said, we LOVE having this bed in our lives.

Away With You, Sinus Squatters!

I have been having a rather rough couple of weeks. Sometime, during the past couple of weeks, some tiny gremlins took siege over my sinuses. These gremlins are too small to be seen with the naked eye. They tend to travel in packs of four and, in spite of their size, produce a collective weight of 35 lbs. Their only goal is to take residence in the sinuses for as long as possible and make you feel like you are carrying a bowling ball on your neck. I tried asking them nicely to leave. I rationally explained that they were MY sinuses and they did not belong there. It was really nothing personal. I just really dislike this extra weight on my head. They scoffed at my naive niceness. To add further insult, these sinus squatting gremlins invited their friends to make my eyes itchy and make my voice sound like a mouse in a library.

This, of course, leads to the true source of my irritation. My loving wife was kind enough to go to the store and pick up some sinus medicine for me. Mind you, she did this partly to help me feel better and partly because she had caught my cold. I eagerly opened the package hoping that relief would come soon. My hopes were very quickly dashed. It appears that the sinus squatting, eyeball itching, voice vanquishing gremlins are in cahoots with the makers of SnotAway. They start by using transparent plastic on one side of the packaging. This provides you with a view of the medicine – tiny little blue gel caps of hope. This only serves as part of the torture. On the opposite of this medicinal visual tease, the medicine is sealed with a layer of foil held onto the plastic by an adhesive. It is then topped with another of paper that is held to the foil seal by the same adhesive. Each dose (two gel caps each) is then separated by perforations. The torment continues further as one corner is pulled back ever so slightly.

First, it starts with the perforations. I do what any rational person would do. I do the bending back and forth of the perforations to make the individual doses easier to separate. This does not work because the adhesive (used to hold the paper and foil seals in place) gets between the perforations. If they has used this adhesive on the Titanic, I wouldn’t have had to sit through a three hour movie explaining why some old lady threw her necklace in the ocean. So, here I am. I am already having trouble breathing. I am wearing myself into exhaustion bending this thing back and forth. Finally, I get some scissors to cut the perforations apart. The problem is, the combined effects of my cold condition and my exhausting efforts to open this stupid medicine have made my eyes water. The blurred vision causes me to slice my index finger with the scissors. Now I am bleeding and I need a bandage. Unfortunately, the bandage is sealed between two strips of paper held together by the SAME ACCURSED ADHESIVE. I can actually hear the sinus squatting, eyeball itching, voice vanquishing gremlins giving each other high fives in my head. I find myself crying myself to sleep in a fetal position.

Three hours later, I awoke. I tried to speak but the gremlins still had hold of my voice. The still-sealed, unused bandage is stuck to my hand from the dried blood. The scissors lay at my side along with the the still-sealed, unused medication. My wife takes one look at me and says: “Honey, I bought you some medicine. You won’t get any better unless you take it. Honey, why are you crying?”

Are Your Shot Records Up to Date?

When I was in the Navy, I can remember being taught that there were certain folks on base you didn’t want to ever upset. To be specific, there were five types of folks in particular who were good to have on your side: hospital corpsmen, dental technicians, postal clerks, disbursing clerks, and mess management specialists.
I was a hospital corpsman. Corpsmen assisted doctor’s and nurses with the medical care of military personnel. Corpsman have access to (among other things), immunizations records. Getting on the wrong side of a corpsman could result in the sudden unexplained disappearance of said immunization records. Immunization records (or shot records) must be up to date before personnel can go on leave (vacation) or transfer to another duty station. It’s quite possible that the corpsman will tell his buddy – the dental technician. Dental records must also be up to date. Suddenly, a rude an impatient sailor may find himself having to undergo dental x-rays and an exam in addition to the vaccinations he KNOWS he got six months ago. The dental technician might tell his buddy – the postal clerk who is stationed at the base where this sailor is transferring. Strangely, an issue has arisen with the forwarding of the sailor’s mail from the previous base. The dental clerk might tell his buddy – the disbursing clerk. Disbursing clerks handle payroll. Now the sailor finds that something has gone wrong with his direct deposit. The disbursing clerk may even tell his buddy – the mess management specialist (cook). The mess management specialist prepares a special meal for the sailor to “make him feel welcome”. Later that day, the initially rude and impatient sailor, has come down with a sudden “stomach bug” and has to go to sick call at the new duty station. The sailor finds himself with sore arms from vaccinations, sore gums from dental exams, homesick because he hasn’t gotten any mail from home, flat broke, and extremely nauseous (might have been something he ate). When he arrives at sick call. The corpsman notices that the sailor was last stationed aboard the USS Ersatz. The corpsman asks the sailor if he knew a corpsman by the name of so-and-so. It turns out that the former corpsman is “old buddies from boot camp” with the latter corpsman. The sailor is now as pleasant as punch and suddenly feels “much better now”. The next day, the sailor is informed that his mail has been forwarded, his back pay has been re-instated, and his immunization and dental records are all in order (once again). He even goes on to eat three square meals in the galley without incident (and uncertain what brought on that stomach bug the previous day).
It has been nearly twenty-five years since I got out of the Navy. I can honestly say that I have never participated in such a conspiracy about which I have just written. However, I couldn’t help but think of it as I went to get my hair cut this evening. I went to a stylist. The difference between a barber and a stylist is about $15. The stylist gently washed my hair and lead me to my chair. I told her that I wanted a very short cut. Her technique was such that I wasn’t sure if she was using clippers or 200 grit sandpaper. I watched her in the mirror as she did this. You’d have thought my hair was made of graphite and she was trying to erase it. I got out of the chair wondering what I had done to her to inspire such anger. Whom did I anger earlier in the day that knew her and called her before I arrived? Now I sit here in the comfort of my own home, satisfied with the final result of my haircut. One question haunts me: Are my shot records up to date?

Drinks Dye Hard

    I am not going to imply that I live a charmed life per se. However, on the average work day, I typically drive to work, work a typical day, and drive home without incident. Don't get me wrong. I have had a day here and there where: my vehicle has broken down, winter weather has made me late, or a circulating sickness has caused my head to weigh 15 lbs. Such incidents are the exception rather than the rule. I can even jazz up my routine by taking a different drive to work or home and be incident free.



    I went to work earlier this week and it seemed to be a day just like any other. En route to work, I made a stop at a nearby convenience store and grabbed myself a nice hot cup of coffee. They had several different blends available. I grabbed my little plastic cup the store provided. I turned the little spigot and the coffee poured gracefully into my cup. The aroma was wonderful. I grabbed my nice little plastic top for my cup. I typically drink my coffee black so it is usually hot for a while. I usually allow the drive to work to allow my coffee to cool down enough to drink.



    The traffic on the way to work was rather light as it was the tail end of a holiday week. I called my wife on the way to work. The nice little wireless earpiece allowed me to do this quite nicely, safely, and legally. I got to work and found a great space. I carried my cup of coffee with the nice little protective lid and went inside the building where I work and to my desk. I started my rather routine workday. I reached for my coffee to take a sip. For some reason, as I began to drink from the little slit in the cup's protective lid, it seemed I didn't quite a watertight seal. Fortunately, I also have a coffee mug that I kept at my desk. I simply transferred the coffee from the cup to my mug. I now drank my coffee from my mug in secure water tightness. I had averted a minor crisis. At least I THOUGHT I did. I looked down and noticed a fresh coffee color stain on my dress shirt. The shirt was white with light vertical brown stripes and I was wearing a brown tie. I joked that at least the stain would blend with my shirt and tie. It was kind of strange to me that the coffee spilled onto my shirt in such a way that I did not feel the heat. I let out a small sigh and decided to carry on with my day.



    The day went forward rather well from that point. It was nothing spectacular. It was just representative of the incident free routine to which I had grown accustomed. I performed my work duties. I conversed with my colleagues. I even enjoyed a nice lunch that was lovingly prepared by my wife. After lunch, I sat at my desk and began to resume my routine. Since I work in a call center, I sit in very close proximity to my colleagues. We do our jobs. We share some laughs here and there. We even occasionally share a high five or fist bump for a job well done. One of my colleagues returned from work and sat at his desk next to me. He was enjoying a cherry flavored Slurpee he had picked up while he was out. Several of my colleagues and I share our love for these shaved ice flavored drinks. You have to get them in a huge cup with a huge straw and a dome shaped cover which has a hole for the straw. Those drinks are heaven in a plastic cup.



    As we all resumed our work duties, my colleague picked up his drink right where the dome cover meets the cup's rim. Suddenly, the dome cover came apart from the cup. As my colleague and I were both wearing white shirts, we suddenly moved our chairs backward. We even leaned back in our chairs to avoid the flying droplets of cherry dye and shaved ice. It was like watching a scene with Neo and Morpheus. Of course, since we are guys, we'd probably debate about which of us was Neo and which of us was Morpheus.

My colleague dutifully cleaned up his mess and even had plenty left to drink in his cup. We all laughed it off and got back to work. All was well once again. That was until, my colleague grabbed his drink again and the dome cover popped off again. I can definitely say that, when it happened a second time, I was DEFINITELY Morpheus.

Stars So Bright (Editor’s Choice)

I have spent the last week and a half concentrating on reading. There are several reasons why I delved into reading so deeply:

·         I had reached the end of a college semester and therefore a brief period of more free time.

·         I love to read and, having reached the end of said semester, I wanted to CHOOSE what I was reading.

·         I also love to write but, in order to write, I must also be reading. It’s the Garbage In, Garbage Out principle. My daughter edits my writing. I am sure she will find the comparison of my writing to garbage quite amusing.

·         Last but certainly not least, it gave me (yet again) another excuse to create a bulleted list. I love making bulleted lists. The reasons are….PSYCH! You thought I was going to create another one; didn’t you?

Having all of this free time at the end of a year has also made me somewhat introspective.      After all, it was just the end of a year. It was also the end of a decade. A lot of things have transpired over the last 10 years. I walked across the stage of the Blue Cross Arena in 2000 at my college commencement. This occurred with my wife, kids, sister, niece, and mother in the audience. I moved several times since 2000. My family has endured many harsh Western New York winters (including an ice storm in 2003). I endured long stretches of unemployment. The flipside of that is that I also go to work briefly for an airline. My last day of training for the airline, I got to marshal out a 737 aircraft. This incredible experience took place at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, GA on my birthday. I flew back to Georgia that same year as a surprise anniversary present for my mother. The following year, my wife sat at my side and held my hand after I had finished speaking at my mother’s memorial. Three years after that, I got to witness my wife handle her father’s passing with amazing dignity. I have heard both of my girls perform in various choir performances with voices that are nothing short of angelic. I have seen my older son, Tom; perform at club gigs as he becomes a better guitarist than I was 20 years ago. I have heard my younger son, Caleb; provide the history of Sonic the Hedgehog (he has a PhD in Sega).

                             With all of this looking backward, I mustn’t lose sight that I have so much to expect in the coming years. Caleb is graduating high school in 2011. Shayna is graduating from college in 2011. Thomas and Brianna are currently enrolled in college. If their most recent semester is any indication, I have no doubt that they will excel in their academic pursuits. My wife, Renee, is starting college again in 2011 with a degree to pursue a career in Social Work. She is projected to graduate in 2013. I am also enrolled in college pursuing a degree in Health Information Management. I am projected to graduate some time before Jesus comes.  We’re doing alright and getting good grades. The future’s so bright….. Forgive me; I just received notice from a lawyer representing Timbuk3 with an injunction from finishing the previous sentence.

Trickle-Down Pumpanomics

    I believe myself to be a reasonable man. I can roll with a few punches. I can be downright accommodating at times. Knowing that my daughter is most likely proofreading this writing, I will thank her to NOT scoff at that previous statement with very audible "HAH!"



    In spite of being reasonable and accommodating (with my wife in kids now singing "HAH!" in multi-part harmony), there are some things that DO rather irritate me. In this writing, I am going to focus on a location that has provided me with a great source of irritation recently — the gas pump.

I realize that the gas pump provides several different irritations for many people. Given this, I feel that I need to disclaim some things. I am not here to lament our country's dependence upon a supply of foreign oil. I am not here to bemoan the effects of fossil fuels on the trans-continental snow squirrel. I am not even here to the demise of free roadmaps and cartoon character drinking glass giveaways. These are all very valid reasons to be irritated. However, this is not my purpose here.



    Please, allow me to provide a bit of background here. When I was a young teen, there were a lot of things going on in our country. The country was changing Presidents, enduring a nationwide heat wave, and going through a deep economic recession. This had a huge collateral effect at the gas pump. In less than two years, gasoline prices had nearly doubled. Self service pumps were becoming more and more the norm. This required people to do more creative budgeting with their travel expenses. This also required people to show some finesse at the gas pump. Every penny counted. If you only had $5 in cash, you had to be sure you had to stop pumping right at the $5 mark. Most people would get within 5 or 10 cents of the intended amount and pump one cent at a time until they got the amount they wanted. I became very good at this. I pumped gas for my parents. I pumped gas for my friend's parents. I was even considering going on a seminar tour on the art of pumping gas.



    However, as gas prices continued to rise, another process came into place — pre-payment for gasoline. You would go inside and tell the cashier you were pumping X number of dollars from pump Y. As you got closer to the pre-paid amount, the pump would automatically slow down and then stop once the pre-paid amount was reached. This usually occurred when you got to within 8 – 10 cent of the pre-paid amount.

Now, we are getting to the true source of my irritation (and a pox on those of you that just said "FINALLY!") More than 25 years have passed since the gas shortage I mentioned previously. The gasoline prices have continued to rise with the rate of inflation. However, I have begun to notice that as gas prices has risen, the pump begins automatically slowing down sooner and sooner. No longer does it happen within the 8 – 10 cent range. We have long since bypassed that and even left the 50 - 60 cent range to be a distant memory.

One morning this past week, I had left my house much earlier than usual. This was due to the fact that the wonderful city in which I live had experienced its first major lake effect snow of the year and it was also quite bitterly cold. There was already indication on the morning news this had a very bad effect on morning traffic. So there I was, at the gas pump once again. I had dutifully pre-paid my desired amount. I was filling the tank so I knew this was not exactly going to be a 30 second process. I did my best to grin and bear it as the pump chugged along. Suddenly, the pump came to a snail's pace and hummed along one cent at a time EIGHTY-FIVE CENTS AWAY FROM THE FINAL AMOUNT. REALLY?!! EIGHTY-FIVE CENTS?!! Now, I was beginning to wonder if I was going to be able to finish pumping this gas before supper time or if I should invest in some sled dogs and pick my car up at the end of the day. I figured the pump MIGHT be done by then. I finally finished the process, capped up my gas tank and drove away.



    As I made my way to work, I could envision my family and friends in much warmer climates stating that my irritation was probably made worse by the winter weather. I thought that this was ridiculous. I would have been just as irritated if I had been pumping gas at 9 o' clock at night in July with 90 degree temperatures and 90 percent humidity. The traffic guy on the radio quickly rebuffed that theory when he uttered the words: "Allow extra time for travel". I DID ALLOW EXTRA TIME FOR TRAVEL. OF COURSE, THAT WAS BEFORE I WAS TO THE GAS PUMPETERIA AND THEY DECIDED TO TEST THE TRICKLE-DOWN THEORY ON MY GAS TANK EIGHTY-FIVE CENTS AWAY FROM THE FINAL AMOUNT! I then decided to stop shouting at the radio. The traffic guy was just doing his job after all. I even decided not to scream at the guy who suddenly cut in front of me on I-390. I instead enjoyed a fit of uncontrollable laughter as the aforementioned driver and I were BOTH caught in a barely moving bottleneck of traffic. Like I said, I can roll with the punches.

Georgia Trip 2010 Vol. III: Where There’s Smoke, There’s Good Eatin’

I had enjoyed a great game between the great Atlanta Braves and the Pittsburgh Pirates. After enduring some delays brought on by torrential (but temporary) rain, the Braves had earned another win of what would go on to be a 9 game winning streak). We had dropped my friend, Bill and his wife, Jenny at the hotel where they were staying. We finally got home around 1 AM. I rang out my socks and lay my head down on my pillow while visions of RBI's and homers danced in my head.

I spent the next day hanging out with Bill and his wife at my sister's house. Bill and I caught up on the last 25 years. It was like someone had taken the needle off the record for 25 years. During our reunion, the needle was placed exactly in the groove where it left previously (though perhaps with some pops and a bit of warp). For you young whippersnappers who don't understand that reference, ask your grandparents what life was like before digital downloading (just speak up when you do).

Bill's wife, Jenny, was somewhat of a quiet and bashful type. She mostly kept to herself and politely declined any offer of hospitality. That was temporary. Soon enough, my brother in law, Larry began heating up a pot of oil on the outdoor grill to fry some catfish. He also had some ears of corn on the grill. Now THAT got Jenny's attention. She asked Larry if she could put the battered fish in the grease to fry. Larry happily accommodated her. In addition to catfish, there was a bunch of other fish my Dad and his friend had caught. It truly WAS a fine kettle of fish. Larry then offered Jenny something a little different to try. Larry took an ear of corn and coated it in cornmeal. He then had Jenny place it into the grease to fry. Jenny was like a kid in a candy store. Frying the catfish was one thing. Sampling a fried ear of corn was something else entirely different. This truly illustrates the Mason-Dixon Line of cuisine. Why boil the flavor out of something when you can seal the flavor with cornmeal and hot oil?

More friends and family joined the occasion. We all sat in the living room and socialized while my sister incessantly nagged me to play some guitar and sing a song or 17. According to my sister, I "promised". My debate over the alleged promise aside, I banged out a few chords. With my Dad's help we sang some Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, and Johnny Cash (with a dash of Hank Williams). It was a bit hard on the tendonitis but I must admit I DID enjoy fulfilling my "promise". It seemed like my vacation couldn't get much better. The next day would be the icing on the chocolate cake.

We drove about an hour or so east to visit my Aunt Judy in a nice town called Juliette. The last time I remembered being in Juliette was when I was about 14 and did a bunch of fishing with my brother and some uncles. I didn't do any catching but I did a lot of fishing. Juliette's main claim to fame is the filming of the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes". Anyway, I digress. Bill and Jenny live about another 2 -3 hours east of Juliette in Savannah. The plan was that Larry would drive in one car with my niece and her boyfriend. I took the opportunity to ride with Bill and Jenny. Bill planned to drop me off in Juliette then head straight home to Savannah. Bill called on his mother on the way there while we rode. Bill wanted to let his Mom know he was on his way home. "Where'd you go?" she asked. "I went to Marietta to see Shane." She confusedly replied "…the movie?" Bless her heart; it HAS been 25 years after all.

I introduced Bill and Jenny to my aunts and uncles. They all greeted Bill and Jenny with hospitality and hugs. My uncle Richard asked Bill if he was staying to eat. Bill said that he was planning to head home to Savannah. Richard motioned Bill and me over and opened his smoker. Suddenly we were all inundated with the sight and smell of smoked chicken. Bill decided to stay a spell. Richard can be very hospitable but his smoker is VERY persuasive.

I was treated to good eating and good times. My late mother's cousin, Jackie was there. I had not seen her in nearly 30 years. She presented me with some childhood pictures of my mother that she had scanned for me. That simple gesture was a great gift. On the other end of the generation gap, my second cousin, Amanda, blessed us all with her beautiful singing voice. Little by little, we all began to depart. Bill and I hugged and promised it would not go another 25 years before we saw one another again. I gave hugs and handshakes to all my family.

As we were pulled out of the driveway to go back to Marietta, there were some horses running in a field. Suddenly, we had to stop the car while two wild turkeys crossed the road. While all of this was happening, "Free Bird" was playing on the radio (if I'm lyin,' I'm dyin'). You couldn't have written a better ending to the week (with all due respect to Fannie Flagg).