Sleep – Rant and Roll

A tale to give you the jitters

Three days in a row last week I woke up at 4:30am.

This is never fun.

You see, I arrived back home from Halifax on Tuesday night, and after cramming my face full of delicious artisan cheese bread, lemon squares, pink lady apples, and coconut water, I fell into a sleep coma around 9:00pm.

Canada is known for many great things – healthcare, maple syrup, Rick Moranis – but ease of cross-country travel is definitely not one.

5000 km in a day will really leave you knackered.

It’s enough to make one dream of moving to Lichtenstein.

Anyway, back to that first night, despite heavy night sweats brought on by the whack-load of food I ate before bed (which normally tucker me out like crazy and bring on the second (sleep) wind like nothing else), I couldn’t get my snooze back on.

So as the clock quietly blinked four, I slipped out of bed, put on my sweat pants and a thick wool sweater, grabbed my water cup and tiptoed out of bed.

The kitten, unused to such early-morning activity, poked her little head out from behind her chair of rest and looked at my quizzically, as if to ask, “What’s up mum?”

I sat down in the darkened living room and watched a couple of episodes of 30Rock, sipping on a piping hot cup of coffee, as the kitten purred in my lap.

Then I did the exact same thing the next day.

And the next.

Jetlag is never fun, and after three days of interrupted sleep and early mornings, I crashed hard on Friday and slept straight for eleven hours.

Eleven hours!

And after a solid eight and a half last night, I finally feel as though I am back on an even keel, sleep-wise.

YAY!

Now, as mentioned in my previous post, there are a few things in my life I very much love, that maybe previously I definitely…didn’t love.

So, on the subject of jetlag, early mornings, and terrible sleeps, let us move onto thing #2 that I used to hate, but now adore – COFFEE.

I remember so perfectly the first time I ever tried a cup of joe.

I was eleven and it was at the TD Bank on 10^th and Alma in Vancouver. (That branch eventually moved to 10^th and Sasamat a couple of years later.)

I was there to open my first bank account because I had won $50 dollars for taking home the aggregate title in a highland dancing competition the week before.

Talk about a lucrative day of hoping about in a kilt, over swords and other Scottish battle detritus. Especially for the 12 and under set!

I was super stoked to be taking part in something so unbelievably grown-up (bank accounts were such a huge deal! I mean, you got debit card and everything!), that I figured what better way to celebrate my new found adulthood than by drinking my first cup of java?

So with little fanfare (but with many, many little butterflies flitting about in my stomach) I picked up one of those small, white Styrofoam cups and filled it full of steaming coffee. Then I dropped in a few sugar cubes, and added enough Coffeemate to make the colour of the liquid change to a milky, chocolate brown.

I thought it would taste like magic.

NOT LIKE THE BITTER ACID OF DEATH.

All I could think of is, “WHY WOULD ANYONE EVER DRINK THIS POISON?”

Seriously, this experience was enough to turn me off coffee for the next fourteen years.

Talk about trauma.

In high school, or university if I was ever with friends and they grabbed cappuccinos, I would drink hot chocolate or chai lattes.

Seattle trip! 028 — Definitely hot chocolate!

All throughout grad school I drank nothing but tea (heaps, and heaps of tea) to stay awake during my mad hours of studying, researching, and writing.

I even worked at two different coffee shops making AMAZING espresso drinks for two years, and yet never once managed to sample my wares.

(Well, that’s not entirely true – on my last day of work at Petit Ami Coffee, I tried a tiny sip of a mocha and then basically passed out from an overwhelming mouth sadness.)

It wasn’t until my first “office job” post grad-school that I started my long march down the dark, beautiful, and addictive bean juice path.

On my first day of work I was SUPER early and very nervous, so I figured I would stop at the Second Cup at the bottom of my office building and get something to drink.

I was just about to order a hot chocolate when my eye caught sight of a “vanilla bean latte” and I thought, “eh? Why not? Vanilla bean sounds like it might be alright.”

So I threw my inhibitions to the wind, ordered it up, and took a sip.

And you know what?

I still didn’t like it all that much.

But for some reason, I went back the next day and ordered the same thing.

And then the next.

I just kept doing it.

I know. WHAT A WEIRDO, right?

But, slowly and surely I started to like the stuff.

I started to look forward to my morning vanilla bean.

Nearly every day, for almost two and a half years, I bought that drink and on the weekends I made surgery, sweet café-au-laits.

And while I don’t work that job anymore, I still enjoy waking up every day knowing that before I start anything (big or small) I will get to warm myself over a milky, sweet cup of coffee.

Especially on mornings when I’m up at 4am.

And I have a kitten in my lap.

His and hares adventures

Ooof. I did not sleep well last night.

The rubbish combination of McDonalds for dinner, strong tea before bedtime, and unusually warm spring temperatures ensured that the couple of Zzzzs that I did catch were restless, and even worse, non-consecutive.

(Normally I would never begrudge a meal of fries and a McFlurry because 1.) they happen so rarely, and 2.) DID YOU KNOW THAT MCDONALDS MAKES DRUMSTICK MCFLURRIES?)

However, waking this morning, dehydrated and exhausted, I lamented like hell over my choice in food stuffs. Dinner of champions it was not, especially because I just crammed the whole thing in my mouth on my way to meet with my Little Sister.

I’ve also been rocking this really sweet eye twitch for the past week now, so I can’t imagine that my thirty-two minutes of rest will do much to help out with that.

(If anything, I think it’s gotten worse, EGADS.)

I kind of feel like bugs bunny in the below cartoon (clip starts at 40 seconds):

WHAT A WAY TO RUN A RAILROAD.

It actually blows my mind when I think about how much of my life is influenced by the cartoons, books, and movies I watched and read as a child.

There probably isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t reference or quote (or ever just think about) Looney Tunes, or Kit Pearson, or Shel Silverstein, or The Simpsons.

I think my favourite is when I think I’ve over done it with the make-up, I like to ask Marc (or whomever is around) if it looks like I’ve “set the make-up gun on whore.”

…

Yep.

I’m laughing just thinking about it.

This weekend should be a sweet, sweet mix of soaking up all of the sun rays I can get, (seeing as though I currently look like a specter, this is a VERY good thing), Mother’s day brunches, and hopefully a date night with that long-lost husband of mine.

I tell you, we are two little worker bees he and I, so much so that it’s hard not to fall into a rut that I like to call: “two highly productive, yet sleep deprived ships passing in the night.”

FOOOOOOG HOOOOORRRNNN.

It might also be nice if I could find a dress or two for the weddings that I am attending (and participating in!) this summer.

Honestly folks, time is passing at such a speed I cannot believe that we will soon we welcoming the arrival of June. I’m not sure about you, but I need to buckle up tight, and grab hold of the OH CRAP BAR because –

THINGS. BE. MOVING.

Things be moving fast.

Alas, I cannot complain because at the base of it all is such boundless awesomeness that I feel a little nuts sometimes – I really am too lucky for my own good to be surrounded with such beauty.

My friends, family, fantastic (ship of a) husband.

Our little cat.

Adventures a plenty.

So let’s put on our dancing shoes and boogie the night away.

Happy Friday to you all!

The more you know

*First things first – the show on Friday was amazing, and I couldn’t be happier with how it went. The headliner was brilliant and very complimentary after I performed, encouraging me to continue comedy and he let me know he was impressed that I had only been doing stand-up for a short time. I was also invited to perform at a local venue by another performer, which is rad.

Right after the show, M and I drove to our friends’ house as we had to dog sit for them all weekend, and only now have arrived home after a bonkers weekend of animals and activity.

So in lieu of anything even remotely sane, I present to you dear readers:

TWENTY QUESTIONS.

Did you know that a Boston terrier can snore louder than a steam powered locomotive?

Did you know that three nights of little to no sleep due to said snoring can leave a person positively knackered?

Did you know that sometimes a run in the pea-soup mist can do wonders to revive your spirits?

Did you know that doing the exact same run two days later can tire you like no other, which is strange, so you imagine that the second day’s mist was the residual spittle from a dementor’s kiss?

Did you know that stand-up comedy is pretty much crack, only healthier for you?

Did you know that all I want to do is continue to make people laugh for the rest of my life?

Did you know that mint-green dresses are in?

Did you know that I’ve just been told that it’s just “mint-green” that’s in?

Did you know that I purchased a mint-green dress, but because of it’s dodgy length I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to wear it sans-tights?

Did you know that the best yogurt is lemon yogurt?

Did you know that after two days away from my cat I can never figure out who is more excited to see whom?

Did you know that if I had to eat only one kind of food for the rest of my life it would be south-Asian hands down, no contest?

Did you know that my amazing husband bought be a new laptop for my birthday because my current computer sounds like there is a hot tub bubbling away inside its processor?

Did you know that he also bought me The One Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and I will be reading nothing else this week?

Did you know that I’m also reading the Lost City of Z WHICH IS ABSOLUTELY CRAZY?

Did you know that Victorian adventurers were probably the nuttiest (and sometimes most appallingly racist) people of all time?

Did you know that sometimes I drink chocolate milk by the litre?

Did you know that there is a tumblr called Les Mean Girls, which is a mash up for Mean Girls and Les Mis? And that it is amazing?

Did you know that I adore you all and that as I fall asleep as I type this I want to know random, crazy things about your life and loves?

Did you know – zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Don’t wake me I plan on sleeping in

I’m feeling all over the place these days.

My body seems to be powered by an endless supply of frenetic energy and I’m having a hard time trying to keep still. Something inside of me keeps telling me to “GOGOGOGO”, and sometime over the last week my powers of concentration completely misfired, and during my (failed) attempt to give them a jump start, they escaped through the open window and are now MIA.

It could be the fact that I am not running this week, in preparation for the half-marathon this Sunday.

It could be the fact that it is early autumn, and oh-so beautiful outside, and all I want to do is dress like a cowgirl, go for long walks, and drink pumpkin spice lattes under the shade of a shedding maple, or perhaps elm.

It could be – wait a second…did I really just write that?

Good grief – it’s like I fantasize about living in a pinterest board.

(p.s. Do you guys pinterest? I don’t and am afraid to venture into this world for fear that I will drown in my self-pinned reflection of midi dresses, kittens, lemon tarts, and three piece suits.)

Not a bad way to go actually…

ACK.

See what I mean? I’m so easily distracted it is amazing that I manage to brush my teeth and tie my shoes.

I haven’t been sleeping all that well for the past few nights and as such I’ve had my fair share of individuals letting me know that I “look tired.”

Now, would I be speaking out of turn if I requested that we – the collective whole of humanity – stop doing this?

I’m thinking of writing to my member of parliament asking him to table a private member’s bill that would make it illegal for individuals to point out to others that it looks as though they didn’t get the recommended eight hours.

Because let’s be honest. When you tell someone that they “look tired” you’re not just telling them that they could stand to catch another forty winks (give or take, depending on how closely you adhere to ol’ Rip van Winkle’s sleeping philosophy.)

Oh no.

You are basically telling that person that they look like crap – even if you don’t mean to.

You tell someone that they look tired, and I can guarantee you (100% or money back) that they hear the following:

“Holy moley! You look like a ruddy disaster! What happened to you?”

(Give or take a few colloquialism, adjectives, adverbs, etc., etc.)

Seriously, there is nothing worse than the ZOMGYOULOOKTIRED. Just tell me I look like an arse, and move on.

Oh! And none of this feigned concern. Don’t pretend that you are telling me that I look completely bagged under the guise that you are worried about my well being. If you did think that something was wrong, I assume you would ask, “is everything okay?” and not open with an underhanded assessment of my overall haleness and heartiness.

(Man, who knew that those two words actually are words? I was full-on expecting the squiggly red lines upon typing them both.)

Dance break:

Oh, and this reminds me – one other thing:

What is UP with the re-compliment?

You know, when you see a co-worker, or a friend, and they are wearing a darling little ensemble, or a sweet pair of kicks, and you (being the cool, awesome person that you are) let them know how smashing they look in their terrific shirt/pants/shoes/what-have-you?

And then they – instead of thanking you, or responding that they too dig their outfit – become paralyzed by a need to compliment you back, and start stammering about how they too like your jeans, or fedora, or disposable hospital gown because they are a doctor and you weren’t wearing anything else when you told her that you liked her earrings?

(Yeah…so that definitely never happened.)

(Also – I would also never wear a fedora.)

But!

Can we just agree to put a stop to this weird social interaction?

Can we agree that if someone compliments you, to take the compliment and move on? You are not obliged to return the favour. In all likelihood there was zero ulterior motive in the original flattery – people normally don’t give out praise in the hope of getting it back (and if they are doing this, stop hanging out with these individuals at once.)

Because when you force out the return compliment (or re-compliment) it usually comes across as super awkward and disingenuous (whether or not you really actually mean it.)

This happened to me today and I really wanted to blurt out, “JUST STOP! You’re killing us both!”

And hey, if you actually do like your flatterer’s ensemble? Just give the original compliment a little breathing room, and then let the person know.

Be all, “I have been meaning to tell you that I really like your pink sunglasses!”

Just as long as you don’t follow it up with:

“Are you wearing them to cover those bags under your eyes? Because you look really, really tired today.”

Because that’s just all sorts of wrong.

These close encounters

I. Am. Officially. Exhaustified.

I understand that this photo is darn weird and sort of Jawa-esque, but this all has a purpose...

If today wasn’t enough to erase any remaining vestiges of the weekend from my mind, I don’t know what possibly could.

Stress was had, and I had all of it.

I would also probably argue that the dice (that were to determine this fate of mine) were loaded from the start – this fatigue did not stop and start with my workday, but much, much earlier.

You see, it began with a truly crap night sleep (especially when it definitely should have been an excellent, dead-to-the-world type repose what with how wonderfully busy, and chock-a-block full of whimsy and weirdness, the weekend turned out to be).

However, yesterday afternoon Mr. M and I made the sleep-altering choice to go see The Woman in Black.

Looking for a good five-word review of the movie?

DEAD VENGEFUL WOMEN ARE TERRIFYING.

Yeah, yeah, the film wasn’t the best that I’ve ever seen, and you can’t help but ask a million and one questions about X plot holes or Y character motivations – but gosh darn it – I spent the majority of the time either watching through my fingers or crammed into M’s elbow and, or armpit.

Question:

Why the flipping heck do old Victorian toys have to be so bloody scary? Who, in their right mind, would actually give their child a toy that looks positively possessed?

Repression must do terrible, terrible things…

Including, for one: scaring the ever living daylights out of me.

Ooof. Just walking around Metrotown after the end credits had rolled, I felt completely off kilter – as if the film had knocked something loose inside of me that I couldn’t quite put back into place.

There is something to be said about horror movies that explore psychological ills, or metaphysical (paranormal?) phenomenon, versus the old slasher, teen-virgin, never say “I’ll be right back BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW YOU WON’T!” trope.

Ghosts are simply scarier.

I think the most frightening movie I’ve ever seen is probably The Ring (or Ringu – it’s Japanese predecessor), with the Exorcist as a close second.

I was in grade eleven and two friends and I went to the Friday night midnight show; it was playing at the old Varsity movie theatre (a little freaky on its own, with or without the introduction of tormented, well-dwelling psychopathic spirits). I lived ten blocks down the street from the theatre and walking home at two thirty in the morning was probably one of the creepiest sojourns (or you know, ghost tour) I have ever taken, or hope to ever again undertake.

CIMG8762 — I actually do a pretty good "Ring-girl" impression. You should see me crawl out of a TV screen.

It probably took me an hour to finally make it to my front door because I was moving so slowly (also, I was walking smack dab in the middle of the street, for fear that if I strayed too close to the property line hedge growth, invisible hands would grab at my flesh, tear at my hair, and suck out my soul – imprisoning me until the sky burned red, and the seas ran dry.)

Or something equally as brutal (you get my drift, I’m sure.)

Zero winks were caught that night. ZERO.

Any time where you can think to yourself, “It might be true” is just a recipe for disaster for not only myself, but for the man for whom I’ve pledged my troth.

M can drive himself (and therefore, by proxy ME) completely bonkers, working himself into a frenzy, mulling over the one million maybes he and I attach to this genre of storytelling (or reality? That’s the problem, we can’t ever just tell ourselves its fake, and magically make it go away.)

The Japanese version of The Grudge is called Ju-On (very scary, not to be trifled with – watch only with all your lights on, in the daylight with a minimum of one other person, whom you can be sure will not leave your sight for the next twenty-four hours. What’s that you say? You’re a fully functioning human being who isn’t affected at all by this silly stuff? Carry on then. You lucky bastard.) and this word has actually become a permanent fixture in M’s and my vocabulary.

Something a little creepy happening? Unexplained phenomena making you paranoid?

That’s some crazy ju-on shit right there.

It has a two-fold effect. 1.) It’s a very accurate way of assessing and describing the situation, and 2.) It brings some much needed levity to the occasion, making it much harder to find a need to jump under the covers of your bed for the long-term foreseeable future.

Or something like that.

Cats are really good at warning you about evils spirits. And snuggling. They're good at that too.

So as you can see, last night (or should I say early this morning) I wasn’t channelling Rip Van Winkle, but instead refusing to look in the bathroom mirror as I re-filled my water glass for fear that alongside my reflection would be a pissed off widow, ready to banshee shriek my eardrums into nothingness.

Ugh, even just typing those words makes my heart pump a little faster.

So, the million dollar question is: why, if these movies make me feel as though my lifespan has been drastically altered (for the worse), do I watch them?

Why indeed?

I’ve always liked horror movies. Even though they scare the ever living daylights out of me, I’ve never shied away from watching them.

I suppose I like the adrenaline rush. I like to ask myself what I would have done in those circumstances, in comparison to the characters on screen. I like cramming myself into Mr. M’s arms one second, and then jerking away (or jumping under a blanket) at the very next.

It’s in its own way a sort of feat of endurance. Similar to a day at work, when you are stressed and under the gun, and the need to perform is palatable – all your senses, your brainpower, your problem solving capabilities are working in overdrive – you feel alive, you feel accomplished, you feel drained, and exhausted when it’s over.

You may even feel a little out of sorts.

And all you need to put yourself together again is a good night’s sleep.

I know I’m going to try again tonight.

But then again…it could be real.