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she· verb
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03.30.03 I just got through three hours of the freakiest nap on the planet. I shouldn't have napped really, I should have gone straight to bed after Saturday Night Live, but this Roman Polanski thing was on E True Hollywood Story and though I put in a tape, I was tired and thought, "I'll just lie here on the couch for a minute with the dogs in order to muster the energy to let them out for their end-of-the-evening whiz and to put myself to bed properly." Nothing ever works out as planned. I promptly dozed off and woke up for a second or two when Roman Polanski met up with his father after WWII. Still in my clothes, I wasn't entirely comfortable, but the dogs were snuggly, one on my head and the other behind my knees. I figured what the hell and let myself drift off again. After an undetermined amount of time, I felt a hand on my arm and thought Hula must be home. Then I realized, hey, if he were home, he would have said something, not just put his hand on my arm. And HEY, the dogs would have gotten up to greet him! The hand was no longer on my arm, but I couldn't move and couldn't wake myself up. I was officially in one of those screwed up sleep stages where your body is paralyzed, but you're conscious and you can't snap out of it. Certain now that the hand belonged either to my dead father, or to one of the fathers of two friends who recently lost them or worse, a murderous alien, I began to panic. With a lot of effort I did wake up, but being the lazy lazy girl I am, after determining there were no dead fathers or aliens in the room, I didn't actually get up off the couch. Roman Polanski's second (third?) wife, Sharon Tate had just been murdered and I stayed awake for a minute or two of the Manson part. I then drifted in and out of sleep paralysis and vague consciousness catching snippets of Polanski arrested for rape, a panel discussion regarding The Piano and some Tony Robbins motivational tape show (JUST THREE EASY PAYMENTS OF $69.99!) until I forced myself to finally get up, turn off the TV, put out the floating candle that was hovering over the fireplace and walk into the bedroom where I realized my foot felt funny--I looked down and saw that all my toes were bent sideways. Of course, it wasn't until I noticed that the computer was off (I distinctly remember leaving it on) that I realized I WAS STILL DREAMING. Of course. I yelled loudly to force myself awake but the sound that eventually came out of me was mumbly and choked off. I felt drugged but it worked. I was really up. I was really up and afraid to go back to sleep for fear of more of the same. I guess I didn't make more of an effort to go to bed in the first place because Hula's not home yet. He's off at work finishing up this poster he volunteered to make for a nonprofit organization that's holding an art exhibit here in town. I just called him and he sounds tired and cranky. I'm tired and cranky too. So what do I do when tired and cranky and a little freaked out at 4:00 in the morning? Crack open a beer and write an entry, of course. Ooh. I think the paper just came, either that or one of the dead fathers is thumping around on my front porch. Gotta run.
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