Ugly Sleep

I am at times an ugly sleeper. Last night was one of those nights.

I don't snore all the time but when I do, it can be pretty hard on the ears. My snoring requires for me to be on my back with my head slightly turned back, as though I'm looking at something on the bed's headboard. My mouth falls open and some really great snoring comes out. It can get so loud, it will wake me up. Sometimes my eyes will pop open and I'll hear the last few seconds of a snort. That's what happened last night at 3:10 AM, assuming my bedside clock is correct.

I will also talk in my sleep. This doesn't happen very often, but now and then I'll have something to say right out loud while I am snoozing. According to those who have had the misfortune of hearing me, I speak mostly gibberish. Now and then a word can be understood, but generally not much more. It is as though I am speaking my own language. I have tied these outbursts to times of heightened problems with anxiety and depression.

I once had a boyfriend who was a pretty good snorer. I would give him an elbow and that would usually silence him. I can have trouble with clinical anxiety that will occasionally trigger a panic attack in the middle of the night. Believe it or not, the sound of a man snoring can actually be a bit comforting during those times. So there are rare occasions when the low gurgling of male snoring isn't all bad.

I consider myself a pretty deep sleeper, as a rule. I don't awake easily. Unfortunately, when I am awakened in the middle of the night, I often have a tough time going back to sleep. This morning at 3:10 I was rousted by my own boisterous snoring and for the next hour or so I pretty much just laid there, now and then turning to glance at my clock. I know I finally fell back to sleep because I was rudely awakened by the alarm at 5:48, thus ending a night of some pretty ugly sleeping. I'll get another try tonight.

Ditziness Strikes

About twenty-four hours ago I wrote a blog entry about my interest in nature. One day later that interest kind of got the best of me and exposed some grade-A ditziness. I shall explain.

After work today a coworker, James, and I were walking across the parking to our respective cars. As we were approaching his car, I saw several deep scratches in the car's rear door. There were about three scratches each being about a foot long. I think the car is a Mercedes and it's about ten years old. James has always kept very good care of it. I think it is his pride and joy.

Anyway, when I saw the scratches I was shocked. I asked him how could he get such scratches. In a frustrated, annoyed voice, he told me a Bobcat had done it there in the parking lot. I was overwhelmed. I hurried over to his car to take a closer look at the scratches. As I examined the damage, I asked him how he knew the scratches were from a bobcat. He told me that there was a witness, someone had seen it. For a few more seconds I examined the scratches, I then made some comment about how the scratches were very deep and the bobcat must have been trying to get into the car. I then turned towards James and asked him if he ever keeps food in his car.

Well, James gave me this confused look but then nodded and stated that yes, he sometimes has some little snack in the car. I then theorized that the bobcat must have been desperate to get the food, this based on the notion that the scratches were very deep. I then said that bobcats are fairly uncommon but I had never heard of one trying to claw its way into a car.

For a few seconds James glared at me as if I were nuts. Finally he said, "Katie, the Bobcat was plowing snow in the parking lot and the driver just maneuvered too close to my car with its bucket. I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

It took a few seconds for me to put it all together, but when it did I simultaneously shook my head in mild self-irritation while at the same time giggling. "I was picturing a different kind of bobcat," I snickered. "Let's just leave it at that."  

Birding 101

As anyone who has ever read this moronic blog would know, I am a birdwatcher. I am an outdoorsy, nature-loving person in general, and a birdwatcher in particular. Truth is; I have some fairly unusual, and pretty worthless knowledge stored in my head. I can identify North American trees by their leaves and by their bark. I can identify most native foliage by the leaves. I can identify, or at least make a pretty good guess identifying various regional amphibians. I know my area snakes. I can identify almost all the native butterflies, and most of the native moths. I can look at animal scat (or "turds in the wild"), and get some idea of some of the creatures that are in the area by identifying the animal who left the scat, and the contents of the scat. I'm yet to benefit from any of this knowledge, but it's up there in my noggin, rolling around.

A few hours ago my binoculars and I were wandering through a cemetery on the lookout for bird activity when I heard the unmistakable song of a cardinal. I looked up to the top of a tree and there he was, a bright red male.

Just when I thought spring would never arrive, a bird tells me it's not far off. That's what the song of a cardinal is stating, almost literally. He is out there looking for a mate for spring nesting. Welcome to Birding 101. This is actually a little late in the year for the first songs of the cardinal, but that's not surprising, given the winter.

If you ever see a bird feeder offering sunflower seeds -a cardinal favorite- you might see a male cardinal feeding a female. It's one of their courtship things and it is kind of nice to see; almost romantic, in an avian sort of way. But first the male has to make his presence known by song. When he does, he is also making it known that spring is not far off... thank god! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4GJ-7P9Zp4

Bald Guys With Misplaced Anguish

There is a guy I work with who almost accidentally admitted to using Rogaine. Rogaine is an anti-balding medication. The guy is nice enough looking. It seems kind of too bad that he should be worried about baldness. For some reason a lot of men are self-conscious about their baldness. Actually, when guys become actual men and leave boyhood behind, somewhere in their late 20s, too much hair can actually look more odd than does some modest hair loss.

Personally, I don't care if a guy I am interested in is bald or not. I wish I could say that I don't care at all what some perspective guy looks like but unfortunately I'm not that open-minded. I care, it's just baldness is not on the list of negatives.

I have thought about such matters on occasion when it comes to men's physical appearance: what are my guidelines? There is a theoretical line that is in my head and if a guy does not meet that line, then I probably could never get serious about him in a romantic sort of way. The line is not really very high, after all, I'm not exactly Miss Massachusetts, and I'm a goofball. I think the guy would have to be over five feet tall. He would probably have to be under three hundred pounds. He would have to be free of body odor (okay, that's not technically relevant to "appearance"). He would probably have to have all of his front teeth, be the teeth natural or manufactured. Baldness is not on the list, it is not an issue. I would rather the guy be bald than wear a toupee.

My boyfriend, Terry, has thinning hair. He will jokingly say that he no longer has to spend a lot of time using a comb. A bottle of shampoo can last years. He has told me he has to wear a hat on sunny days or endure sunburn on top of his head. He mentioned a hat as a solution, not Rogaine. That's okay with me. In fact, that's how I prefer it.

Dumb Thing I [Don't] Do

This winter I have come to observe personal habits and idiosyncrasies that are kind of nutty. Most of the quirks and tendencies I have had for a while, but it has been only the last month or so that I have really noticed them. I think the habits come from a combination of spending a lot of time by myself throughout my life, simple nerdiness, and maybe a dash of my anxiety and depression disorders too.

I do not make my bed in the morning, or at any other time during the day. When I go to bed at night, the bed is usually exactly how I left it when I climbed out of bed 16 or 17 hours earlier. I make my bed only when I think I might be having an overnight guest. If the guest becomes a regular visitor, then I will eventually inform him that it has never been my habit to make my bed, which in turn usually frees me of that chore.

Unless someone is watching, when I go to my refrigerator to get a drink of milk or juice, I will drink right from the bottle or carton. I will not bother with a glass. When my dishwasher is full and I turn it on, the number of plates and bowls outnumber the glasses by a significant percentage. There are surprisingly few coffee cups too, due to the fact that I will simply rinse out and reuse the same cup or two over and over again. Most of the cups to be washed are cups used by guests.

When alone I talk to myself a lot. Sometimes it is a steady monologue. Most of the time I am talking out loud, in full voice. I am not mumbling or whispering. This is a relatively new phenomenon. I have always mumbled things to myself, but the act of speaking right out loud began only a few years ago. For a while it had me concerned, but I have finally made my peace with it perhaps because I have control of it. I do not talk to myself when someone is around.

When putting on shoes, socks or other foot clothing, I always start with my left foot. Even when I pick up the right shoe first, I will put it down and reached for the left shoe. I do not know where, why, or how this habit began, but it is a regular thing that I have come to notice. It could be a harmless bit of my rather mild obsessive/compulsive disorder. It isn't something that concerns me, but it does seem kind of odd.

A Shower

Once again I'm going to get personal; perhaps too personal. But whose blog is this anyway? Heck, maybe I'll write it and not publish it. We'll see how I feel when I'm done.

I think that the most exhilarating period in the average modern human life is the period when an individual has recently discovered a highly agreeable person with whom to start a romantic relationship, and the subsequent adult intimacy.

Speaking just of the intimacy; the two people are new to each other and desires are at their peak. This period of physical yearning, from its beginning to its "nature" conclusion, can last anywhere from a few months, to perhaps about a year. Early on there could be nervousness or inhibition that could retard or short-circuit the feelings. When those problems are remedied, the mutual desires -lust- can become almost unbearable. It is a feeling of being alive that is almost incomparable in its intensity. Most people have had the good fortune of the experience. I have had the good fortune perhaps a half dozen times. I am in the throes of just such an adventure now. In fact, we are several months along.

One of the activities I have always seemed to enjoy during the highly passionate months of a new relationship is showering together. I might have said as much once or twice before in this idiotic blog. I don't enjoy a mutual shower because I want to save time or water. It has to do with the nuzzling, the caressing, the stroking, and so forth. That now said; Terry, my boyfriend, and I have not yet showered together. We have been together for a few months now and I had never asked, or schemed, my way into the shower with him. The fact that I have not has me slightly alarmed.

Sometimes I wonder if adulthood and maturing is sneaking into my life, or worse; into me. I want to remain youthful as long as possible. It is that pursuit that is at least partially responsible for my watching my weight, and visiting my fitness center at least four times a week. But it goes beyond that. It has to do with more than my being able to run, and dance, and make love in a shower, it has to do with wanting to do those things.

I guess I should be glad that it did finally occur to me that Terry and I have some very stimulating business to attend to. Tomorrow night I'm going to insist that we rendezvous in my shower, and what we do in there will have nothing to do with getting clean.

  

I Need a Winter Break

I actually like winters in the Boston area. I like nestling on the sofa in front of the TV with heavy socks on my feet and a cup of hot chocolate, or more likely, a glass of wine in my hand. I like going out in the snow too. I get bundled up like an undersized bear and go out plodding on an evening walk through the falling snowflakes. A walk in the winter is generally more invigorating than a walk in the summer. I try not to let winter weather slow me down. I still want to go places and do things.

However, I must admit that I am now officially tired of the winter of 2014-2015. I'm tired of trying to drive down treacherous roads and highways that are choked with snow and glistening with ice. I have grown weary of putting on layers upon layers of clothing just to go out and dig my car out of a mountain of snow. Enough is enough, I'm ready for a change. I sometimes wonder if I'll forget what it is like to dash outside to the mailbox on a warm, sunny day wearing shorts and a sleeveless top. I know I'm ready for a change when I reflect upon such ordinary things with fondness.

I'm not asking for much. At this point I'd settle for three or four days of high temperatures in the 40s. I don't necessarily need spring to appear tomorrow, just give me a little break from this arctic winter. Just for a day or so I would like to see a plot of grassy earth rather than have the entire landscape snow-covered. Just for a day or so. That should hold me until sometime in March.  

The Super Bowl

I am something of a football fan. I have lost some of my love as a spectator due to the injuries caused by the game, and the subsequent long-term damage; specifically long-term cognitive damage. Still, I can put that criticism aside and enjoy a game.

My father has been a Patriot fan since they were the Boston Patriots. He got me started on the game in general, and the Pats in particular. The first Patriot quarterback I remember watching was Steve Grogan. He retired in 1990 when I was five. I have never been to a Pats game but these days I would probably just as soon watch them on HD television from the comfort of my home, or someone else's home.

Last night I watched the game from the comfort of someone else's home. My boyfriend Terry, and I, were invited to his friend's house for the game, and the accompanying party. I spent the evening fighting (in spirit) for the Pats while sipping Knob Creek bourbon and eating pizza rolls and the occasional mini burrito.

The game was all but over when with seconds left in the game, the Seahawk quarterback threw an ill-advised interception from the one yard line, ending any chance of what looked like a sure touchdown, and win, for the Seahawks.

Despite the fact that the decision to pass handed the Patriots the victory, many of the pro-Patriot viewers surrounding me were astounded at the stupidity of the Seahawk play call. Still, the call could have been worse. In fact, some slightly intoxicated female Patriots fan was heard saying, "Passing the ball in that situation might have been idiotic, but at least they didn't punt."

She really was just joking, but still; perhaps a little too much bourbon for that lady.

Okay, back to work.