The recipe for using a dutch oven

By Beau on May 13, 2005 9:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (123)

For anyone who hasn't followed my incessant bouts with insomnia over the years and wondered why, as a health-care professional, I didn't self medicate, I have this to say: the better half of our gruesome twosome is an addiction specialist so how stupid would I look getting hooked on the juice? That being said...

About two weeks ago, when I was just starting my long, accelerated burn into uncontrollable manic-anxiety over Finance, I coaxed myself into several midnights of reading and problem-solving but with a six-thirty wake up call the next morning for work, the only thing I could think of was to take some Benadryl to get some sleep so I did. And slept soundly until the alarm went off the next morning (and consequently, woke up with a dry nose and unclogged sinuses so whadda ya know, I have allergies). Not to ever pass up a good thing, I've been taking Benadryl now every night and sleeping clear through undisturbed.

Of course no one gets addicted to Benadryl, but the fact that I have been sneaking them for the last week so Jeff didn't find out (but like, duh, he knew anyway) does kind of indicate my guilty conscious is growing psychologically dependent on them. Or at least that's what I've talked myself into so last night I opted to go Benadryl-free just to prove that I could.

Then in a fright after a night of tossing and turning which really revved up into high-gear when I started playing footsie with the kitty under the covers, I caught a wiff of the foulest, most purulent stench that really shouldn't have come from any living creature on God's green Earth. In my semi-sleepy haze I instantly deduced that I'd scared the kitty so bad by playing footsie that she'd completely shit herself at the end of the bed under the covers. Knowing how anything of this nature sends Jeff over the edge (though the kitty hadn't ever done anything like it before), I was considerate enough to manically shake him awake screaming, "The kitty shit in the bed! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!" while trying to untangle myself from the sheets while not getting cat-dookie smeared all over us at the same time. And the stench kept getting worse every time I lifted the covers. Strange how that happens.

Jeff meanwhile, used to my early morning crazy talk, sort of rolled me over and told me it was OK and to go back to sleep. I argued for a second about the kitty poop but he just patted me and told me to go back to sleep which I did all the while saying, "That's not right. It just isn't right at all".

It was this morning when we got up and I had flung back the covers sure to find a well-smeared pile of cat crap that Jeff admitted the vanilla shake I'd mainlined into him at dinner the night before really didn't agree with him gastronomically and it was very possible, while not finding the conclusive poop really anywhere under the covers, he'd just ripped a foofie that I caught wind of.

And so I'll say it again: That just isn't right. At. All.