Crazy Crap Item #190: The part where I am not alone

Yet another county heard from re. chapter 1 and and chapter 2 of Ambien madness. Apparently, sleep-texting is not uncommon, according to this article thoughtfully provided by Roxi.

Crazy Crap Item #189: The part where Charlie Gibson cracks wise

Tonight, on the news, there was a story about a violinist left his Stradivarius in a cab. In recounting its recovery, anchorman Charlie Gibson was heard to quip, "And voila! Or should I say, 'violin'?"

No, Charlie. You should not.

Crazy Crap Item #188: The part where Sailor Jack weighs in

Today, my dad and I were watching the news, which reported on the ongoing battle between Obama and Clinton.

My dad, a lifelong Republican, said, "I hope Obama wins. I'd like to see a president with a name like Obama. Not some Anglo Saxon 'Ward' or 'Howe.' 'Obama.' I'd like to see that."

And then I glanced out the windows, and the pigs, they were soaring by.

Crazy Crap Item #187: The part where I prudently proofread before hitting "send"

As I may have mentioned before, this is a bit of a stressful time. I'm in Banning, caring for a recuperating father, and negotiating the many needs of a household in low-key, senior citizen crisis.

As may be expected, there have been some lapses in my usually razor-sharp mental acuity. Many of you have already learned of the great Ambien fiasco of 2008.

This morning, I experienced a similar lapse. I was responding to an email from a client, who was apologizing that a project we had started had been repeatedly delayed.

I thought I'd answer with a bit of literary flair, opening my email with

"Hey, Tony -- The best laid plans of mice and men... etc."

Which would be very zippy. However, what I actually typed was:

"Hey, Tony -- The best laid men... etc."

That's me. Crafting porn-inspired emails to send to important clients.

Crazy Crap Item #186: The part where I share another story of Ambien-induced hijinks

So, it seems my story of what happens when Kay takes Ambien in lieu of Synthroid has rung some chimes with readers. My dear friend Lindsay shared this second-hand tale of Ambien-induced hijinks:

"a super sarcastic 29 year old, married mommy from sun prairie, who just took a leave of absence, secondary to her extreme and unhealthy weight loss following baby number 4, said she woke up one morning with part of a melted ice cream cone stuck to her face. "

And don't ask Linday what she did on Ambien. Just don't.

Crazy Crap Item #185: The part where I attract male attention

Still in Banning, and making many a trip to the grocery store. Ice cream and wine, they must be purchased on a regular basis.

On the way home from a recent trip to the hip doctor, we stopped at the store to pick up some baby back ribs, strawberries and dishwashing liquid. As we left the cashier, my mother and I caught sight of a very small redheaded fellow. Like Ron Howard in The Music Man, he was.

My mother pronounced him quite adorable, and as we passed him, he locked eyes with me.

"You're pretty!" he shouted.

I thanked him, and replied that he was quite handsome.

"Feel my muscle," he offered, holding out his arm in a strong-man pose.

I felt it, and commented on its massiveness.

You know how redheads blush? To the very scalp? He did. And then some.

Crazy Crap Item #184: The part where my subconscious appears incoherent

So, this morning, I pulled the bonehead moves of all bonehead moves. Upon arisal, I knocked back my every-morning pill (Synthroid), only to realize as it was sliding down my gullet that I'd actually knocked back an Ambien. As in "sleep now for 8 hours."

Since I've never been good at inducing vomiting (as is testified to by my curvaceous frame), I explained the situation to my parents, curled up in bed, and looked for some website to play me some entertaining tunes till I slipped back into dreamland, all the while cursing myself for screwing a perfectly good day.

Now, I've heard countless tales of people who respond to Ambien by performing various and sundry acts in their sleep. Sleepwalking. Sleepeating. I even had a friend who bashfully admitted to a bout of "sleepscrewing." I've never noticed any of these behaviors in myself.

So I snoozed, the delightful accompaniment of showtunes and occasional interviews on Playbill's all show-tune radio.

At noon, my mom awakened me to help find my dad's pills, and feeling vaguely spry, I decided it was time to get up, Ambien be damned. I ate donuts, sipped coffee, cruised the intertrons and generally entertained myself.

All was well, till Eamon texted me thusy:

(1:14:33 PM) eamondaly1110: so was that actually you this morning?
(1:14:38 PM) eamondaly1110: you were kinda freaking me out.

I inquired precisely what he meant. He responded with this record of an earlier exchange:

(10:46:18 AM) kaydaly88: IUUUU
(10:46:35 AM) kaydaly88: IUYYRF
(10:46:43 AM) eamondaly1110: do tell!
(10:46:51 AM) eamondaly1110: are you sleeptyping?
(10:47:51 AM) kaydaly88: IIIIUUUUUYYYYYYRTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWSS
(10:48:20 AM) kaydaly88: HAVE ON PLAYBILL RADIO
(10:48:38 AM) kaydaly88: SHOWTUNS
(10:49:00 AM) kaydaly88: V, ANNOYED
(10:49:03 AM) eamondaly1110: WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?
(10:49:37 AM) kaydaly88: FDYBBBU
(10:50:23 AM) kaydaly88: SO ANNOHING

Sure, some people act out their libidinous impulses when under the influence. Me, I sleeptype. Sexy.

Crazy Crap Item #183: The part where I see a sign of the impending apocalyse

Currently, I'm basking in beautiful Banning, California. My father has undergone hip replacement #2, and I'm helping! For those of you who are paying attention, you will recall that this is my second hip-related journey to the sun-drenched Southland, my first such visit being last September.

Things have gone swimmingly this time around, much smoother than last time, and Dad came home a mere three days after the surgery, and has been hotdogging around on his walker ever since.

Our main pastimes have consisted of (1.) supping on the two megatons of coldcuts my sister thoughtfully provided before my arrival; (2.) alternating helpings of wine and ice cream; (3.) partaking of my mother's very favorite form of entertainment: court television.

My mother is a woman who loves her court TV. It's the perfect retired-person diversion: teeny, sordid, three-person dramas that never last more than 15 minutes. And lots of yelling, which ensures that you'll always be able to hear what people are saying.

It was during one of these marathon viewings that I encountered ... Judge Hatchett. She's sassy. She's opinionated. She's not afraid to heap disdain on the plaintiff and defendent alike.

And what kind of lawsuit does she preside over? Paternity suits. Paternity suits, paternity suits, paternity suits, all the livelong day. Baby momma comes on. "Baby Daddy is the daddy of my baby." "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are." Much debate as to morals, ethics and standards. Judge Hatchett pulls out a red envelope that has the outcome of a DNA test. Case closed. Bring out the next Baby Momma.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: We are a culture in decline.

Crazy Crap Item #182: The part where I infringe on all sorts of copyright laws so I can share a fart joke

Lately, I've been reckoning with the heavy influence Julie Andrews had on my early years. At age 6 or so, my parents took me to the re-release of The Sound of Music. In case you aren't aware, that tune-infused biopic is a cinematic marathon, clocking in at 3 hours long. As I recall, the theatrical release including an intermission.

And yet, I recall quite clearly sitting rapt on my mom's lap, nary a squirm or complaint.

I became a child obsessed. My sister and I endlessly played the soundtrack. I dug through my parents' record collection, and came across two more Andrews' masterpieces, the original soundtracks of My Fair Lady and Camelot. For many years, everything I knew about medieval and Edwardian England, I knew through Julie.

Later, we added the Julie Andrews Christmas album to the collection, and in grammar school, I stumbled across Julie's first children's book, Mandy, which I read and loved.

Then I grew up, and poor Julie became kind of passe. Sure, I'd later marvel to her freakishly flutelike 19-year-old voice in The Boyfriend, but I'd moved on.

So it was with some delight of rediscovery that I happened upon an interview with Ms. Andrews on NPR, in which she was plugging her new book, Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. Despite her reputation as the sugar-coma queen, Julie came across in interview in a way I'd always supected she would. Very humble, realistic, practical, and good-humored. As she talked about her fairly brutal childhood (alcoholic parents, overwork, poverty, London blitzes), she projected a remarkable air of blithe survival. I knew I really had to read her book.

And so it is that I discovered that our Miss Julie also has a healthy love for potty humor, bless her soul. And so it is that I, in defiance of copyright law, print my favorite excerpt, which I hope and trust is still well within the parameters of "fair use." Enjoy.


Not long into the run [of My Fair Lady], I became aware that Rex had a rather windy stomach. I expected that much of his balletic "dancing" stemmed from attempts to clench through gaseous moments.

One night his timing was impeccable.

In the penultimate scene of the show, Eliza runs away to Higgins's mother's house. Higgins barges in and confronts Eliza, and she launches into a long speech about the difference between a lady and a guttersnipe; i.e., it is not how she behaves but how she is treated. All Rex had to do at this point was pace up and down at the back of the scene. He didn't have to say a word.

On this particular evening, as I finished my speech, Rex released a veritable machine-gun volley of pent-up wind. Members of the orchestra heard it--every musician looked up to the stage in bewilderment; even the first few rows of the audience heard it. There was a shocked silence, and at that precise moment, Cathleen Nesbitt, as [Higgins' mother], had the line "Henry, dear, please don't grind your teeth."

It was outrageously funny. The orchestra roared with laughter. I could not look at Rex, and every single line I uttered in the scene after that had a double meaning.

HIGGINS: Eliza, you ungrateful wretch, you talk about me as if I were a motor bus.
ELIZA: So you are a motor bus; all bounce and go and no consideration for anyone!

...Eliza's song "Without You" follows this dialogue, and I could see the lyrics coming at me before I sang them: "No, my reverberating friend, you are not the beginning and the end!"

I took so many pauses in that scene trying to contain myself that the show ran over by about ten minutes.

I found myself punching Rex during the curtain calls.

"How could you do such a thing?"

He pulled at his tie and straightened it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was always a windy boy--even when I was young."