I’m awake. I’m awake now. Jolted awake.
I just collapsed down onto the couch to write about how tired I was when a creepy, semi-translucent, extra-from-Arachnophobia, Amazon spider plopped down next to me, catapulting me and my laptop back into the air. Picture an elephant with a mouse. Same idea. This actually felt a little Matrix-y though, because I felt like I was dodging the eight-legged beast’s poison sack in slow-mo, barely escaping its hairy, snapping jaws. I hate spiders.
Hey, yo, do I look like Miss Muffet to you? I don’t think so. *Squish*
That’s my Tony Soprano, I’ll pop-a-cap-in-dat-spider’s-abdomen tone, if you couldn’t tell. Please see diagram below for a spider anatomy refresher. I know it’s been years. You’re welcome.
Anyway. Before The Spider (BTS), I was going to sit down and describe my night last night and why I’m pooped. If you’re in the mood for an awesome drunken VIP night club story with girl fights and Justin Timberlake sightings, this ain’t the one to read.
I’m bushed because last night I stayed over at my grandma’s.
Yeah. This is a great place to stop reading.
You’re still here? You sure?
Let me first say that I love my grandma and that my mom, Kellan and I had a wonderful visit with her.
Ok. Let’s do this.
To set the ambience, imagine a rooster clock in the next room over cock-a-doodle-dooing every hour, and a stern voice announcing the hour, every hour on the hour, from yet another clock. But the AM and PM are backwards, so it’s stating 6 PM when really, it’s 6 AM. My grandma’s clocks all display (or air-horn out) a different time, like Willy Wonka’s fun house or something, or that room of clocks in the movie “Hook”. (Ru-fee-o! Gawd, I love that movie. A ’90s classic. I could go for some of that fluorescent frosting gunk the lost kids eat in that one scene. If you know what scene I’m talking about, I bet you’re salivating right now too.)
My grandma’s house has three bedrooms and a bathroom all interconnected upstairs. It’s really a neat setup and I remember thinking it was so cool as a child. What I don’t remember? The beds being so stiff. Another gentle reminder that I’m getting old. Old-er. Let’s just say I didn’t need the verbal reminder of how little time had passed since the last time the clock voice startled me, as my numb body parts did the trick to wake me on an hourly basis. This must be how it feels when soldiers sleep in cold, hard trenches. No, actually, not so much, Donna Drama.
Every time I awoke, my tired eyes would settle on the life-size wolf puzzle hung up overhead, clawing at me from the flower wallpaper. I would blink until the image was clear enough to spook me awake. I would then take a shot of water and try to get back to sleep. (My grandma has shot-glass sized water glasses. Maybe 4 oz of water is all she requires but Beadling Wildebeests need to stay hydrated. We need troughs of water within an arm’s reach at all times or we pant and develop excessive dry-mouth. The white foam around our fangs turns into a cement-like sludge-paste. It’s very uncomfortable. Our howl is deeply affected.)
Another little tidbit adding to the Night O’ Insomnia: My grandma still uses electric blankets. I was fumbling with the dial on one of these for half the night, nearly lighting my leg hair on fire at one point. Toasty.
She also has a cat whose terrifying, crackling meow could wake the dead. Correction: It is not in fact her cat, but a neighbor’s cat, and it has decided to take up residency at both houses. Hey, if it enjoys my grandma’s company, that I can totally understand. But the thing has chronic laryngitis. Or it was using one of those voice-changers that the killer used in “Scream”. What’s your favorite scary movie, Sydney?
To top it all off, I shared a room with Kellan, my one-year-old huffer, snuffer and puffer. His pack-n-play was lodged between the wall and the end of my bed and my ears perked at his every snort, moan and whisper throughout the night. I swear he muttered Mamaaa at one point and then rolled over, smushing his cheek further into the mesh wall, dropping back off into Baby Dreamland. My brain immediately rapid-recalled one of the horrifying scenes from “Mama” the horror movie that was recently in theaters. No, I didn’t go see it – the trailer was enough to scare me shitless. All it took was a split-second shot of a scary scene (read: creepy arms reaching out of shadows grasping for small children) to be emblazoned into my memory for middle-of-the-night regurgitation. I can’t remember what’s on my grocery list the moment I step into Wegman’s, but the pee-your-pants frightening 15-seconder from “Mama”? Got it. For life.
So that was my night. Sleepless, sure, but worth it. I would do it all again to be able to spend time with my grandma. She’ll be 90 in August and she’s just as much of a spit-fire as she was at my age. The woman still goes dancing every week and she has a new boyfriend. Last night, she was gabbing away on the phone to said boyfriend way past when my mom and I went to bed. She is everything I hope to be at 90. (Tim, I’d like it if you could outlive me so I don’t have to be alone or on Match.com at 90. Thanks, love.)
Anyway. This has been fun but now I must go to bed. I think I’m still hearing roosters.
(Shit, Kellan is awake now. Does that seriously mean I chose blogging over napping? Wow. This is more chilling than “Mama”.)