CAUTION:This blog might not be suitable for children under 13 or adults with back problems ;p So have I ever mentioned that when I DO sleep I am a vivid dreamer? No, I don't mean the "I'm going to weigh 102, have a single chin and no stretch marks" kind of dreamer. I'm talking subs chasing donuts through tunnels kind of dreamer. After a lot of tossing and turning and punching the pillow I finally took a Darvocet and fell into a restless, peri-menopausal sleep (hot/cold/hot/cold) around 1 am. Shortly thereafter I was ripped from my bed and placed before The Tribal Council (of what, I'm not sure). Standing before me were 5 men and women and in the middle was the head guy. He was Lucifer or Beelzebub or one of those bad dudes. They were dressed like Roman Gladiators, but their suits weren't armor, they were the color of puke-green scrubs. And I was wearing some underwire, front hook, wonder woman bra and I couldn't get the darn thing hooked, while the one strap kept slipping off my shoulder (oh believe me, it gets more bizarre). I have been called before The Council to discuss the terms and conditions of my cell phone contract - apparently I am in violation. But it isn't really my cell phone they are concerned about; it is my pager. As you know, I'm in technical support and the nature of the beast demands 365x24x7 support, a function which I have always cheerfully shared in the past with my team. They were insisting I was in direct violation of that contract because I did not have said pager on my person. People, I'm dead serious, I'm not making this up. They were just about ready to banish my mortal soul to some eternal place to-be-determined-later (the assumption being the netherworld), when I explained that my contract only stipulated that the pager be within hearing distance at all times and there it was, down there on my nightstand next to my bed, where I WOULD BE if they hadn't ripped me out of there and dragged me up here. The entire time I'm struggling with this STUPID bra that won't hook and that darn strap that is slipping. Suddenly everything freezes except for Lucifer or Satan, whoever he was, and me and he says "this is ridiculous, are you ready to go back? Get yourself all fixed up there" and starts to send me back to bed. Halfway back the power goes out and I get stuck for a minute, then I land on the back of a roller coaster car with a family in it. I wake up in a cold sweat, shaking, looking around the room trying to figure out WT# that was all about. I look at the clock, praying it is time to get up (and that is something that NEVER happens) - the clock blinks back 2:00 am. I have to use 2 hands to grab the TV remote because I'm shaking so much. I turn on something soothing, (a nice, liberal news program) and start to calm down. Whoa I think, I have got to stop blogging so late (while I'm really thinking "triscuits, swiss, and Peanut Butter cookies at midnight? It is a good thing you aren't DEAD"). I'm really rather shaken about all this. I need something to help me sleep. The cookies are gone, so I decide some protein is in order with a small amount of a sensible carb to relax me. Two PB sandwiches later (all natural PB cancelled out by very worthless, cheap white bread) I'm curled up and slowly falling back in to a peaceful (hopefully) sleep. Oh but it was NOT to be. Now I'm in a home (or is it a restaurant) full of Roughnecks. For those of you who aren't Texans, a roughneck is an oil rig worker. They are big, brawny guys, definitely young because it isn't easy work, hair and teeth are optional, but tattoos are required. Brains are often checked at the door. It is some sort of National Roughneck Day and the place is full of all of these Patriotic Roughneckers celebrating....something. A few of the older roughnecks are telling the younger guys how proud they are of them because they are working on this festive holiday and now their reward is to kick back and have fun. That is when I decide this is a restaurant and not someone's home. I decide this, because, in addition to all of these young, well-built, sweaty men there are Hooter's girls. Only these girls aren't wearing the traditional Hooter's tops. They aren't wearing any tops; proudly 'saluting' our fearless roughnecks. I understand now, I'm at a topless, national roughneck Fourth of July party. And I'm topless too, only I'm not 'saluting', I'm 'bowing'. While discussing the merits of having Spanish champagne at midnight and emptying out a huge container of shrimp gumbo (on my own, without being asked, I really impressed the head Hooter), I stood up on a table, grabbed the 'girls', hoisted them high and said THIS is what I would want them to look like if I had the money. For the second time in only a few hours I woke up in a cold sweat, shaking, looking around, wondering if The Tribal Council had truly sent me to hell. I prayed hard it was time to get up - the clock blinks 5:30 am. Now I know for many of you, 5:30 am is the middle of the day. For me it is still the wee hours of the morning. I was not about to soothe this with another round of PB sandwiches and Countdown with Keith Olberman. I tossed for about 30 minutes and realized that if I fell asleep now I would never wake again, destined to spend my life before The Council of roughnecks, emptying shrimp gumbo and flashing my pancakes. So I'm writing this all down to share it with you as my formal pledge to never, ever, ever again take that extra Darvocet when I can’t sleep. Someone have any Klonopin ;p.