Okay, I’m starting to think that this Ambien thing may not be quite the fix I initially believed it to be. I mean, I love the concept of 1-2-3-SLEEP. It’s handy on a plane as I’d have to down a bottle of Single Malt as the jet Taxi’ed down the runway just to take an edge off my usual TPA-LAX jaunt — Forget dozing through it — and while that would probably earn the esteem of Ewan McGregor and Sean Connery, it won’t do much for the poor sucker I throw up on mid flight. Of course, you can’t even bring your own Bottle onto a plane at this juncture, so the point is moot. Life is too short to get drunk on bad booze. Voila, that little white pill.
Now, they warn that you should take this only prior to going to bed, and while I thought that “suggestion” was along the lines of: ‘Do not operate farm machinery,’ (It’s been a while since I harvested with a Combine)–what they REALLY mean is: ‘Padlock your Fridge, bolt down the cupboards, and strap yourself down to that Tempurpedic, Baby.’
Case and point….I was having one of those toss and turn kind of nights. Now, while I embrace the concept of watching some guy on cable juicing for an hour or two–espousing the benefits of raw greens, I just couldn’t get into it. I tried to read, but after ten minutes going over the same page, I recognised that my concentration wasn’t happening either–so I threw in the towel and padded off to fetch some pharmaceutical aid.
Stay with me on this one–I woke up about three hours later on my tapestry (trust me, these suckers are hard to clean) sofa. My baby blue egyptian cotton (even harder to clean) Celestine gown covered with red splatters. Horrified and convinced that something decidedly wrong had occurred (like my liver had been stolen and I slept through it) — I stumbled to the counter and saw an open can of tomato sauce and CAJUN Seasonings with what appeared to be a trail of taco shells all over my kitchen floor. Now, for what it’s worth, I have never to my knowledge even used Cajun seasoning. I think it was the remnant of either my first marriage or some mishap in the condiment aisle (yeah, that’s what they all say).
I’ve traded stories with a few of my friends who sheepishly acknowledge similar ‘incidents’. I’m learning that it could have been worse (one of my girlfriends in Costa Mesa woke up with Baby Ruth wrappers tangled in her bedsheets)–and while I had read an article in the New Yorker, I had no idea. Whoa.
Now, I can’t imagine flying ‘solo,’ but if you see a woman hijack the snack cart in flight, it may be me.