Pssst, Are You Sleeping?

That's what the voice (voices?) whisper to me some nights.

Hey lady, are you sleeping? it sneers.
I'm trying too, I say.
Why bother? it laughs. I am relentless.

Then the barrage comes in a totally random order, starting innocently, harmlessly -- wait? what time is the doctor's appointment? -- and ramping upwards -- birthday presents, weeds, cousins, eating habits of nine year olds, bumper stickers, agendas, practice schedules, phone calls, yoga, ants. Unflinchingly, it drones on, while the whole house sleeps.

I consider plodding downstairs. Think about making a list. Unloading the dishwasher. Picking a paint color once and for all. But its dark and quiet and what if when I flip a switch, so I don't die tripping over some misplaced fire truck or fort material, the light just shakes me out of sleep completely. And what if there's a bulb missing and where are the extra bulbs/I know I bought some/were they the green kind?/the twisty ones/or old school and is global warming really real and I should read something unbiased about that/I should read more/like a book/ohmygod!/book group.

So I roll over, flip the pillow. Wonder what everyone is dreaming about. Hear someone sigh down the hall.

Then: name tags. God, I hate name tags. They look so lame, so lamely official, and I never know where to put them: above the boob, on the boob, between the boobs? And what if I forget to take it off and run around for hours all HELLO! I'M a Loser? Because I've done that and it sucked. But still, I should get some for that thing on Thursday at the school with cookies (!!) and sign up sheets. I like cookies. And if I have a name tag, maybe someone will sign up for something. Which would be good. Maybe instead of platters of cookies, we should have platters of money. People like money. Why do I never have any in my wallet yet my daughters collect cash like... like cash collectors?

Consider getting into the lemonade stand business. Consider lemonade in general. It's good with iced tea, but otherwise, not so much. AM I STILL AWAKE? What time is it? And I'm tired. Roll over. Take deep breath. Sigh.

And Mad Men? Why can't that show be on teevee 24 hours a day? Because Don Draper is sort of hot and the whole thing is so subtle and genius and did it mean something more when they dumped all their picnic trash on the lawn at the park? Mean something more than bad manners and litterbug-ishness? Like maybe a symbol of their impending arrogance, their ascendence to another, wealthier class? I mean, she shook out the blanket and just flung the debris all over the place! Did people do that in the 60s? I don't think my mom did that. We cleaned up washed-up garbage along the beach in the 70s, after all. Remember that sand cake I once made her? The one I decorated with discarded plastic playtex tubes as candles? Gross. I should ask her about that.

Snoring is really kind of funny, if you think about, if you listen to it long enough.
Yawn. Roll over. Pull up covers... And finally, finally, FINALLY: sleep.

This day will be fueled by buckets of caffeine. And nametags: HELLO I'M sleepy.