I’m itching and I don’t know how to scratch

 My back itched the other night as I got in bed. I was going to write “in a place I can’t easily reach when it occurred to me, “What place on my back is easy to reach?”

I asked Mom to put some skin creme on it and, when that didn’t help, to scratch it please.

That didn’t help either, so I began using my pillow like a bear yes a tree trunk,  leaning against and scratching.

That didn’t work either, so I started contorting my body to try to reach the itch.

I stopped not because it worked but because I got worried I was going to roll off the bed with all my contortions. Sure, dying would have stopped the itch but probably not worth it, I decided.

All this happened with the sleep mask perched atop my head.      

I decided to rely on television to take my mind off the itch, which seemed to be working until my leg started to jump. My left leg.

I shut off the TV and read, which usually works. Not this time.

I tried sitting up in bed, which also usually works. Not this time. Plus the tubing for the mask got hooked on my pillow and started pulling me back, so I laid back down. On the tubing, so more contorting to get it out from under me. 

My back still itched, remember.

I put the mask on, hoping that might stop the restless leg. Nope.

I read some more, took off the mask and sat up, and read again.

Finally, after 2, I fell asleep.

My itch had stopped at some point, but I don’t recommend this post as a way to stop an itchy back

In case you’re wondering, the itchy spot was just above my left shoulder blade.

Fra-Gee-Lay

 The “soft glow of electric sex” illuminates the keyboard as I write this and most blogs these days.

But relying on light from the leg lamp from A Christmas Story is not my only tie to that awesome icon.

In the movie, Ralphie’s dad mispronounces the label on the lamp’s mailing crate: Fra-Gee-Lay.

I too am Fra-Gee-Lay lately.

I’ll be fine, happy even, one minute. The next, I want to cry.  

I have no idea why.

Maybe if my leg lamp was lifesize.

No comparison

 Gram was like no other (well, except Mom).

I remember when I fell and put my head through the glass door at home, she tried to catch me. An little 80–something  catching an albeit little 25-year-old. As I recall I ducked out of the way. She then made light of the fall, which I was not in the mood for.

She was great.

But she had one flaw that annoyed me no end. Still does, in fact.

She would compare our situations, ignoring that one of us was 90, one 30.

All the annoyance came rushing back the other day when I asked my doctor if either of the specialists she recommended had experience with people in chairs.

Yes, the elderly, she replied.

IT’S NOT THE SAME.

Not so good

 I wore the sleep mask for 9.4 hours last night.

Awesome, you say.

Except for two things.

1. It belies what a crappy night I had, involving restless legs, waking up 15 minutes after falling asleep and more.
2. It more or less equals the amount of time I wore the whole rest of the week. And this was the week I saw my sleep doctor, who seemed confused when we told him that part of the problem is I can’t adjust the machine myself. Just twist the knob, he helpfully explained, forcing me to helpfully explain back, I can’t.

He rallied with some good advice I’ll try.

I hate my sleep machine.

Ron Burgundy kills me (almost literally)

Both Anchorman movies have always cracked me up.

I was watching the sequel one night, and my niece, who has the bedroom above mine, came done and asked her mother if I was OK. Apparently, I was laughing too hard.

Lord knows what she would have thought last night.

We were watching the original, and the rumble or the News Team discussion of it just set me off.

I started laughing crying, gasping, and then I couldn’t breathe.

I remember thinking, “OK, I can’t breathe. I need to calm down.”

But I couldn’t.

Then I thought “This is going to be a really dumb way to die.”

That only made me laugh harder.

I finally got in a breath or two.

I think it was my sister saying to me during the laughter, If we kill you, everyone is going to be really mad.

I don’t want to be a spider

 In my youth, I played a game called Dino Eggs on  the Commodore 64. You were a time traveler who had accidentally given dinosaurs measles. In the game you travel back again to capture eggs and baby dinosaurs and take them to the future to cure them.

You encounter various hazards, including an angry dino mom, but the one I have been thinking of is spiders.

If you are bitten by a spider, your health starts failing and unless you make it to the Time Warp, you devolve into a spider.

I too am devolving.

I can’t do too many things I could do a year ago.

I don’t think I’ll turn into a spider, though I bet Time Master Tim didn’t anticipate that either.

Say what?

I emailed a question to a woman who I have dealt with a lot on email but never met.  She replies. “Give me a buzz.”

Ugh, 

But I have had good luck with a captioning app recently, so I was confident, maybe cocky even.

I called her, and sure enough the app worked well.

Here is the transcript:

“Who's  that?  I'm having a hard time understanding you.  I'll have to maybe have you go  to voicemail and then we can connect.  Thanks.  (Disconnected)”

Captioning apps do not work the other way, and nothing works when your voice sounds as if you have a mouthful of dirt.

I emailed again.  Friedreich's ataxia is so awesome.