Friday, October 28, 2005

Super Glue Goo Starring Doogie, George & Clinically Obese Woman

As all three of you who peruse my blog from time to time must realize by now, this blog has become a playground for my Demons, a place for them to thrive so they don't destroy what little personal life I'm attempting to maintain without going madly insane.

But sometimes my Demons like to play and frolic at three in the morning and they produce quite a bit of noise.

Thus, I can't sleep.

Dialysis patients historically have periods where they don't sleep, but since my mind seems to perform negative actions exponentially, I had to seek other methods to combat their manic activities.

I wish to thank my friends Tylenol PM, Restirol, Adavan, Vicodin and Lunesta for attempting to help me fight my demons. You all fought valiantly and with valor.

Unfortunately, you were all handily defeated, and my Demons hopped up and down on what little furniture I own to celebrate.

Thus, I still can't sleep.

It had reached a point where my vision would black out for twenty or thirty seconds at any given point, or I would become so dizzy I would have to lie down or I wouldn't be able to maintain my balance.

So I researched sleep clinics and found one here in Santa Rosa that my nephrologist was willing to refer me to.

Last night I grabbed my pillow and headed over to the clinic for my 9pm appointment.

As I entered, about three steps in front of me Clinically Obese Woman was also carrying a pillow, so I at least had some comfort knowing I'm not the only one in the known universe who has this problem.

After all my reading online, I could guess that sleep apnea was probably her affliction. Overweight people typically snore to such an extent that their airway becomes blocked and they stop breathing numerous times during a regular eight hour stretch.

I barely tip the scales at a buck fifteen. I was hoping this procedure would finally tell me why I more often than not awake at 6am every frickin' day with no rhyme or reason.

As I entered the office a middle aged man looking remarkably like George Costanza gretted us both and pointed to two different clinic rooms on either side of the expansive lobby.

I was hopeful the receptionist with the short raven hair who always showcased tight little skirts in the daytime would be in attendance to help me with my sleep study.

No, not like that. Welcome back to PG-13 land goofballs.

So George Costanza escorts me to what can best be described as a horribly awkward melding of a doctor's examination room and a hastily fashioned Motel 6 single occupancy room.

George starts to recite a bunch of rules and guidelines to follow, but he's speaking in a voice so bored and monotone that he sounded like a poorly paid tour guide.

I hadn't slept more than two hours in the last three days, so I was falling asleep just trying to focus on this guy's sentences.

Maybe he should use his voice to record audio books to help people sleep. A regular Trump empire in the making.

He leaves and I start to make myself comfortable by ripping the comforter from the bed and cranking the fan up to its highest setting.

As I'm changing into my sweats a young kid with Doogie Howser features comes in and sits down to explain that they'll be placing plastic doohickeys all over my head and upper body to record my sleep patterns.

His voice cracked like Peter Brady and he wouldn't look me straight in the eye when he spoke. For some reason he was much more nervous than I was.

Remember the scene in the original "Matrix" where Keanu rises out of his liquidy peapod and gasps for air for the first time?

I looked just like that when Doogie was finished, except I'm not dating an Italian model.

He had to use this Super Glue Goo like substance and every time he applied one of the doohickeys, he pressed really hard to make sure it was fastened to my body.

When I climbed into bed I felt as though I had been through this before, as though this entire process had already happened.

Then I realized where the deja vu deja vu'd from.

A flood of past hospital stays with IV needles dragging long thin tubing across my body came back to haunt my eventual slumber.

Throughout the night, whenever I tossed and turned, (which was actually the theme of the entire stay) a past hospital stay invaded my mind.

Three different times Doogie opened the door to ask if I was okay.

"Duh, this is why I'm doing a sleep study! I can't sleep! Now go back to your desk and call Vinnie or beg Wanda for sex again...just leave me alone!"

That's what I should have said.

"I'm fine. I just can't sleep," is all I could manage to explain.

Doogie woke me around 5:30am. I heard Clinically Obese Woman in the hallway yawning while describing exactly what 3500 calorie meal she would be shoving down her gullet after she exited the building.

All the Super Glue Goo that had helped affix the doohickeys to my body had all banded to create this smell not unlike stale milk. Doogie was grouchy as he pulled the wires from my body.

I emptied my bladder as I realized the entire experience was highly ironic.

There really wasn't much "sleep" attributed to any of the process.

I decided to treat myself to the Big Breakfast at McDonald's as a reward for enduring the entire experience.

When I arrived at home, I looked in the mirror and realized I still had some of the Super Glue Goo stuck to my chin.

This would explain why the young woman at the drive thru window kept glancing at me trying not to laugh.

She must have thought I just came from the set of a local porn shoot.

So to speak.

And now that I think about it, since my doctor still hasn't called me with the results, the whole process has turned out to be a huge yanking waste of time.

Although I do believe I have a sitcom idea where we bring back two historic TV icons and place them in a sleep center where they encounter wacky characters each and every week.

Before you know it, hilarity ensues and you've got yourself ratings gold.

"Super Glue Goo" should premiere as a winter replacement on the WB in January.