A tale of better living through chemistry
The road to my bed is fraught with danger and excitement.
Having experienced more years than I’d care to count, I find my once-pristine beehive wigs showing their age—the lacquer yellowing and cracking, a testament to the relentless passage of time. With age comes new perils, chief among them the challenge of achieving a good night’s sleep, which has grown increasingly elusive, sometimes tricksy, and often downright disappointing.
My nightly ritual has grown so involved that it could rival the complex preparations required to launch a mission to Mars, or at least a shopping trip to Costco. To begin, I take a generous assortment of medications: pills for blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood thinners, as well as two varieties of pain relievers and some melatonin. To top it all off, I indulge in a cannabis edible, hoping it will ease the tension in my arthritis-ridden muscles. Once medicated, I settle onto the sofa and immerse myself in my favorite shows, waiting patiently for the meds to kick in. Despite this elaborate pharmaceutical line-up and my commitment to the evening ritual, I never fail to wonder if sleep will actually grace me with its presence. Sometimes I debate swapping in an ancient folk remedy, like counting sheep, but let’s be honest, since I was raised on a farm with 5,000 sheep, I have grown to detest the critters. Therefore, they cannot compete with the promise of modern chemistry. By the time the edible takes effect, I’m already navigating the delicate balance between drowsy channel surfing and the sudden urge to reorganize my kitchen junk drawer, but usually, an intense case of the munchies wins out.
On one memorable night, I ventured into the kitchen in search of sustenance. The cravings were so strong that I felt I could devour the entire inventory of a Costco warehouse. The world’s largest Costco is temptingly just three blocks from Chateau Pap Smear. After a thorough raid of my pantry, I settled for some stale crackers and a dubious yogurt lurking at the back of my fridge.
Eventually, all my chips, dips, crackers, and cheese were depleted, and I turned my attention to a two-week-old leftover lasagna, now sporting a thriving layer of mold. In a moment of desperation, I considered scraping off the fungus and indulging. Sleepy and imaginative, I even wondered if the mold’s color would make a better eyeshadow than anything in my makeup case. My reverie was shattered when the fridge door struck me, knocking my beehive wig askew, pulling me back to reality.
Late-night cravings satisfied, I shuffled to the bathroom for one last stop, checking my reflection to see if my wig required a touch-up or would suffice as is. The final moments before sleep became their own production, involving a generous application of moisturizing lotion to my calloused, cracked feet—skin so tough it could rival the hide of a prehistoric rhinoceros.
Due to sleep apnea, I sleep sitting up in a recliner, affectionately dubbed my night throne. A C-Pap machine is essential, not only for breathing but also so I don’t snore loudly enough to alarm neighboring counties with the sound of stampeding buffalo. Fitting the C-Pap headgear over my beehive wig is a nightly struggle; the hose tangles with my pearl necklace, and I wear headphones to drown out the sound of my own breathing. The whole routine is reminiscent of an astronaut suiting up for a spacewalk.
Finally, I turn on the music in my headphones and try to drift off to sleep, hoping that I can get a few solid hours of quality rest. Of course, that’s when the real adventure begins—between the whirring of the C-Pap machine, the hum of the oxygen concentrator almost drowning out the sound of music in my headphones, it’s a miracle if I drift off before sunrise.
Just as I was on the cusp of sleep, I heard a car alarm going off in the neighborhood. Oh fine! I listened to the constant drone of the alarm for at least ten minutes. I began to be irritated that the owner of the offending car seemed to be ignoring the neighborhood’s distress. Finally, I was able to nod off to sleep.
The next morning, errands awaited. Heading to the driveway, I saw neighbors down the street, talking and pointing in my direction. Normally, such attention is reserved for my flashy bingo attire. For some unknown reason, this morning, my key fob refused to unlock Queertanic, forcing me to use the manual key. Conscious that I was being observed, I climbed into my beloved land yacht, inserted the key in the ignition, and lo and behold, the car was lifeless. Well, shit! So, I popped the hood, grabbed the battery charger from the garage, and hooked the cables to the battery. As soon as the connection was made, Queertanic’s car alarm began loudly honking. I quickly jerked the cable from the battery, silencing the noise. I looked up and saw that the neighbors were nodding and pointing again. OH, MY GAWD! I realized that it was Queertanic that disturbed the peace last night. I sheepishly waved to the neighbors and skulked into my garage to hide until the coast was clear and I could pull up my skirt, show some leg, and hitchhike to buy a new battery.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. Is it a blessing that Costco is not open at my bedtime?
2. Which color of mold makes the best penicillin?
3. Could a kiss from me bestow antibiotic properties to the receiver?
4. If I bedazzle the C-Pap headgear, could it be mistaken for a stylish tiara?
5. Which lotion would best smooth my rhinoceros feet enough to allow me to wear open toe shoes?
6. If packed tightly, could my beehive wig muffle a car alarm?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
