(Two and a half days remain of my twelve weeks of house/pet sitting and I think … just maybe … I have finally lost it. No. REALLY.)
Okay, look, despite the fact I get up way too early every day, I am not a huge fan of the morning. And I think I may be suffering from sleep deprivation. A couple of decades’ worth.
These pals here, Gwennie and Tess (that’s alphabetical order, darlings, so Tess, don’t get all in a dither) like to waken me in the middle of REM. I was warned about Gwennie’s proclivity for 2a.m. pee jaunts – and being a man of a certain age with an uncertain prostate, well, who am I to complain about another who has to pee in the middle of the night? But the thought was that since her regular servants go to bed far earlier than do I, that if I let her (and Tess – though Tess could happily sleep through the night without such foolishness, and would, but, also like me, if someone ELSE is going to be going out, damn if she’s gonna miss it ) out before we all headed upstairs, then this 2a.m. thing wouldn’t happen. HA! Instead, if we go up to bed at – let’s say 11:30 – which is the earliest I’ve taken to bed that I might read there rather than the couch for a while, she wants to go out at 3. And last night (this morning) since we didn’t head up until after 1, she thought 5:30 was a nice time to roust me from my slumber by gently whining/moaning/collar shaking and doing her tiny, almost inaudible yippings of need.
So, down we come and out they go and there I stand, outside in my boxers, not even caring that I am as naked as I ever get in “public” and waiting for Gwennie to decide she’s wandered outside in the dark long enough to insure we are all safe and I am unlikely to fall easily back to sleep.
And so, friends, it’s not just my prostate which is both worn out and stubborn about things, my body-clock has long insisted that no matter what time I go to sleep, or how little sleep I have gotten, I need to be up and about sometime between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m. – there is almost no point in fighting this. So there I was this morning, out on the back porch – again in my boxers because – well – more about that later (**LOOK DOWN HERE – SO TO SPEAK) – and calling to Gwennie who was digging some sort of hole near the fence – could it be she is as ready for me to go home as am I? (NO OFFENSE to owners of this house or any of its pets, just tired – see yesterday’s post HERE) In any event as I stood there – calling her – a bird in the nearby tree started calling at me – in a vocal pattern that I SWEAR sounded like –
“YOU’RE CRAZY YOU’RE CRAZY YOU’RE CRAZY” (Or, for those of you who only read Twitter, “YOUR KRA-Z YOUR KRA-Z YOUR KRA-Z)
This is ANOTHER one of those times I wish my aunt, Sissie, was here. She knew her bird calls and would be able to tell me what sort of bird this was. I guess I could do some research? (CLICK HERE)
** DOWN HERE: THAT BOXER THING
All my time at the gym has made me less self-conscious about my body. Sometimes. If, say, I am alone. I’m still not the kind of person who is going to walk around with his clothes – or even, his shirt – off, but I am getting better about it. Most days. And then I see a story/pic like this: Nate Berkus and his partner / fiance, Jeremiah Brent (Click Here). Nate Berkus is the age I lie about being. Obviously, I am going to have to step up my game. I don’t suppose I will ever be A-List or Gay-list or Oprah-losophical or Gay-elite or (STOP ALREADY) enough to merit an invite to the wedding – but it seems I have some time (read here).
In any event, it is what it is and I am what I am – which is a worn out prostate, can’t sleep through the night, late to bed, early to rise, fairly healthy, FARRRRRR from wealthy, and not feeling particularly wise kind of guy who lies about his age. I guess I’d better re-calculate, re-calibrate. I think I’d better move into Anderson Cooper territory. He’s 46. Let’s see … I can … maybe … with a few days during which I have absolutely NO CARBS and a few weeks during which I eat only lettuce and with camera on the ready AS SOON AS I EXIT THE GYM and a gargantuan effort to suck, lift and PHOTOSHOP – perhaps – look almost like that picture of him.
Hell. There goes that damn bird again . . .