Vampira - Mistress of the long, long night.

I don't sleep. I am not one of those people who drifts off peacefully to sleep and then stays that way for 7 or more hours. I've always been that way but lately it's gotten even worse.

I know what you're thinking.

"Where did I leave my keys?"

(They're on the kitchen table, under yesterday's mail.)

I've had tests, I've Googled "baby can't sleep", and I've read all the best sellers about not sleeping. REM for Dummies and Be Quiet & Go to Sleep Before I Come in There were my faves.

But last night, as I was counting sheep and my blessings and the number of times I've been married, the reason I can't sleep finally dawned on me.

I'M A VAMPIRE.

I know what you're thinking.

"Why are my cough drops always covered with lint?"

(Because Hall's and Big Lint are in bed together.)

I got out of bed and ran to the mirror to check 'cause everyone knows vampires have no reflection so they can't see their own faces.

Crap. There I was looking back at me all tired and what not with my hair sticking up in such a manner that I wondered when the cat had groomed me. And then I remembered we don't have a cat and thought maybe it was a cat burglar instead.

He could have crept in with his black leggings and jaunty black burglar cap, stole all my jewels and Matrix DVD's and before he left, licked my head. Happens all the time.

But then I started doubting myself as to whether it's their reflection vampires can't see. What if it's their shadows? That sounds right.

It sounds right at 2 in the morning anyway.

So I looked around for my shadow and guess what? Not there. Totally no shadow.

I know what you're thinking.

"Having seen in the news that monkeys sometimes eat people's faces off, should I still get one for my kids to play with?"

(Yes. Don't hate the monkey. Your kids are nothing to write home about.)

I started to wonder what else about me was vampiric.

Well, I like long nails.

Sadly they aren't long right now because of a nail biting frenzy about a week ago during an especially hairy episode of Two & a Half Men, but usually they are.

Plus I deeply enjoy biting.

Mr. Man has the bruises to show it. I will often inexplicably bite him when he least expects it. Until last night I figured it was simply a case of not being disciplined correctly as a toddler. Now I know the truth.

Once I confirmed that I am in fact a vampire I began to wonder when it happened. I would think being bitten by a crazy sexy man in the middle of the night when I was wearing a long flowing white gown and had my windows open would be memorable.

I was sure it couldn't have been recently as my favorite sleeping attire of late is boxers and a T-shirt that says my monkey made me do it. Vampires do not bite chicks dressed like that.

Especially when a cat burglar just licked their head.

So what the hell? Could I have gotten a vampire bug in a public restroom?

Hell to the no. The OCD Chick carries an assorted multitude of germ killing things with her at all times and since Germ-X kills everything, it's reasonable to assume that includes vampire cooties.

And then it dawned on me. It was the wedding!

A few years ago I was mesmerized by a vampire I met at a goth wedding at which I was officiating. Although I don't remember the actual biting, I do remember stalking him out to his 1981 Toyota Corolla. That's probably where it happened as the next thing I recall is wondering where the letter D on my ass came from.

I know what you're thinking.

"How is that Octomom ever going find a man now?"

(Are you kidding? With the giant chunk of child support change she's going to undoubtedly get from Sperm Donor, they'll be lining up like she's freaking Angelina Jolie. Which she sorta is.)

I'm not sure what to do next with my bad vampire self. I guess I should probably think of a new name because everyone knows there are no vampires named Sherri Lynn. Or Margaret. Or Roberta.

I should also get out and start meeting some of my own kind at a mixer or something. I know exactly what I'm looking for in an eternal vampire partner slash friend slash cabana boy slash luvuh.





I also know what's probably looking for me.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This is the vampire's favorite song. It has to be because it's the single best song in the entire universe. It is. I swear. Agree with me or I'll bite you. I mean it.





Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

I wish one of those green butterflies would visit.

My entire life I’ve struggled with sleep. I think it’s because I’m such a control freak that I can’t stand the idea of being unconscious for hours at a time. Sleep is a ridiculous idea anyway when you think about it. Our time on this planet is so short, who wants to waste a single minute of it?

Sometimes it’s the pressing issues of our time that keep me awake. There’s global warming, the war in Iraq, homeland security, and Brittney Spears.

Oh Brittney. Brittney, Brittney, Brittney.

I’m not even about to get into why this chick is insane. I don’t care to know the root of her insanity, although if I had to hazard a guess I’d go with Too Much Damn Money and Not Enough Right Raisin’ for $100.

What keeps me awake nights is why the collective we are captivated by her madness. It’s too easy to say she is a blonde car wreck. I think it has more to do with our desire to look at anything but what’s really going on around us. When we are in the middle of a war that a recent poll by the Associated Press says 57% of us think was a mistake to begin with, Brittney’s brand of crazy tastes like a sweet diversion.

Wow. That was deep. I’d better say something funny quick before this thing goes in the ditch.

What do you call two banana peels?

A pair of slippers.

Whew, that was close but I think we can all agree I pulled it off.

In addition to the fair-haired distraction, I am also kept awake by worry over people I love. Since I love a lot of people, there are lots of reasons to never sleep again.

I worry my daughter Kitten is happy enough, has enough of everything she wants and that she knows every second of every day how proud her Mother is of her.

I worry that Mr. Man will forget to love me even though I threaten…I mean remind him every day of his life.

I worry Deputy Pretty will eventually run out of twenty-something brainless beauties to “date” and will be forced to move away to the North Pole…which is probably home to the only women left on Earth he hasn’t tagged.

I can’t believe I just said tagged. Does that even mean what I think it means or did I accuse DP of playing a really fun 3rd grade game? I’m such a dork. That worries me.

I worry that the Big Dog will break something important when he’s playing football like his neck or his penis or my heart.

Like last week at his middle school season opener.

You know how I’m a crazy good football player, right? Well, it seems genetics are both wondrous and mysterious because as it happens, my son the Big Dog is also a crazy good football player.

I have only myself to thank.

The minute the pads went on the Big Dog was transformed from mild-mannered boy into aggressive bone-breaking demon spawn. It was beautiful. Again and again his name came over the loud speakers and although they gave him the credit for whatever grand thing he’d done, it sounded to me like they were saying, “Woo-hoo for Sher!”

The opposing team, I’ll call them the Big City Losers, were all roughly nine feet tall and had chest hair. A couple of them were smoking filter-less cigarettes on the side line and others were writing child support checks to some of the cheerleaders.

As the Big City Losers approached their headquarters, or “goal”, one of them foolishly attempted to throw the ball to another one. My son, my boy, my superstar in cleats, snatched the ball right out of the air and began to run away with it.

Five of those white click marks on the ground went by. Another five. And when he was just about to run past another five click marks, three of the Big City Losers had the audacity to grab him, throw him to the ground and then pile on top of him.

I reached for the gun Mr. Man always keeps stuck in the back of his pants. As I was about to go all Charlie’s Angels on their asses I realized my baby wasn’t getting up. He lay there and lay there and lay there.

I stopped breathing. I wanted to hop over all things in my way and run to him but his Father on my left and his Step-Father on my right forbade me. When coaches motioned for the EMS crew, I gently encouraged his Dad to get down there right away. Very, very gently with only minimal curse words and shooting gestures.

Long story short, we got to spend hours in a Big City hospital with the same name as an ice cream topping. (Who calls a hospital Carmel any way?) He’s OK, thank God, but the what-ifs have kept me awake ever since.

“Do you want to be paralyzed from the neck down or do you want to play football?” I asked the boy at supper the next night.

“Are those my only choices?” he asked.

I’m never sleeping again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

My new most favorite song in the big wide world.







Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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