Restless

The other night, my wife and I were watching TV and we were amused by a pharmaceutical commercial for a product that treats Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS). I don't mean to belittle the suffering of those who may be afflicted with this syndrome, but it just seems that there is a drug for everything these days. I also have to wonder how many hypochandriacs have developed RLS since this commercial started airing.

I'm no doctor, however, and after last night I am beginning to take it all a little more seriously. I went to bed without incident or restless legs, but was awakened suddenly in the middle of the night. There was an intense pain in my side and I was on the floor of the bedroom. I looked up to see my wife standing over me. She was wearing my steel-toe work boots and trying very hard to break my ribs.

When I told her to quit, she blinked and shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "I think I must have that Restless Legs Syndrome."

"Yes, well now I have that broken rib syndrome." I pulled myself up off the floor and told her, "I think that RLS is only supposed to occur when you are lying in bed."

"Oh!" she said. I guess I was just sleepwalking."

I don't know what it was, but at this point I don't want to be the victim of any more syndromes. Tonight I'm sleeping with a ball peen hammer under my pillow.

Legacy

Do you ever worry that your only lasting contribution to society is the check mark in the organ donor box on your driver’s license?

I still remember her first skinned knee...

It's hard to be a father. Maybe not as hard as it is to be the front end of my 17-year-old daughter's Jetta, but fatherhood offers a unique blend of suffering that transcends mere physical damage.

Kate and her passenger are fine, but the car may never be the same. It's all in the hands of the insurance company, now, and so is my financial future. My wife already donated a kidney just to get coverage for Kate when she was sixteen. Now it looks like I'm going to lose half of my liver and two feet of my lower intestine just so we can keep her on the road.

What do I expect in return? Isn't it obvious? I think I deserve some uninterrupted and gratefully received lecture time. (At this point, let me offer some advice to anyone who is just starting out as a parent. Never tell your children any stories about your past. You might think your "cool" rating will rise in the eyes of your teenager as you relate the story about the time you rolled the family station wagon going around a corner too fast, but let me tell you, that kind of relationship building will only come around and bite you on the ass).

I figured this wreck entitled me to require some supplemental driving instruction for my daughter; a recitation on the many, many years I have gone without any type of accident whatsoever; and a sincere appreciation for not only my skills, but my appearance behind the wheel.

Sometimes, even the dreams of a madman seem rational. You see, I have my own story about a driving mishap. I grew up in Orlando and it was no big deal to make a day trip to the beach. New Smyrna, driving right down on the beach and convenience store clerks with poor eyesight when presented with questionable id's. Thankfully, I was sober on this occasion, but I did have a terrible wreck and my daughter has heard the story.

The truth is, car wrecks are hard to handle as a parent. On the one hand, this is about the biggest mistake your child can make. No other teenage activity offers so much potential for devastating consequences. On the other hand, you are so relieved when no one is hurt that you hope against hope that a lesson has been learned.

I don't know if Kate has a new respect for the seriousness of driving after this accident. I remember a sixteen-year-old boy who wishes he could change what happened just before his car did flips in the grass alongside the highway.

Anyway, place your votes for one of two options: six months in a Pakistani child labor camp to help defer the increased insurance premium or a year without text messaging.

Get up off the tracks...

My teenage daughter is on her computer, instant messaging with her friends, looking at each other's MySpace pages and laughing at YouTube videos. She spends countless hours this way and if I was the least bit competent as a parent, I would drag her, kicking, screaming and squinting out into the sunlight and throw a Frisbee with her.

What I choose to do, instead, is sit in my little office just down the hall, goofing on this blog when I should be working on freelance assignments. Some digital tunes, a mini fridge filled with Mountain Dew and Life Is Good, just like the little bumper sticker says.

What is wrong with me? The onslaught of mid-life crisis approaches like a freight train bearing down on a prostrate wino whose face is resting on the track. Despite the imminent doom, that feeling of cold steel pressed against my cheek is comforting somehow.

This isn't one of those 'buy a sports car and rent a toupee' mid-life crises. This locomotive has the word 'CAREER' painted in reflective, white letters just under the headlight.

I like what I do and I like the people I work with, but I don't love it. What I love is writing comedy.

I had a little taste of it in college. Even though I didn't get paid squat, nothing could match the charge I got every time I saw my name on a humor feature or cartoon in the student newspaper. For some reason it didn't seem to be a reasonable career path to pursue after graduation.

Making a living at comedy writing might be a little pie-in-the-sky at this point in my life. If I had an ounce of adventurous spirit left, I would split for Alaska and sign up as an ice-road trucker. Work for a few months, then move to Hollywood and write a sitcom about it.

"...your shift knob broke off in the Arctic air? Well, that's what you get for trying to write your name in the snow."

Would this make a good opening for a novel?

Walking across the cotton field was much easier once the crop had been harvested, but Steven Vernicke still stumbled over the furrows as he stared at the red and blue flashing lights of the emergency vehicles parked in front of his family’s gas station.

Steven had walked across the field many times, but he was a little distracted. The sun was fading and he still had about a hundred yards to cover. He could see that the station was buzzin'. It seemed like every cop car, ambulance and fire truck in Harnek County was bumper-to-bumper, fender-to-fender, piled up right there in the parking lot.

As Steven got closer to the scene he could tell that Silver was dead because they had her on a gurney with the sheet pulled up over her face. Then he saw the heavy boots sticking out at the bottom and he knew it couldn’t be his grandmother. Her boots were brown.

"Get out of here, kid," he heard one cop yell as he tucked tail and scooted in through one of the service bays.

“…Son-of-a-bitch tried to steel a turquoise bracelet,” he heard his grandmother saying as he squeezed past a deputy with a camera.

His grandmother gave him a quick hug that told him, "Shut up, I'm fine," and "it's good to see you Little Steve" all at the same time.

There was a large pool of blood on the floor and you had to watch your step. Steven was starting to circle the room when the deputy who had tried to snag him in the parking lot caught up. As the deputy reached for Steven's shirt, Silver spoke up, "Dammit Earl, don't you even recognize my own flesh n' blood?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Silver," he stammered. Then to regain his authority, "but this is a crime scene and we need to protect the evidence."

"Don't be so officious," she scolded. "Or I'll tell your mother that you were being rude to a senior citizen." Everyone in the room chuckled, not because the man was being chastised, but because nobody in Harnek County ever thought of Silver as a little old lady.