Loving the Unliving (having nothing to do with zombies)

You know, it just doesn't pay to anthropomorphize inanimate objects. What? This is not a problem you have? Well, then you're clearly not a very feeling person. Okay, or you're just a perfectly sane person. Fine. I have been known to over-empathize. Even with the unliving. I'm also famous for being an all-around defender. Some people play the devil's advocate, I'm the underdog's cheerleader. I'm getting better at it. I mean at not doing it. Years of ridicule help you get over that sort of thing. (My brother used to tell me that my stuffed plush animals were dead. I'd shout, no, they were never alive, in order to best him. Yeah, so they're dead, he'd counter. That's just a related aside for you.)

But see the inanimate object thing, I don't get ridiculed as much for that because I keep it to myself. Mostly I think I'm over it. As a child it was no good, no good at all my friend. I would take a glass off the shelf then decide I wanted a different one so I'd exchange them. Only to feel so bad for the first that I'd have to take it back again. Even if it was too small for my needs or whatever the rational problem I had with it in the first place was. I distinctly remember trying on a blouse as a very little girl and changing my mind about it then feeling terrible. I think my mom sussed me out, though. I was probably rather transparent. I'm pretty sure we didn't actually buy the unwanted shirt. (Oh god! I feel bad calling it that!)

My sister tells me that she got a pair of baseball pants for her son, but they turned out to be see-through (a design flaw, if you ask me). So she was going to return them and my nephew got all upset about it. She figured him out, too (it must run in moms). Pointed out that he would not be happy on the field with everyone able to see his dainty bits. Or undies, or whatever. So clearly it's in my genes and it's not my fault.

I know there's some reason I brought this up. I hardly think I'd go so far as to begin a blog post without something in mind (no wisecracks from you, smartass.). Oh! Jerry! Jerry my darling baby boy. Sweet sweet Jerry. My 2005 Toyota Prius. (Come to think of it, I once had a cactus named Jerry. Hmm.) I did not set out to name my car, per se, but as I was driving North on the 5 one day when he was young (just passed the Ikea in Burbank), it suddenly came to me: Jerry. I knew he was a male already because all things in my life are men. Except the women. And my dog, although she does have a masculine name. But I mean, well, when you're arbitrarily assigning gender to something, I always make it male. I prefer males. No offense. But the name just came to me, not unlike from on high. (What a waste of on high's time that would be.)

Needless to say, any time Jerry got the tiniest ding or was sick or anything, I felt terrible. But the worst, my friend, the worst came one month ago. My other sister (I don't generally refer to her that way) and I were--wait! Wait just one minute! My sister and I were driving on the 5 North! Good god, what could this mean? Okay, sorry, I'll keep going, but that just blew my mind, man. So Julia and I were driving on the 5 last month and through a series of unfortunate events (many of which I cleverly avoided in a James Bondian kind of way) little Jerry got his ass crushed. Yes, I cleverly avoided the melee in front of me, but I wasn't able to fully avoid the big rig bearing down on us (although I would like credit for hitting the gas the moment I saw it in the rear view mirror). So yeah, Jerry got smushed. But nobody was hurt and he drove away from the the accident with nary a whimper. Alas, the insurance company decided he was financially a total loss. But they did give me a crapload of money for him. Those Priuses really hold their value!

And the thing is, yeah, scary accident, and all sorts of rigmarole and hoops to jump through in the aftermath, and buying a new car and all that, but dang it all if the worst part wasn't the feeling that I'd lost a loved one. I was devastated for Jerry! Jerry, who'd seen me through so much and who, in the end, gave his life to keep my sister and me safe.

Exactly one month to the day after the accident (thank you Farmers Insurance and Longo Toyota) I drove my new car home. Also a Prius. Also blue. But this time with some bells and whistles (not that I didn't love your wholesome simplicity, Jerry). Some people were like, are you gonna call him Jerry II? I found that distasteful. It's not respectful to Jerry and it's not respectful to my new car.

I'm calling him Junior.

Drive safely,

Jo

Ramble On

Hello, stranger. Oh wait, no, I'm the one who hasn't been around. I've been cranky. Naw, not really, not cranky since June; that'd be a whole lotta crank. No, some bad things happened that made me not wanna think, let alone write. Which isn't truly true, because at first I abandoned you for REAL writing! Can you imagine? I was terribly terribly inspired. Even worked my ol' gambit of writing in my head as I fell asleep. That actually works for me. I can write whole sentences in my brain and remember them in the morning.

But then I stopped doing that. I've done some other stuff. Ever since I busted the TV addiction, I've been a reading fool. I love reading, but when I had the general malaise of said addiction, I would fall asleep, sometimes moments after opening a book. Now I can read for hours on end without feeling sleepy. It's like the olden days (my olden days), where I'd deny myself food, water, and trips to the bathroom in order to avoid putting down a book.

But I do think of you guys, especially when someone makes a snippy remark about my lack of blogging. Okay, that really thrills me to no end to think someone wants to read something I've said, but still, the guilt. And I don't want lil' bloggy here to make me feel guilty.

When I was in middle school I had a brown plastic folder that held a legal pad. And it had a pocket or two. Man, I love the accouterments of various hobbies. And as I believe I've told you, I had a goal of writing a novel before the age of 13 when S.E. Hinton wrote The Outsiders (which I later heard was actually 16 [too lazy to go passed the first page in my Google search], and think of the pressure that might have relieved! Now I'm more on the Grandma Moses time line).

I should probably look back at these posts to see if I've discussed what I want to discuss before. But I don't wanna! Hell, you probably never read that entry anyway. It's just, man, I can write until I'm blue in the face. It's just talking in print (in my world) and dude, can I talk! But, um, yeah, having something to say? Well that's a whole other kettle of wax (mmm, kettle of wax. One time my aesthetician gave me a paraffin soak freebie. SO soothing!).

I think as a child I was super creative and could make up stories with the best of them, but perhaps, as is so often the case with children, those stories were pointless meandering piles of shite. I remember, in fact, the day my imagination left me: I was playing with my Fisher Price toys. I set up the barn. Put up the corral for the horses and lamb. Placed the A-frame next door (as if any self-respecting farmer would live in a turquoise A-frame). It was all laid out. Then I looked at it and thought, now what the hell do I do? That was the moment my childhood ended, I'm pretty sure. I was 34. NO! I'm kidding.

But I must not have been too creative because I remember sitting there with my plastic folder and yellow tablet, pen poised, with not a clue what to write. And I was like 11 or something. I suspect the evil internal editor was already at play. My evil evil Superego who I think of as a dastardly Jiminy Cricket shaking his tiny begloved finger at me. Due to my constantly mentioned years of therapy, that little bug bastard is bound and gag and crammed in a dark closet somewhere. Now I fully accept that I have no story to tell, yet I write anyway. Ah, the glories of modern life and the blog.

It's not fully true, though, because I've had two (count 'em, two!) novels lurking in my head for nigh on 12, 13 years now. (Man, this all sounds so familiar. Did I write this before? I do have a few posts that I started but never finished. Oh hells bells, I'd better go look. Hold on.)

Yeah, I'm so predictable. I did start writing this blog already once. This is as far as I got:

I've been writing. Well, not here (duh). (As children, I feel that we occasionally said, "Doi Hickey," in order to emphasize the degree of our "duh." But wow, that seems real stupid.)

So as you know, you, my darling blog, are here to scratch my itch. And if some people choose to read my scratchings, and are amused by them, well then that rawks, as the kids say. Lately, I've simply been scratching in more private places. (My aunt once announced that she's was,"of the school that scratches where it itches and not where it looks good." That is true about her. I prefer to look good.)

Um, what the hell was I talking about? Oh, so yeah. Okay, I have two novels in my head. Those are probably the only ones. And they've been there for over 10 years, I'm mortified to say. But they weren't "write what you know." They were scary to me. And they meant research. Which I actually have done, to some degree. It helps with the procrastination."

It's telling, is it not, that I left off at the word "procrastination?" Yeah, well, feh. Those two novels. One, to my horror, is a period piece. And part of it takes place in Scotland! Does that mean I'd have to write in an authentic burr? An authentic 1874 Glaswegian burr. 'Cause I warn you, it'd be crap.

The other, while more up my alley, was all idea with no notion of what the hell the contents would be. Until a few years back when I had an epiphany, which allowed me to change the story into "what I know," she said, with written air quotes. I even outlined it!!! Got all my research organized. Wrote a few pages!!! And then set it aside for a few years, as one does. As one lazy sonofabitch does, I should say. A couple of months ago, though, I wrote five or so chapters. And I may well write more soon. Like how vague I am, dontcha? You don't think I'm gonna tell you anything about it, do you? Are you runk? I'm no fool. I've worried all these years that someone was gonna beat me to it, since it seems such an obvious tale to tell.

Anyway, back to writing. I can put sentences together. I can rattle on. Maybe I need an idea man? Some fella all ideas, yet a dullard with words. And I give good dialogue, too. Think of the screenplays I could write! Ho ho, I'm so never going to write a screenplay. Besides the fact that I don't know how, don't wanna. I've jumped on enough bandwagons. I wouldn't respect myself in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I respect the hell out of great screenwriters: some of my best friends are great screenwriters. It's the wannabes I can't respect. Not wannabes 'cause they haven't gotten a job yet, wannabes because they are poor poor craftsmen.

All right, genug. Any minute this caffeine is gonna go wrong and none of you wants to see that.

I think about you all the time. Especially, oddly, when I shower.

I'll try not to be a stranger (insert proper vaudeville response here: ).

Love you!

Jo

What This Says About Me

So I'm sitting in Starbucks the other day (even though they don't have an apostrophe) reading and drinking my grande nonfat caramel macchiato, upside down, 190º (that is so mortifying, but I felt I had to out myself. Yes, I'm fully aware that I am not a real coffee drinker.), and there is an attractive couple sitting across from me. Automatically I like them, because I'm shallow like that; I like the attractive. They weren't conventionally good looking, I suppose, it was more how they were put together, the care they took in their appearance. Not overdressed or overly made up, just nice. He was in a crisp shirt and tie, she in a simple blouse with a tasteful broach. What delighted me was that they were hmm, 50? I'm not so good with age. Around 50. They both had iPod buds (awkward word) in their ears (that was the delightful part, by the way).

Sitting in comfy leather chairs, the inner arms of each creating a cozy V together, both husband and wife ('cause I'm sure they were married) were reading the newspaper. And what I loved was the way they kept leaning into each other to point out something in their section of the paper that they thought would interest the other. Maybe they were waiting for some meeting. They had that quality of "spending a dash of time." There was a book on each lap, his hardcover and large, hers smaller with a soft cover. Maybe even a journal. This couple caught my eye the moment I walked in. I suspect it was he. Not gorgeous or anything, just striking. Probably the color combo. That Danny Glover dark skin/gray hair thing. Balding, salt and pepper beard. It was definitely that balding head that caught my eye; I love a finely-shaped pate, and nature's chosen color scheme was really working for me.

This is all just to say, I liked these people, simply by looking at them. They looked very comfortable in themselves and their surroundings and with each other. I kept watching them and happily they were too engrossed in their music and their papers to notice me. And as I was reading they eventually put down their papers and picked up their books. I glanced up and noticed the tell-tale sign of ribbons in the books. Oh my god, the books are Bibles. They're actively reading the Bible! And suddenly, it was over. They had disappointed me. They were religious, and so religious that they were reading the Bible in Starbucks. And then I realized they probably weren't waiting for a meeting, they were probably taking a rest from proselytizing. And I detest proselytizing. Clearly some of them childhood Jew studies still resonate within me. Jews don't proselytize, no no no, big no-no. In fact, if you want to become a Jew, it ain't easy. The Rabbi will actually turn you away. Three times, I believe, but these days I suspect that's mostly ritual. And then you have to study like crazy, 'cause that's what Judaism is all about. And like a lot of Jews, I'm full to brimming with the cultural stuff and tradition I was raised on, but I think that "religion" and "faith" business is rather a lot of hooey, and, dare I say it, doo-dah (waggle fingers in the air, when daying doo-dah, please, for the full effect).

I don't fully respect religious people. (I will understand if you don't want to be my friend. I think I'm an ass for feeling this way, I just can't help it. [And don't really want to help it.]) My feeling is, "What's wrong with you that you need to believe in that? What are you missing inside of yourself? And wouldn't you be better served by seeing a psychiatrist and finding all the strength of the world within yourself?" All the searchers I've ever known, all those "spiritual" people looking so very hard elsewhere, never seem to look inside, nor have I ever known one to actually find his or herself. They're looking in the wrong place. Look at yourself, and look to your people (family, and those you consider family. Unless your family isn't worthy, then look to the family you've made).

So, um, yeah, what the hell was I saying? Where did I start? Oh yeah, I'm a lousy judgmental bitch (I really wanted to say cunt, but I worried that would be too startling), who decided what I wanted to about this couple at Starbucks (damn that apostrophe), first good, then bad. And the thing is, they were perfectly happy with their world and their choices, and I don't know them at all. But when all is said and done, I don't care to know them.

(And by the way, said the freaky hypocrite, I regularly thank some amorphous being for all the things that make me happy and content every day. Like reading a book in Starbucks with a quasi-coffee beverage.)

I am awfully fond of you,

Jo

Uncle Harvey, Alava Shalom

It's made me very very sad that Harvey Korman has died. For a lot of reasons. I know he was a kind man. And fabulously funny. I have adored him for as long as I can remember.

My dad and Harvey Korman were best friends in the Navy. They met waiting in line for Synagogue in, I guess, 1945. Now, my dad is not the kind of guy to keep up relationships over years, but he certainly followed Harvey's career and was very proud of him. While we watched him on TV we felt like we knew him.

I didn't meet him until 1979 when I was just about 10. Our family took an epic western trip, drove across the country, six people in a Jeep Wagoneer. We took a month in August and wound our way over Route 66 and then back again along the northern route. Dad called Uncle Harvey and said we were acomin'. He greeted us with open arms and was warm and funny and delightful as can be, and so "Harvey Korman." He took us to the famous deli Nate'n Al, showed us around Beverly Hills. Kim Richards (of "Nanny and the Professor" fame [and, weirdly, it seems to me, Paris Hilton's aunt]) rolled by on a pair of roller skates and bumped into us. She looked up at Harvey and was immediately dopey and star struck; she'd grown up with him too, after all. We went to his home in Bel Air and his son played Atari with me. Harvey gave us a tour and when we got to the master bath he said to me, "This is where the star makes a doodie. It's all sparkley." I believe I was delighted.

Sometime later Harvey came to Detroit for work and called my dad and we all went to dinner. In fact, I think I answered when he called and I was terribly confused by his voice. It was so familiar, but I didn't know who it was. It's not every day The Great Gazoo calls. I just gave the phone to my dad, thinking for some reason it was one of the teachers from Hebrew school.

One delicious highlight for me came that night at dinner when I made Harvey Korman, a brilliantly funny man, laugh so hard he pretty much flopped his face into his pasta. I don't think it was what I said so much, I suspect it was my delivery. I was very earnestly describing my beloved fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Miller. She was a great teacher, but her serious smoking and coffee habits made for remarkably bad breath, and I remarked on it. I said to Harvey, "and her breath is amazing!" Well, something about the way I said that, my eyes wide and my voice awed, just tickled him. I don't think I'd been trying to make him laugh, but I was so proud of myself that I had.

Not long after that, Uncle Harvey met and married a nice lady and they had a baby and my dad's my dad and they just lost touch. Hell, I'm not even sure they had any communication between 1945 and 1979!

When I moved to LA 13 or so years ago, I didn't feel comfortable calling Harvey and saying I was in town. He would have been thrilled to hear from me, and perhaps even saddened if he'd known that I hadn't looked him up, but it just would have seemed like I was hoping for a leg up in the business and I couldn't bear him thinking that. I would have liked to have seen him, and heck, once I was making a living in my chosen field, that wouldn't have been a problem. But it just didn't feel right, ya know? I secretly hoped I'd run into him somewhere and tell him who I was. That never happened, and now I'm feeling wistful because it never will.

I always felt warm and fuzzy toward him. And I also associated him so strongly with my dad, and not just because they'd been friends. In fact, I've always had a love of what I feel is the Harvey Korman/Alan Alda/My Dad trinity. (By the way, there's also the My Sister/Lucy Ricardo/Madonna triumvirate, but that's a whole other thing.) All three men were tall and semi-lanky, somewhat bulbous nosed, and funny as all get out. And Jewey, even though Alan Alda isn't, but might as well be (Italian and all that, same diff). My dad and Harvey were about 10 years older, though. Both born in February 1927. And both balding. So of course Harvey's death makes me deeply sad not for just who he was, but for how much I associate him with my dad. I'm pretty much counting on my dad never dying, and Harvey running off and dying like that was a bit nervy on his part.

So I wanted to tell you. Harvey Korman was just the man you would imagine him to be. And one time I made him laugh very hard. And I'm very very sorry that he's not here anymore.

Hi there

Hey there, tiny dumplings.

Sorry I haven't writ; I've been busy forgetting to. Naw, that's not really true. I'm not sure I had anything to say. No fully formed thoughts yet. And I went to Boston to visit my boyfriend (I know, it's foolish to live 2,980 miles away from the man you love) and when I get out of my routine all hell breaks loose.

The thing I've noticed about my blog is, that while it is me spitting up gorp from my mind, it's not really much about me. Okay, yeah, it is. But I mean I'm not telling you about my daily life. A lot of bloggers tell you about their daily lives. And they therefore write every day. And thank god for them because I get cranky when they don't post. And for some reason they are able to make incidents in their daily lives sound funny and delightful and touching and other crap like that. I'm not sure I could do that and be interesting for more than, um, no minutes at all. While I have the greatest life ever (and I'm fully aware of it, this is not hubris, I'm not bragging, I'm acknowledging and bowing down to), I don't think it would read very well. And I have some friends with children and 8-5 jobs who get very snippy when I tell them about my day.

I'm a little embarrassed by my career. Voiceover artist, as you may recall. When people ask me what I do, I do say it proudly, but inside I'm fully aware that that means I get to play for a living. Happily, when they get all holier-than-thou by asking, oh really, what's your day job, or do you have an agent, I'm able to shut them down with the name of one of the top talent agencies in the country. I guess I'm less embarrassed when I'm poked. And this job wouldn't be for everyone, after all, she said defensively. My old agent said she couldn't understand how I could live without knowing where my next check was coming from. And there are the years of living in poverty before you get anywhere, if you get anywhere. And I drive a lot. Sure a lot of people commute, but at least they have time between drives. I've been known to drive an hour somewhere, stay five minutes, and then drive an hour home. (I do drive a Prius if that makes any of you feel better.) And some people wouldn't be good at it. I just happen to be good at it. It's my weird little gift.

But still, telling you about my day would be dull. Or just weird. I'm self-indulgent enough to write a blog, but not so much that I want to tell you every incident from my day.

I just like the opportunity to chat with you in our mostly one-sided conversation.

So if I haven't posted, it's 'cause I really don't have a damn thing to say. And you don't want me to write when I don't have a damn thing to say, because then you get posts like this one. (insert sheepish noise here)

I am awfully fond of you,

Jo

Had to share.

I love this. It's right up my alley, and perhaps yours as well.

"Before She was a Ghost"

And you think that is good? Man, you should read her novel (check out the rest of the blog).

Love you!

xo

Jo

Pre-Sleep Insanity

I'm fascinated by Sleep Paralysis. So much so that I will now regale you with tales of it. I didn't make Sleep Paralysis a link just now because I wanna be the one to tell you all about it. Because I'm fascinated by it. I believe I've already mentioned that.

So, have any of you ever heard of it? I secretly hope that you haven't, but that you've experienced it, and now I will officially be blowing your mind by explaining to you a crazy phenomenon that has haunted you all your days. Or not.

Before I knew it had a name, I called it Pre-Sleep Insanity. I didn’t know it happened to anybody else so it never occurred to me that there might be an official term (and I love official terms. Official terms mean you're not crazy. Or not that crazy.). I was out with a friend of my brother’s a while back. They’d been roommates in Japan. Somehow we got on the subject of Pre-Sleep Insanity and he said, “Oh, that’s kanashibari.” Mind blown. What?! You just drop the K-bomb like that? This is a known phenomenon? All Japanese people know about it?! 'Cause this guy is an American, and even he knew the Japanese word for it. Apparently it’s common knowledge in Japan. And I’ve since found out, in Asian culture in general (well, okay, one Vietnamese guy told me it was a known entity in his culture).

Now that I know the name, I’ve found a bunch of stuff on the web about it. (Well, hell, I hadn't actually done a recent search on it. Now that Wikipedia exists, of course there's an entry on it! Dang I love the Internet.) A Dr. Dement (I swear) at Stanford has a website. He says:

“Sleep paralysis consists of a period of inability to perform voluntary movements either at sleep onset or upon waking.” It almost always happened to me when I was nodding off.

This is the even creepier part:

“In some cases, when hypnagogic hallucinations are present, people feel that someone is in the room with them, some experience the feeling that someone or something is sitting on their chest and they feel impending death and suffocation. That has been called the 'Hag Phenomena' and has been happening to people over the centuries. These things cause people much anxiety and terror, but there is no physical harm.”

It’s the closest I’ve ever been to being haunted.

It happened to me a lot in college. Which makes sense according to the research because it can happen when your normal sleep patterns are messed up. And in college, naps ruled my world. I would regularly fall asleep while reading some dull tome. And that’s when they’d get me.

Now it’s not when you’re nodding off and you’re still sort of awake but you are dreaming too and you trip over something in your dream and you flinch in real life. That’s not it. That’s just falling asleep.

I had this fabulous professor for a class called The Ordeal of the Union. John Mills Thornton. He was a genius but wrote an exquisitely dull book: Politics and Power in a Slave Society. Reading it nearly killed me. Sometimes in one session of attempting to read it I would fall asleep four or five times. And each time I’d have Sleep Paralysis and try to yank myself out of it. And try to keep it from happening again. But I’d be too drugged by the book to just get up and change positions. See I was reading in my Pier 1 Papasan chair. You know those dish chairs? And I think it was that and the book that were fucking me. I’m just gonna try to describe what happens.

There’s a lot of different ways it’s happened to me. I’ll fall asleep on my back and I’ll feel my hands fall through my chest to rest on the bed beneath me. That’s no good.

You’re in it, and after it’s happened a few times you know you’re in it. And it’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t really hurt, but it almost does. And you can’t move. Sometimes you think your eyes are open. Sometimes you think you’re moving a little and maybe even making noise, but you’re not.

I watch them there ghost TV shows. Many times I hear someone describing their encounter (or, their alien abduction, for that matter) and they're giving a textbook description of Sleep Paralysis. And the "experts" interviewing them have clearly never heard of it. So, therefore, it must be ghosts.

I've even had an out-of-body experience, but I knew full well what it was. I was in college. I dozed off on the bottom bunk. This is what appeared to happen to me: I stood up, walked to the door of the dorm room, looked back at myself asleep on the bed. I knew it was Pre-Sleep Insanity, as I was calling it. But I'd never been able to "balance" it like this before. Walk the fine line of being the boss of it, without coming out of it. I started to walk down the hall and as I got a few doors down I lost it and whooshed back to my body. This feels nothing like a dream. It feels exactly like being awake. Even if you know what's happening, it still feels like being awake.

For me, it takes physical effort to get out of Sleep Paralysis. There is only one way I can describe it. It's like someone wraps his hand around my sternum and pulls. And you kind of gasp and you're out of it. It doesn't hurt, per se, but it's wildly uncomfortable. And that moment before you succeed in coming out, it's like your wrapped in Saran, except you can breathe. It does feel sort of like suffocating, like your lungs aren't properly inflating. And what especially sucks is if you're so sleepy that you snap out of it, but then slip right back in. It's like being an oxygen deprived yo-yo. Not that yo-yos are normally big breathers.

I'd like to describe some of my most memorable Sleep Paralysis moments. I will describe these events as if they are actually happening, but please recall that they were only happening very very vividly in my brain.

I'm around 22. I'm in a hotel in New York City. There for a business trip that I don't wanna be on. Very lonely. Afraid (of the business, not of the city or hotel, although Barton Fink clearly had the room next door to me). I want to say it's the Pickwick Hotel, but I may be making that up. The lobby is vaguely fancy. The room, however, is a tiny brown bathroomless Coen Brother's special. I go to sleep. (Okay, all that actually happened outside of my brain. This is where the paralysis starts.) Shortly thereafter I hear someone fiddling with my doorknob (that sounds dirty). Then the door opens. Slowly. I can't open my eyes. I hear someone walk in. Quietly. He (because it's a he) comes over to the bed. He's standing over it. I hear him breathing. I can't open my eyes. I can't open my mouth. I sense him lean over me. I feel his breath on my face. I can't scream. And here's the only thing that didn't ring true. In fact, maybe it was a sign that I was falling from Sleep Paralysis into sleep and a nightmare, if that can happen. As I tried to scream, I was foiled by a butterscotch candy in my mouth. Then I came out of it. Now if you haven't experienced this, you'll say this was just a bad dream. But it's nothing like a dream. It's exactly like reality. And happily, even though my brain fully felt this was happening, my mind sorta sorta knew it was Pre-Sleep Insanity.

Another time I was in ye olde Papasan chair. I was reading Mills Thornton's book. This is where the insanity starts. The TV was on (it wasn't). It was Oprah. I could see the TV, but the rest of the stuff that happened I couldn't see. And it's similar to the hotel thing. I assume this is the hag phenomenon. And while we're at it, people think the hag is on their chest. I think this is the weird paralyzed lung/sternum grabbing thing I feel. Anyhoo. There is a person in front of me. I can't see him. I think it's my boyfriend at first. Then I know it's not. He leans into the chair. I hear him breathing. He puts a hand on the rattan on either side of my head. I hear it creak. I feel the chair give slightly from the pressure of his arms. He looms right up to my face. I feel his breath on my face. I don't care for this (i.e. scared shitless). I "get myself out of it."

I don't think this is the same thing as "night terrors." I can't be bothered to look into that because I think it only happened to me once, if ever, and it involved an Asian man, a squirrel, and me flying out of my bed and "coming to" cowering in the corner. I think this is similar to the times back in the day when my sister would wake in the night and decide all electrical appliances were evil and unplug her clock radio and electric blanket. She would oversleep. She would be cold. And she would have a vague memory of her late night brush with demonic simple machines.

I don't know why I've always yearned to discuss Sleep Paralysis ad nauseam. I think because so few people know about it. And it's the kind of thing that is an epiphany for those folks who have experienced it but have no idea what it is. My mom said to me when I mentioned it to her, "Oh yeah, that used to happen to me when I was a kid. You'll grow out of it." And I did seem to. Or else I'm just no longer sleep deprived and napping in uncomfortable positions. I sort of miss it. And I will sorta be gleefully happy if it never ever happens again.

Okay, I'll let you go search the web about it now. Hell, now that I've written this post so chock full of "facts," maybe I should read that Wikipedia entry myself.

Anyway, don't you think it's cool?!?