Love Letters Of A Chronic Insomniac

As I lay here, befriending the darkness of night yet again, I can't help but wonder even if you were here, would there be enough room for you in this overcrowded bed? To the observant onlooker, it would appear that there's only me lying here, the other side of this bed barren, the sheets cold.

Every night I climb into this grave, indentation on the right side of the bed, a daily reminder that the other side of the mattress remains flat, new, untouched. Yet as untouched as it seems, is there room for you here? Is there room amidst all the doubt and fear that shares these quarters with me day in and day out?

Where are you, that person who should be here watching me sleep and marveling at the reality of my existence; that person who feels a magnetic pull towards my physical being?

Does such a person even exist?

Oh The Irony!

It never fails that the person who you wish would recognize you, doesn't, while the people who you wish would leave you alone, continue to take pleasure in annoying the snot out of you. Go figure!

Who Cares?

Apparently I do, and so much so that I'm quite miserable.

And this is my curse.

I care where you go.

I care what you do.

I care why you're doing those particular things.

I care if you stay that extra hour or two.

I care if you look at me.

I care if you smile back at me.

I care if you care.

But tonight, I wish I didn't care at all. . . . .

Happy Birthday Bianca!

It's been 2 years since I bought her, and she's still going strong!

Elevator Etiquette

Yes indeed, there is such a thing as elevator etiquette, and no, I'm not talking about whatever frisky happenings occur after those doors close. That's between you and your hunny! The only rule applicable to that situation is, never get caught! What I'm talking about is what happens when the doors open.

Three days a week I ride the A Elevator to the first floor of Memorial Hospital and stumble down the hallway for a long night of nursing. The last thing I need is to walk off that elevator aggrevated because someone insists on breaking the rules of elevator loading and unloading.

I don't care if you hold the door for me, or if you're one of those people who sees me coming and sneers at me as your silhouette disappears behind the closing doors. I don't even care if you break wind while we're riding along. But please, for Pete's sake, when those doors open wait your turn to get out!

I really have no idea why this bothers me, but it does.

Here's how it's supposed to go: You decide whether you need to go up or down and wait about 10 years for the dang thing to come to you. When the doors open you wait until all the people already on the elevator decide where they need to go, and then you allow them to get off! Then, and only then, is it Kosher for you to get on.

I don't understand why this is so hard to understand, and I would think that most people would recognize that it's rude to be pushing past people who are trying to get to their destination, but oh well, silly me, uneducated Yankee. . . .

Also Known As. . . .

It's no wonder that sometimes I don't know whether I'm coming or going. Check out all these nicknames:

• Pat
• Patser
• Phoofy
• Miss Patti
• Nurse Patti
• Patti-Cake
• Little Red Riding Hood
• Twin
• Peppermint Patti
• Pootie or Poot
• Pretty Lady
• Lil Bit
• Malinka (some type of Russian berry) - given to me by Ms Future MD
• Dyumovochka (Russian for Thumbelina) - given to me by Olga, but a new favorite for Ms Future MD
• Patalina
• Patalones (as opposed to pantalones)
• Paterowski
• Minnie Mouse
• Fatty (thanks a lot JR)