Sitting on Cold Porcelain

by Rose A. Valenta

It’s been a difficult day at the office and you're exhausted. Your eyes hurt from working on a computer all day, not to mention the crimp in your neck and back, and sore Maxine (escape key) finger.

You turn on the evening news to find out that all sorts of crazy things are happening in our world. Terrorists are trying to kill us, our Vice President made another gaffe at an important event, our political pundits are calling for impeachment, a famous designer has introduced a line of bullet-proof clothing, another politician has gotten himself involved in a sex scandal, PETA is making yet another smoker ad, a scientist wants to give Galileo a posthumous eye test on a stimulus grant, and the term “Brangelina” now refers to a gay variety show at the Boston Roxy; you know that because your 10-year-old grandson told you.

You try to find out if your v-chip works for news programming, as the kids are doing homework in front of the TV. They are not asking about protractors and math manipulatives.

You could describe the way you feel as “punch drunk,” only there are no Marquess of Queensberry rules here.

You get into bed feeling warm and cozy; your significant other is snoring loudly at your side. Icicles are forming outside. You fluff your pillows, turn on the heating blanket, set the alarm, and insert the ear-plugs - all is right with your world.

Then, at around 3:00 am, at the very beginning of your crucial Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep (the three-hour sound sleep window that keeps people from going crazy), you begin dreaming about soaking in a hot tub, you wake up suddenly before you pee yourself, make a mad dash into the bathroom, quickly squat, and find yourself - sitting on cold porcelain.

Realizing that the culprit is still sleeping soundly in the next room, totally unaware of your predicament, and probably dreaming about lunch with the guys at Hooters, you scream loudly, as if to wake up the dead or at least that slug stuck in a salt ring.

He comes running into the bathroom, completely naked and wild-eyed with a Colt 45, ready to protect his damsel in distress. He looks around quickly like a buck protecting his turf. He almost pees on the wall to mark it; then, he looks down and spots a puddle of water and his damsel, who is stuck in the commode.

You, his damsel, begin to spew a Dennis Miller monologue, worse than anything he has ever heard on the O'Reilly Factor, he aims, and you karate chop him. The weapon falls into the commode. It can't rust, so he stays up for an hour cleaning it out and oiling it. You are still beating his ear an hour into REM sleep. Both of you are red-eyed, resembling vampires. You go back to bed. There is still an hour left.

No, this is not a sneak preview of the next Super Bowl prize-winning GEICO caveman commercial. Some people call it Murphy's Law every time things go wrong. I feel justified calling it "Sitting on Cold Porcelain."

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