For two nights in a row in the middle of a deep hazy dream filled sleep I am summoned, ordered really, by my Drill Sargent caper sized bladder to get my...
in your face, " uh-oh" gotta go gotta go gotta go right now...
ohhh shit..I really (seriously!!) gotta pee feeling.
I'm always surprised by the urgency, even though I seem to have a vague memory of bickering with that ol bladder of mine for the past hour or two...
"psst...I gotta go" it says politely.
"In a sec" I reply and go back to conversing with my lunch dates.
We are dining ocean side.
The water, blue and inviting.
"Ummm...I really need to go now" my bladder calls to me again.
It figures that just as Liam Neeson is passing me a caramel macchiato it interrupts, again.
"Wait" I hiss "just a few more minutes.
Please, let me enjoy this moment just a bit longer"
Steadman chuckles as Oprah leaned forward to allow me a quick sniff of her neck.
She's just about to disclose the name of the heavenly scent she's wearing...
the perfume, a gift from Donna Karan who blushes a bit when Oprah and I start babbling about her other delicious fragrances.
I want to hear all about the two of them dating, Liam and Donna...an unlikely pair in my celebrity watching eyes.
"I can't (and won't) wait any longer" my rude bladder informs.
Finally, the nagging is too much and I know I have to comply.
I fight to get out from under my pile of blankets.
I karate chop style beat Daddio's leg off me.
All the while trying to pamper my stiff back which is threatening to seize up, rendering me temporarily paralyzed.
That would be awful because I'm positive I'm near wetting the bed.
And if the soaked sheets didn't wake up poor Daddio, my howls of pain surely would.
Daddio has no sympathy gene, this is especially apparent in the middle of the night.
I was trying so hard to be careful, yet hurry at the same time.
Finally the shackles of my bed release me and I am free to dash to the pot.
my blanket has one last bit of fight left in it
and it has a hold of my foot,
and I nearly fall head first out of bed,
but my twisted ankle saves me.
I heard it crack, but it was still functioning when I finally righted myself and headed in the direction of the bathroom.
On my feet now, my eyes refused to open.
I forced one open with my fingers and it was blurry and not focusing.
This, of course, triggered my inner hypochondriac, causing me to quickly surf my mind files for possible causes.
None of which were my new old lady eye cream.
I curse my old age and the fact that I can't ever go back to sleep or rejoin a neat dream in progress...damn it all to hell anyway.