Follow the Bouncing Pill

This past week I spent alternating between bouts of vomiting and self-pity. But mostly self-pity. During my convalescing I spent a lot of time watching such high quality programming as Blind Date and Cheaters. I also watched more redeeming programming though, such as commercials.

While watching a commercial for Ambien, a drug for insomnia, I noticied that one of the listed side effects is drowsiness. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but that's a bit like listing infertility as one of the side effects for birth control pills. Another commercial for a yet another sleep aid, Lunesta, wisely advised that you should not "engage in any activity after taking Lunesta that requires complete alertness, such as driving a car or operating machinery." Mmm--okay--if you need that advice then you're probably taking the sleeping pill because you spend your nights tossing and turning over what you're going to do when your work discovers you're a complete moron. Me? I sleep like a baby. My boss already knows I'm a complete moron.

On a not completely unrelated note--while hopped up on enough Thera-Flu to decongest an L.A. freeway and beer (feed a fever, drown a cold), I decided it would be a good idea to clean out our kitchen cabinets. Yes, there were more ground-level chores that I could have done, but these cabinets were my cleaning Everest. I had to clean them because they were there. And like George Mallory, my efforts were doomed to failure.

As I was standing with one foot on the edge of the counter, holding onto the cabinet door that had suddenly become unhinged and was the only thing holding me from falling to the floor, I began to calculate the amount of time before someone would discover my Windex-clutching dead body. My roommate was out of town, I had just paid the bills and I so rarely answer my cell phone that I routinely get messages from friends telling me that they are removing me as their emergency contact. I figured three months would be the optimistic answer. Two if I'd set my alarm and it eventually managed to annoy the neighbors.

And then I realized---so, that's why married people live longer--it's not the whispered sweet-nothings, it's not the twelve dozen roses-- it's the fact that whoever you're with, even if it's a Lunesta-taking-tractor-driving moron, that even they will most likely have enough wits about them to dial those three simple digits that every second grader knows: 9-1-1, thereby extending your life span--not to mention allowing you to finish cleaning the cabinets without the employment of a Sherpa.

Happy Valentine's Day All!