Brownie points : Confessions of a bad son

(776 words)

It never bodes well when it’s after 11 p.m. and caller ID shows it’s my 81-year-old Mom. Not because it’s something urgent and we’re an hour away.

No, usually because it’s something exasperating and I’m impatient.

She “desperately” needs chicken tenders, coffee filters or watermelon. Pepper jack cheese is a perennial need. She’s always desperate for pepper jack cheese.

I don’t know what she does with it all. Maybe she spends nights in her apartment playing pepper jack cheese Jenga. 

Dad died in ’04 and Mom began her decline in about ’11. My second cousin — she’s 24 — lives with her but has an active social life so it’s not like she’s there to play nurse or run to the store when Mom forgets which closet contains the raft of Quilted Northern (she’s very brand specific).

Lately, it’s Duncan Hines brownie mix. She never has enough of it. I take her three or four packs on the weekly shopping trips. 

It’s becoming one of my triggers. She says “Duncan Hines brownie mix” and a vein in my neck begins to throb. By God, I know she needs Duncan Hines brownie mix, she’s never low on Duncan Hines brownie mix, yet every times she calls with her shopping list she says she needs Duncan Hines brownie mix. She usually has it written down two or three times on the same short list.

She really needs that Duncan Hines brownie mix.

I know children of aging parents who deal with far worse. They live with them, feed them, change them, bathe them and complain much less than I do when all I have to do is answer the damn phone when I’m trying to see what happens yet again when Kramer feeds Rusty too much Beef-a-Reeno.

(Spoiler alert: The horse becomes flatulent)

I answered the phone relieved Mom had no way of seeing my insolent eye roll.

Yes, Mom, what is it this time?

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re there. My faucet’s leaking.”

I told her there was nothing I could do about it. How bad was it?

“It won’t shut off.”

So she’d already tried what would be my lone suggestion. After “try turning it off,” my over-the-phone plumbing expertise is pretty much exhausted.

I tried not to sound too awfully condescending when I said, “I hope you’re not going to ask me to get dressed and drive all the way into Pittsburgh at midnight for something about which there’s nothing I can do.”

And let’s see you try not to sound too awfully condescending when saying something so awfully condescending. It’s not easy.

I told her she’d need to get building maintenance there as soon as they’re available.

“Oh, I did that. He’s right here.”

Oh. I see. Yes. Well, good. Put him on.

It was Ray. The building maintenance guys where she lives are just great. They’re there when needed — and they’d better be ‘cause that’s their job — but what I like about them is they’re so kind, like Mr. Rogers with wrenches.

They’re unfailingly nice with my Mom. They joke with her. They listen to her long-winded stories. They act like they care.

They act like the son I wish I could be.

I think part of my problem is dread of the future. Not that Mom will get sick and die.

My fear is she won’t.

Longevity runs in the family. Her father died at 97 and was healthy right up to the end.

I saw she’d made a note to herself — and the notes she leaves to herself are like Super Bowl confetti. This one said: “Remember! ’60 Minutes’ story on staying healthy through your 90s. Sunday night!”

I threw the note away.

I asked the other day, as I always do, how she’s feeling.

“Oh, I feel great! I always thank God for giving me such good health. No ambition, but good health.”

She tells me what a great son I am. She thanks me for all I do. She thinks I’m kind, patient and concerned — everything I know I’m not.

Ray tells me I need to buy a new faucet and bring it in to him tomorrow. He works nights, but said he’ll be happy to come to meet me when it’s good for me.

You sure, I ask, that won’t be too inconvenient?

“Not at all! We’d do anything for Rachel. She makes the world’s best brownies. She’s always dropping off a great big batch down at the maintenance office. Your Mom’s the best!”

I was too ashamed to ask if his calcium levels were unnaturally high from surplus pepper jack cheese.

Related . . .

Crazy Mom’s awareness of brands, little else

Mom’s making crazy contagious by a  nose

A son’s Mother’s Day lament

Doc says Mom’s not crazy

Yesterday was the best Halloween ever

Sunday encore: End world hunger! Be an airhead!

We’re all justifiably concerned about what we consume. Is this fruit organic? Are these vegetables free of taint? Is this Hot Pocket as nutritionally desolate as we suspect. Seems like everything we eat these days is bound to poison us or make our butts look too big. That’s why I was thrilled in the summer of ’11 to read about a radical new diet. It’s the choice of what are called “breathariians,” those who consume nothing but air. As diets go, this one’s a breath of fresh . . .

At least once a month I’m given a reminder as to why my annual expense on the Oxford English Dictionary membership is such a worthy splurge.

The word-of-the-day feature always surprises me with delightful new definitions that tickle my intellect, lead to story ideas or sometimes solve seemingly tricky  problems.

That makes Wednesday’s word a sort of three-fer.

I love the word, plan on pitching it as a story idea and, yeah, it offers a breathtaking way to end world hunger.

All that for just $295 a year.

The word is “breatharian.”

Definition: “A person who consumes or claims to require no nutrients other than those absorbed from the air and, in some cases, sunlight.”

First a quibble. The word, initially cited in 1979, is formed on the same basis as vegetarian (people who eat only vegetables) and thus suffers from some clumsy construction I’d like to tidy up.

Based on vegetarian, the word should be “airarian.”

And, yeah, let’s work at overcoming the pejorative connotations of the word and get to the point where we can just call them all airheads.

The practice has mystical roots with Catholics believing fasting saints needed not food nor water and more recently Hindus who believe any person can give up sustenance altogether and live off what they call “prana,” “living on light” or “living on air.”

I spend a lot of time worry about world hunger.

I’ve suggested both hunger and morbid obesity could be eliminated in one fell swoop if everyone agreed to eat just two square meals a day.

It was I who last year floated the theory that world hunger will be eliminated when scientists learn to clone and farm 70-ton sauropods, a dinosaur capable of feeding a typical family of four for about 120 years, providing the family has an industrial freezer the size of your typical Chuck E. Cheese.

The problem is all my solutions center around consumption. 

Now along comes a solution that literally out of thin air turns my ideas on their heads.

All that’s needed to sustain breatharians is air and sunshine, elements that are drive-thru ready every time you roll down your car window. 

I do wonder if meteorological conditions will factor into health.

Will people in dark and cloudy places like Seattle be preternaturally thin? Will folks in sun-drenched Yuma turn tubby from all the fresh air and sunshine?

(Trivial aside: Residents of Yuma refer to themselves as Yumans. So my bucket list now includes the goal of running in one of the town’s 5Ks so I can snag what’s bound to be a nifty "Yuman Race" t-shirt.)

Of course, I’m eager to learn more and am open-minded about going foodless.

I dream of a world of plenty where everyone feels strong and well-fed, a world where none of my shirts is stained with mustard and all the wars are fought with farts.

That’s why I’m thrilled Latrobe could this weekend be a beacon to global breatharians.

Yes, it’s the Westmoreland County Airshow! Gate tickets $10; children 10 and under free!

I’d have to think breatharians would be attracted to something billed as an “airshow,” even if they’ll wind up confused by the carnival food, stunt planes, wingwalkers and BigFoot, the original monster truck.

Still, I’m hopeful this weekend I’ll meet a breatharian who’ll be willing to share his mystical secrets with me.

I’ll take the guy out to dinner.

Heck, I’ll even treat.

That’s sure to be another plus.

Breatharians are bound to be cheap dates.

Pittsburgh mom gambles on locking kid in car

(718 words)

Pittsburgh is in the midst of one of those hysterical episodes that seem cosmically bestowed just to give rant-worthy material to indignant talk show hosts. 

A 30-year-old area woman is facing negligence charges for locking her 9-year-old son in the car while she went inside a local casino to claim a $10 gambling voucher.

I know, I know. On its face, it looks terrible. And, truly, Valerie E. Snyder made a terrible mistake.

She should never have locked her son in the car.

She should have locked him in the trunk where no one would have seen him.

Let’s break this one down.

First of all, this happened at 10 p.m. on the sixth floor of the Rivers Casino parking garage right near PNC Park where she had taken the boy to a Pirate game.

The latter warms my heart. My mommy never took me to a Pirate game. Or a casino, for that matter. So for about eight hours prior to being branded a negligent mother, she was being an absolutely wonderful mother, one any son would adore.

And while they’re there singing “Take Me Out To the Ballgame!” and trying to snag a foul ball and snacking on — talk about criminal acts — $5 bags of peanuts, the promoters of Rivers Casino arrange to give her a $10 voucher for free gambling.

I don’t know the particulars of the giveaway, but it’s not risky to infer they gave them to all 35,000 people in attendance. But let’s say they gave them to just 2,500 or so who bought programs.

That’s a $25,000 promotion, a lot of scratch for any business.

Well, any business besides a casino.

They give away $10 vouchers — redeemable for only 24 hours — because they know most of the people who use a $10 gambling voucher will wind up spending at least five times that amount.

Now, I don’t know the Snyder family situation. I saw the tearful husband on TV and if he has a well-paying job then he has an eccentric affinity for dressing like a man who does not.

The Snyders live about 45 minutes from the casino and returning the next day would likely require her to pay for a sitter and again for parking.

Here’s where I put myself in her shoes.

She could either prepare herself for a next day hassle or she could dash in the casino, redeem the voucher and then one day come back and — cross your fingers — play a hand that will forever change the fortunes of the Snyder family.

So she did what casinos everywhere urge her to do.

She took a chance and crapped out; a passerby saw the boy and alerted security.

Me, I see extenuating circumstances that help me sail through jury selection without any defense challenges.

This wasn’t some 18-month-old kid strapped into a car seat in sun-baked parking lot. It was evening and 65 degrees.

And the kid was 9. That’s an age when many of today’s children start to smoke, dabble in porn and begin exhibiting the kind of behaviors that ensure the casinos will never go broke.

My favorite part of the story is the sanctimonious statement the casino issued: “We can’t stop parents from making bad decisions; but we are vigilant in our efforts to prevent this from happening . . . This individual will receive a lifetime ban from our casino. We take this issue very seriously.”

Of course, they don’t mean that. They want all of us to gamble away our every last cent then mortgage our homes in the hopes our luck might turn.

Me, I’m not going to judge Mrs. Snyder.

But I do have some salient advice for the casino operators. I do this because I understand the pivotal role gambling revenues play in funding the for-profit arenas legislators are bribed into erecting because they’re too stupid and lazy to discern responsible ways to govern.

Rivers needs to open the Valerie E. Snyder Casino Daycare Center!

Parents would be allowed to drop off their kids at the free daycare center and spend the day draining their paychecks into games of chance.

You could probably get Nike to co-sponsor it.

A Nike outlet in a casino daycare center would be a perfect place for whenever baby needs a new pair of shoes.

Related . . .

Extreme Vegas  . . . and me!

Daddy home alone

Posses, verdicts and vengeance

I speak: some laugh, some cheer, some snooze

(1,062 words)

I don’t know whether it’s more flattering to me or insulting to those fully engaged in the craft, but lots of people who hear me speak say I should be a stand-up comic.

Me, have yet another discipline in which to spectacularly fail? Very funny.

I often tell aspiring humor writers it’s a mistake refer to themselves as humor writers. It sets the bar too high. People hear you’re a “humor writer” and they say, “Okay, funny guy, make me laugh . . .”

This is exactly the predicament of Marlin, the clown fish father-hero in “Finding Nemo.” And that fish wasn’t funny.

I do intend my talks to be funny. That’s why I fill them up with jokes, many of them so bad I often add a disclaimer so people will stop groaning long enough for me to get to the next big groaner.

It makes me think Roger Ebert would say about me what he said about the 1980 movie, “Airplane!”

“It’s sophomoric, obvious, predictable, corny and often very funny. And the reason it’s very funny is often because it’s sophomoric, obvious, predictable, corny, etc.”

So me and one of my all-time favorite movies are kindred sorts of souls.

For instance, I always include colorful living tip No. 396: “Open an art gallery with nothing on the walls. Then invite people to enter and be greeted by forty guys who say nothing but, ‘Hi, I’m Art!’”

The pained groans are so pervasive I’ve taken to hushing the crowd with, “Anyone who says puns are the lowest form of humor must have never seen an Adam Sandler movie!”

It’s my idea of being what the hipsters call “edgy.”

While humor may be the biggest part of my talks, it’s far from the only one. I also strive to be thoughtful, poignant, engaging, inspirational and maudlin even (I at one point ask the audience to recall the pain of losing a beloved old dog). 

I tell you, I use every one of them damned crayons!

But for the last two months at every one of my addresses — whether it’s been before two dozen Pittsburgh Rotarians or 250 WVU Mountaineers — someone always comes up at the end and says I should be a stand-up comic or a contestant on one of the reality talent shows.

I am flattered. It tells me I’m onto something.

Plus, it’s a psychic balm for whenever I gaze out in the audience and see someone is sound asleep, something else that happens nearly every time I’m talking behind a podium.

It happened again Tuesday when one of the 100 teachers and staff I was addressing at the South Side Area School District in Hookstown, Pa., appeared to go into REM sleep the instant I began talking into the microphone.

It doesn’t upset me in the least. In fact, I’m such a nap advocate my instinct is to lower my voice to a whisper and ask everyone who’s still awake to follow me out into the hall where I’ll continue.

Of course, my other instinct is ask the band director to go fetch some orchestral cymbals.

Banging massive cymbals inches from the ears of a sleeping teacher would be mean, but it would also be funny. Well, funny to everyone but the sleepy teacher.

Hookstown is about two hours from Latrobe so I spent the morning and the drive rehearsing in my mind what I was going to say. I’m trying to be more extemporaneous believing that’s what people want to see — a man (or woman) talking without notes.

That’s the way it is anymore. To hold anyone’s attention you need to speak either without notes or without clothes.

But as happens anytime my mind is free to ramble, it began scheming on how I could take advantage of the talk before I’d even delivered it. It settled on an idea to have someone go up to the attendees after the talk with a video camera and ask, “So, in 20 seconds or less, what did you think of Chris?”

I predicted (ahem, correctly) that many of the comments would be favorable. I thought I could string them together and post it as another promotion. But then I thought that would look insufferably pretentious because I’d deliberately omit all the ones who said I sucked or “Get that camera out of my face!” which happened about six times.

Then I thought it’d be funny to ask my friends and family the same question and include little vignettes of friends saying I’m cheap, talk too much, aren’t as funny as I think I am, etc. Then I’d turn the kids loose so they could say I’m mean, ugly, boring, balding, “too farty,” at the dinner table, etc.

And I’m going to do just that. Feel free to get in touch, too, if you’d either like to say something either nice or snarky (Please, nothing too cruel; remember I have daughters for that).

What was interesting to me about the Hookstown address was that I was brought in to bat clean-up, to talk after a nationally prominent motivational speaker.

He’s John Miller, author of the million seller “QBQ! The Question Behind The Question.” He’s paid big bucks to speak before thousands of people seeking buzzword motivation.

But the organizer chose me to keynote the thing, to make the last, best impression. He’d heard me speak at the WVU fracas you can read about in the “greatest author ovation ever” link below.

Motivator Miller is a really big deal and it was a genuine coup that he chose to attend this charming little district’s kick-off seminar. 

He’s sold a million books. I’ve sold fewer than 3,000.

The fact should alarm veteran speakers that a new kid’s on the block and they’d better up their game or get ready for a real ass kicking.

That the line-up was arbitrarily set because he happened to need to catch an early flight is a possibility my massive ego refuses to consider.

But the reaction was again very positive. 

Even the teacher who’d slept through the whole thing applauded with enthusiasm.

Can I seize on this momentum?

That is the question.

So what’s the question behind the question?

I hope it’s this: Where does all the stuff go when the stuff goes into the black holes?

That’s what I want to know.

Related . . .

“Greatest Author Ovation Ever! (Bullies, my ‘stache . . .)

What’s my favorite movie? Hmmm …

My fears of public speaking

Book signing recap & The Great Chris Rodell

Word Master! I’m the boss of the bee

PaSsWORd thieves running amok!

(743 words)

The bad news is Russian mobsters have stolen 1.2 billion passwords. The good news is we’ll now at least know who to call next time we forget our passwords.

I spent about 10 minutes this morning thinking about whether I should change all my passwords, as computer security experts are advising.

I decided to defy them.

I did this because I put myself in the shoes of who I think of as your stereotypical Russian mobster and for our purposes today that person is Boris Badenov, the cartoon foil of Rocky and Bullwinkle.

“Ve now have 1.2 beellion passwords. How should ve best capitaloolize on our diaboolical geenious? Should ve start with the blogger? Or with the 1,999,999,999 other peepool who have more means?

“Me thinks ve should start wit Trump.”

Asking me to take extra steps in my own computer accounts security is like asking me to guard the bank after it’s been robbed.

This shouldn’t be my problem.

If this is such a big problem — and I do believe it is — then the front line firms should get their acts together and solve it.

It’s an old myth that we only use about 10 percent of our brains. I think I devote at least that much to storing all the numbers of the men who won four Super Bowls for the Pittsburgh Steelers in the 1970s 

But let’s assume it is just 10 percent. I’ll bet six percent of my brain capacity is used to try and track passwords. I have passwords for banks, phone, electric and gas companies. Those at least make sense because they involve financial transactions.

But I also have passwords for Facebook, Twitter, Google, my websites, the Oxford English Dictionary, and a myriad other things I could do without.

It’s the worst sort of mental clutter.

Some of my passwords involve my mother’s maiden name, which for you trivia buffs is Q$!ztOn1234.

Some are amalgamations of old bosses, pets, street addresses or numeric oddities. One password is a homage to the girl to whom I lost my virginity on September 20, 1996, which is the night I got married. (Hint: That one begins with a “V” and ends with an “alerie.”)

None of my passwords is password12345, which experts say is the most common and least deceptive passwords.

“iloveyou” is another common one, and very sweet, if you needed a password to get laid. Instead, people are using it for things like cable companies, which is surprising. If I went that route, my Comcast password would be “ThanksForScrewingMe,Assholes!”

That would work because it has the requisite upper cases and unusual characters, which they say is good.

I’ve always opted for complexity, which is why I can never remember any of my passwords. I can never recall whether or not I upper or lower cased the third or the fourth letter or if I used a “%” or a “#” as the oddball crook stumper.

So I can never remember any of my passwords and am forever having to go in and change them into more complicated versions of the passwords I’ve already forgotten in the first place.

Passwords are one of the biggest nuisances about being alive right now, that is if this list doesn’t include things like climate change, spree killings, Ebola, ethnic hatred, saturation Khardashian coverage, etc.

Maybe this massive Russian hacker — and doesn’t it sound like I’m describing a goon hockey player? — episode will be the necessary impetus for sensible change.

Passwords are such an insecure, chaotic babble that I’m sure we’re on the brink innovation. In fact, it’s happening right now.

There’s a company called Facelock that utilizes the power of facial recognition. This would be a boon to easily confused people like me and even dogs and cats who are eager to participate in social media.

Well, not the cats.

Facelock correctly contends our brains are not wired to remember long strings of random letters and numbers. The system instead presents pages of faces with the user having to select the ones she or he remembers.

This would be so much easier than hunting all over the keyboard for non-sensical combinations that defy recollection.

So let the Russian hackers have my password. Go ahead and plunder my meager accounts.

It’s not my problem. It’s the problem of the people I pay to keep my accounts secure.

Rest assured, a change is coming.

Until then, I just don’t give a #@%8!

Related . . .

Doc says Mom’s not crazy

ZIPpity-Do-Duh! A postal money maker

Tech problems inflict Biblical torment

Computer problems interrupt lauded blog

I’m becoming left handed

New sneeze etiquette! Let's count sneezes aloud!

(932 words)

I’m pleased to report progress in my efforts to get the world to start counting consecutive sneezes instead of saying, “God bless you,” or some other sneeze-associated salutation.

As of now, my daughter and Dave at the bar are joining me in enthusiastic sneeze counting. That makes three of us.

Only about 7.046 billion people to go!

But I anticipate sneeze counting will go viral — and not in the way sneeze-borne illnesses do.

Sneeze counting eases what is one of the most awkward public situations: what to say when someone sneezes more than once.

First of all, let’s consider the sneeze, the orgasm’s nasal cousin.

Like an orgasm, a really good sneeze is very pleasurable. It’s a euphoric release that also coincidentally expels bodily fluids.

But with sneezes that’s a problem. Even the most renown porn stars can’t send their bodily fluids shooting 30-feet across the room at speeds of up to 100 mph. At least I think that’s the case. I don’t follow porn news as closely when the Pirates are contending.

And you don’t want anyone sneezing in your face — and with that I think it’s time we drop the porn analogies.

Because while a sneeze can be very satisfying to the sneezer, it’s equally unsettling to germaphobes who might be within range of the spray.

With each sneeze, millions of germs are launched into the environment. So it’s important that people cover up and sneeze into their elbows, a marvel of low-tech health care.

For likely as long as man was upright, we’ve been sneezing into our hands. Why, even cavemen probably understood the etiquette of daintily sneezing into their hands — and that these primitives did so centuries before anyone used toilet paper is a testament to the power of sneeze etiquette.

But seemingly overnight we all learned to sneeze into our bent elbows, a beneficial advance, well, for everyone, I guess, except the folks who enjoy square dancing who are now at risk every time they do-si-do.

So on the one-hand we are compelled by nature to sneeze and on the other we feel a competing need to not sneeze too volcanically, lest we upset our fellow man.

That’s why many people feel go to great lengths to stifle their sneezes, something that sometimes leads to injuries among the sneeze stiflers.

Studies show trying to delay a sneeze is like trying to halt a locomotive as it barrels down the tracks. It can rupture blood vessels in the brain and bloody brains are something only the zombies crave.

I didn’t see it in any of the studies, but I know for a fact it can also cause the sneeze stifler to blast a really loud fart in an otherwise silent sociology class in Athens, Ohio, making him radioactive among the sorority sisters who’ll forever taunt him with the name “sneeze farter.”

Or so I’ve heard.

So sneezing should be encouraged.

That’s where sneeze counting comes in.

The typical reaction to a person sneezing once is for several people to mumble, “God bless you.” They do this once. But no one ever does it more than two times, the point at which everyone just starts becoming quietly embarrassed for the sneezer.

Dave at the bar can be very blunt with sneezers. He’ll summon a prayerful blessing once, but after two or three blasts he’ll say, “All right, now you’re just being annoying.”

Sneeze counting changes all that by turning sneezing into a spectator competition.

Dave’s joined me in this. Now, anytime anyone — man or woman — sneezes we don’t invoke a deity, we instead shout in unison, “One!”

If they sneeze again, we shout, “Two!” and so on. This at first startles the sneezer because it’s such an abnormal reaction. But once everyone catches on, it’ll become a bragging point.

Wife: “How did it go down at the unemployment office, honey?”

Husband: “Great! I rattled off 12 sneezes in a row!”

Wife: “Did you get a job?”

Husband: “No, but I’ll bet I made everyone else sick so my chances next time ought to be much better.”

I’ll bet my record is 18. I remember one sneezing fit about 15 years ago when the goldenrod saturated the air. I remember hoping no one would see me, my eyes watering, nose running and looking like I’d been run over by a truck.

Had someone been there to count I’d have felt completely different, like I’d won a bowling trophy.

The competitive edge changes everything.

Of course, no one will ever likely touch the record of Donna Griffiths, a 13-year-old English girl who began sneezing January 13, 1981, and didn’t cease doing so until September 16, 1983. That’s 978 days of sneezing, more than one million sneezes, according to some estimates.

She must have been inundated with “God bless yous” and extended tissues.

Despite all the holy requests, I’ll bet Griffith never felt God had blessed her.

That’s another thing. Saying “God bless you” to a simple sneeze seems like a waste of God’s time. In case you haven’t noticed, He’s got bigger things on His plate.

How about we save our blessings for the things that matter? Let’s pray the wars all halt, that hatreds abate, want eases and that Kate Gosselin finds a decent job that doesn’t require she show up on our TVs every four or five months.

Can I count on you to start counting sneezes? I knew I could.

God bless you!

And I mean that whether you just let loose a peace-shattering sneeze or not.

Related . . .

What God says when Jesus sneezes

Mom making crazy contagious by a nose

Our queen sized bed; our king-sized dreams

(709 words)

I figure by my crude calculations you could probably fit about five queens in your typical queen-sized bed. Maybe seven if you could persuade them to spoon.

Queen Elizabeth is just 5-foot-4 and she seems to be shrinking before our eyes. She’s 88 and if the diminishing trajectory continues as it has then by 2016 you could probably fit about 10 of her beneath the covers of a queen.

Queen Latifah’s a different story. She’s six inches taller and is often described as “plus-sized.” Her weight seems to fluctuate and I’m too much of gentleman to play the old carney guess-your-weight game, but it’s clear Queen L could kick the dainty royal butt of Queen E, although I hope it never comes to that. They both seem like nice people.

I mention all this because we just returned to our queen-sized waterbed after a week on a true King.

Not Arnold Palmer. His back’s giving him trouble and I have too much respect for the gentleman to ever ask if my wife and I could sleep on top of him.

No, this was a sprawling King-sized bed. Compared to what we’re used to, it felt like we were going to bed on top of Texas.

And I slept great! Val, too.

I slept one morning till 7:30 — 90 minutes past my usual wake-up — and knew from the damp pillow I’d achieved rare slobber sleep, the sleep equivalent bowling a 300. 

I figure it’s my lot in life to be a lousy sleeper.

I often have trouble sleeping through the night. I wake up worrying about my prospects, about the various wars raging around the world and if Pirate third baseman Pedro Alvarez will ever remember how to make a simple toss to first base.

For years, our two little sleep bandits used to sneak in to our bed for midnight snuggling. I loved this even as I have an aversion to being kicked in places no man likes being kicked.

That’s what the second born used to do. She’d sleep between me and my wife and begin, I guess, to dream she was pedaling a bicycle, her little feet repeatedly blasting me in the balls.

It was like something the cruel rogues used to devise for the prisoners at Abu Ghraib.

So I’d get up and wander off to the living room to lay on the couch and watch the cowboy movies no one in the house lets me watch when they’re all awake, a good night’s sleep an impossibility.

But those days are done. She just turned 8 and Val asked her why she doesn’t come into the bed anymore.

“Ah, you and Daddy are always smooshed up so close together I can’t get in there.”

That’s mostly true. In the cold winter months, we cuddle up like bears in a cave, me being the hairier and bearier of the two. But in the summer months we generally allow each other a little spread.

Still, there’s the inevitable shoving match that comes from being crowded in the queen and for that I blame the dog.

I still don’t know how this dog I detest, the one the girls insisted we get for them, wound up sleeping in my bed. But recently he’s taken my place next to my wife.

I never once minded it when my daughters came into the family bed. I love them.

But I hate the dog and to lose sleep because of him infuriates me.

And I resent that my wife would rather cuddle with that smelly little yip dog than me, her man.

I don’t know how it happened. I’ve always tried to be a good bedmate. I don’t snore, scream or disrupt her slumber with the dreaded jimmy legs. And I know one thing I’ve got that the neutered dog no longer does.

Well, two things.

To go on more would be unseemly. I just will have to persevere without complaint and maybe dream that one day she and I (and, yeah, Snickers) will share a king.

Until then, I choose to remain above the sleep fray, just a prince in his queen.

And I apologize for how incestuously unseemly that sounds.

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