Enter Sandman...please

A study that came out in late February scared the hell out of me.

Published in the medical journal BMJ Open, it claims that people who use prescription sleeping pills are more likely to die or get cancer than those who don't. To be precise, people turning to the sleep aids are four times more likely to kick it.

Not what I wanted to hear.

Then, I see this story from USA Today, saying people who are lacking in sleep are more likely to have a stroke.

And the other day, my favorite fitness guru, Jillian Michaels, sends out an email linking to this piece, which says that seven hours of sleep a night is not a luxury, but a necessity. That you're more likely to get diabetes, heart disease, cancer, depression, blah, blah, blah.

Just take me out back now and shoot me.

Only one wag bag

Your dad's name was Kahoochie Creek Kramer. Your mom, Trader's Flying Arrow.

Yet, we settled on something simple: Peanut.

It was all by circumstance. Married just four months, Daddy and I had a simple Saturday breakfast at the Waffle House. A trek to the Melbourne Square mall afterwards, just days after Thanksgiving. A walk into Puppies Plus. I'd always been a fan of Jack Russell terriers, thanks in part to the PBS series "Wishbone" (how could an English major resist a JRT with a sense of humor AND a passion for literature?) and the wiry little rascal Eddie on "Frasier." So I kind of always had my eye out for one of you.

And then, our eyes met.

A little white and reddish furball in a tiny crate. The cutest face I'd ever seen. And then the thought, "Let's just hold her a bit."

That's all it took.

Bird's iView

I remember when I first met my husband back in the early '90s. Cell phones were pretty much an anomaly, and anyone who had one commanded a certain amount of awe.

He was one of them.

I can't recall if it was the brick-in-the-bag variety or the one he eventually graduated to (a "car phone," per se, as that little analog treasure of bolts was wired into his car and mounted, complete with the curly cue cord). But it seemed pretty cool at the time. I didn't even have a cell phone till about 1998, and I questioned if I could handle the technology and yearlong service commitment.

Twelve years of marriage and two kids later, the man hates service contracts and swears by the simple, pay-as-you-go phone. Getting him to turn on his ringer would be akin to the second coming of Christ, and I've pretty much given up trying to text-message the man. He rarely answers.

The kids and I are another story.
  

Sleepless with some Seagram's

I am a sucker when it comes to romance.

No, I don't read those ridiculous books with the Fabio-like men on the cover. But, sorry -- some of those rom-coms get me. As do real-life stories.

It's funny, because I look at couples who have been together for a long time and sometimes forget that their story, too, has a beginning.

Spilling the Santa beans

I just spent 90 minutes wrapping Christmas gifts, and I'm sweating like I've been speed-walking. I've also come to the realization that I'm ready to make a major confession.

I think I'm ready to tell my daughter the Santa secret.

The essence of Jake (AKA "Why I drink")

Since we live 1,200 miles away from the bulk of our family, when the holidays roll around, we try to do photo Christmas cards. The first few years, it was Tony and me and the dogs.

Thirteen years later, the dogs no longer make the cut. It's enough trying to get two bickering siblings to cooperate a forced smile in tandem. Add the parents, an attempt at non-clashing clothes and an appealing backdrop, and you're asking for it.

These are a few of my unfavorite things

I love Christmas. The decorations. The music. Embracing the enormity of the real reason behind it. And the opportunity to get together with family and friends we haven't seen for a while.

But it also ushers in a whole bunch of stress.