Wired for Sound

I had a sleep study last night. Let me start off by saying, in my semi-delirious state, that I think it's funny that they call it a "sleep" study, since that's the last thing I felt like doing.

Let me get back to be beginning. For the past few years, much like a 9 month old, I've had problems sleeping through the night. Falling asleep (eventually) isn't the problem, but come 2:00 am, it's me and the clock having a face-off. Also, I've joined the ranks of the snorers in the family, that is if you believe my sister and my father, the two people who rattle the windows when they sleep.

I mentioned it to my doctor the last time I went in, and sure enough, she suggested a sleep study. I snarkily told her that I suspected it would confirm I can't sleep with crap hooked up to me, but she insisted.

To be fair, the folks at the Center for Sleep Medicine in Lafayette Hill kick ass, even if they didn't let me finish watching the 10:00 episode of Law & Order SVU on USA. Michelle made me feel like I was just checking into a spartan hotel, and Mark definitely took the weirdness out of being plugged in to go to sleep.

The getting "put to bed" part took roughly 30 minutes. Let me paint you a picture...

I started by shoving wires down the shorts of my PJs, then I had a band put around my chest, another around my abdomen. Then I had sensors put on my chest and abdomen. We went into another room from which I emerged looking like something from a sci-fi movie. I had more wires attached to me then I ever imagined possible. Here's what I can recall from the top of my head (literally)- one behind each of my ears, another under my jaw. Two at my temples, one under each of my eyes, and then three on various parts of my head. Add in the two mics put in my nose, and the pluse/ox monitor on my index finger, and I was, literally, wired for sound.

I was then escorted to my bed where I was plugged into a PC, and then put through a bizarre version of the hokey pokey to calibrate the machines - look left, look right, flex your left foot, flex your fight, blink five times, etc. I eventually fell asleep and for the first time in my life, I was actually happy I woke up in the middle of the night. A part of me felt validated in my sleep issues despite having to lay in a strange bed, in a strange room with an infra-red camera pointed at me, trying to go back to sleep.

7:30 came way too soon, when I was rousted from bed, disconnected and sent on my way. I made it back home, got through both my full time and part time jobs, and instead of going to bed like a normal person, I'm updating my blog and wishing I had the foresight to have had my cell phone closer to my bed so I could have taken a picture for posterity.

I should know in a week or so what exactly the deal is - my money is on sleep apnea and general insomnia.

Until then...sweet dreams.

Who's in the Dog House?

Anger, shock, disgust and sadness are some of the things I felt last night when I read that Michael Vick was signed to the Philadelphia Eagles.

I'm all for second chances, but so far, Michael Vick hasn't walked the walk. I read Wayne Parcel's blog about how he met with Vick on more than one occasion since his departure from prison with great interest. So far, I'm not impressed. Maybe Vick (and I leave out "mister" intentionally) is genuinely contrite for having been involved with a dog fighting ring. Maybe he is just sorry that he got caught.

I wanted to vomit when word first broke of the activities at Bad Newz Kennels, and I am a person that is not a pit bull fan. Certain breeds of dogs immediately strike fear into me and pit bulls are one of them. But hearing about Georgia, the dog who had her teeth surgically removed, theoretically to make her more breedable, made my heart weep. Cherry, the dog who couldn't walk on a leash, probably because he never went for a normal dog walk, broke my heart.

I wanted to adopt a pit bull. Specifically, I wanted to adopt a "Vick" pit pull.

Needless to say my mother was not happy.

I'm glad to hear that with the exception of the two dogs who were euthanized, most of Vick's victims are living in safe environments. They are now able to be dogs, not fighting machines.

Vick and his co-conspirators went through the justice system, and did their time as the law stipulates. But does that mean that Vick gets to make seven figures in the NFL? In my mind, I think not. At least without doing some hard time working with the very creatures he victimized.

I think it's ironic that he's been signed to a team in the same city as Chase Utley, one of the heroes of the 2008 World Series. He and his wife Jenn are well known in Philadelphia as animal lovers, and paid the veterinary bills of a puppy who was beaten and tortured by her former owners. I read today that Jenn Utley was protesting outside of the press conference announcing Vick's signing with the Eagles. I wanted to give her a virtual high-five.

I really hope that Vick makes amends - and not with his words. I hope he reaches out to Mr. and Mrs. Utley and actively works to improve the lot of animals in the city of Philadelphia. I guess what I want is for Vick to lead by example. I want him to see the reality of dog fighting. Make him comfort an abused animal, who doesn't know how to communicate their fear, their pain.

I hope I'm not disappointed in Vick, or in Eagles Coach Andy Reid, Quarterback Donovan McNabb (who vouched for Vick) and Tony Dungee.

How Not To React

It's no secret I really want to be nominated to be on TLC's What Not To Wear.

I'm pretty sure there wouldn't be a problem with getting good footage of me. I think it's perfectly acceptable to run out to the supermarket in ratty shorts and a t-shirt, no make up, hair in a sloppy ponytail and cheap sneakers. Would I like to dress better? Sure. Do I want to spend my own money on fabulous clothes when I refuse to believe that being a size 20 is a permanent state? No.

Yes, Stacy and Clinton can be over the top while trying to make their point. But that's their job. I look at them like guerrilla stylists. I love the passion they bring to the show and how they make their "victims" feel great about their bodies no matter their size.

The part of the show that grates on my last nerve is the hair makeover part. No, it's not Nick Arrojo. I think he's great. I'd like to pick him up and put him in my pocket so I can have him with me at all times. What bothers me is the way some of the subjects react to the concept of hair change.

I'm admittedly behind on my DVR watching. I'm watching an episode of WNTW that aired in mid-June featuring a single woman from Texas in her fifties. To say she had quintessential Southern hair is an understatement. You know the saying "The higher the hair the closer to God"? Well this woman should have been canonized in her bedazzled leopard print.

She took to the rules about clothing from Stacy and Clinton better than I thought she would. I was on her side - I really wanted to see the reveal.

Then she sat down in Nick's chair. He explained to her that he wanted to tone down the brassy hair and make her 'do sleeker. When he was done I thought she looked great. She cried for the balance of the show because her hair was shorter and that men wouldn't like it. Seriously - that was her main concern - a man's reaction to her hair.

Huh?

I dumped a guy because he kept at me to grow my hair out from a chin length bob. I explained to him that if he liked long hair so much he could feel free to grow his out, but that I wasn't at a point in my life where I wanted to spend 45 minutes a day washing and drying my hair. He didn't let up. I suspect he is still living in Johnstown, PA, now with a Crystal Gayle look alike.

Getting back to the show, Carmandi, the makeup artist, had to get someone else to restyle the woman's hair and she was still bitching, again citing that men wouldn't find her attractive. Mind you, she didn't get a Sinead O'Connor circa 1989 buzz cut, but an age appropriate chin length do.

The show ended with her going to her salon in Dallas and getting extensions (Great Lengths, which cost $3k - I once priced them out while growing out my own hair), pushing aside the reactions of her friends and family about how great she looked, including the new hair style.

Maybe I'm the strange one, but I just don't get it. I can count on one hand the number of times I've cried about my hair (and I cry about other things a lot). The last time I got overwrought about a hair cut was in 1995 and I had a style I couldn't figure out how to do - I threw the brush at the mirror in frustration. I decided then and there that it wasn't worth it. Guess what? My hair grew back.

I abuse my hair - I cut it, blow it dry, flat iron, curl and color it. I once tried to chemically straighten my heavily highlighted hair with a DIY kit. I had a pixie a week later which I am just now growing out. Did I love how my fried hair look before I got the salon, and was I happy with an uber-short cut after trying to grow my hair for a year? No on both counts. But I dealt with it and a super cute cut.

Sometimes my hair looks good, other times it doesn't, but I try not to let it define me. If I had the opportunity to have a well known stylist who charges 3 figures for a cut do my hair free of charge, you can bet I'd let him (or her) do whatever the heck they wanted.

You have that on record now. Feel free to start taping the submission reel for TLC.

I can even lend you a video recorder.