Urban Decay

I haven't slept well this week. Perhaps it's because short weeks always feel longer. In elementary school, when I knew I was leaving early for a dr.'s appointment, I stared at the clock all day. I willed Mrs. Colby or Mrs. Ford, the office secretaries, to break in. "Mr. Davis?" They'd say, disrupting a lesson on Ulysses S. Grant or opportunity cost, "Will you please send Christina to the office for early dismissal?" I would always try to look apologetic, trying to get my eyes to communicate: "I'm sorry Mr. Davis, I'd really rather stay. But Mrs. Colby is calling, so there's not much I can do." It was exciting once the abbreviated day ended, but it still felt long. That's what this week has felt like. So maybe that's why I can't sleep.

Maybe it's the new hobby that has forced itself upon my household. We like to call it "stretching a dime." And by dime I mean the currency, not the various forms of debauchery you crickets or Snoop or Everlast might be thinking of. A quickening and increasingly frantic game of financial catch-up has descended upon our new marriage, causing my veteran married friends to nod in understanding. I feel confident this desperate resourcefulness has contributed to my restless nights.

But mostly, I can blame my interrupted sleep on my address, not my emotional composition. For the time being, despite my mother's best efforts and most grisly urban legends, we have chosen to live in the city. And on many days and even nights, this decision seems worthwhile. Not so much this week. Monday night, due to what I cursed and dubbed a bizarre case of food poisoning, I was rendered uncomfortable all day and miserable all night. And also, painfully awake.

Tuesday at midnight, as The Boy and I drifted off, I heard several large trucks arriving outside our door. There was much metal clanging and workmens' slang. And then, over the shouting and the thunderous idling of a giant engine, a hammer on a metal pole. Really. Throwing the duvet aside and huffing loudly, I separated the blinds to find what appeared to be BGE trucks blocking the intersection outside our house. Apparently, night time is the right time for making large repairs to traffic lights in residential neighborhoods. The Boy patiently suggested I sleep in the spare room. I apologized as I headed upstairs to the hotter but also darker and quieter room at the back of the house. When I came back to our room in the morning to get dressed, The Boy sat up in the middle of the bed, confused.

"I missed you." He squinted and said it as an accusation. "I thought you would come back."

I had planned on it, I explained, but once I finally found sleep I couldn't seem to let it go.

Last night, my best laid plans for hitting the sack early were accidentally abandoned. Damn Project Runway. I couldn't let The Boy watch it without me. You know. Not that he would.

Regardless, I deeply believed sheer exhaustion would have felled me quickly and for good last night. It was not to be. The dog, Mosotos, has developed a compulsive, paw-licking habit that somehow manages to wake me in the middle of the night. I snap my fingers and tell him to stop, waking The Boy. Nobody wins. At 4 am, I woke myself up yelling, "Oh my God, what is that noise?" It sounded like a saxophone playing random notes at odd intervals. But much louder. This morning, The Boy looked at me as if I had a saxophone coming out of my ears. He didn't remember. I still didn't sleep.

And now, at nearly 11, the ghetto bird has been circling a two-block radius for the last 20 minutes. It does not bode well.