Not one to regularly anthropomorphize animals, I’ve come to believe my cat, Alice (oh yeah, don’t make them people-like, but give them people names) can read.  Yes, read.  But I’m not very impressed with her skills, because she apparently thinks that Dr. Seuss titled the book “The Cat is the Hat” and therefore believes it is her duty to keep my head warm, even on the hottest bloody nights in the Southern California high desert.

 

At least, that’s the story I tell myself when I open my eyes each morning with ample amounts of feline fanny in my face.

 

Try as I might to provide Miss Alice with every type of kitty mattress known to man – a fuzzy bed with a heating pad, a fabulous faux sheepskin cushion, one with a shaded portico and another with dangling toys (like a kitty mobile) to swat at while she catnaps – my head still her favorite go-to soft spot (made so, either by my fabulous conditioner or brain content, I don’t know which). 

 

I have tried to reason with her that I don’t mind that she sleeps with me, but that I would rather have her amply-padded warm cat butt near my hands or feet, especially on a cold night.  Talking does no good (maybe I should leave her a note), it just falls on deaf fuzzy ears.  She just stares at me with her big speckled green and gold gimlet eyes as if to say, “I’m sorry?  Do you think I care?”  Actually, she reacts to most of my stories that way, but I try not to take it personally.

 

I’ve thought about becoming one of those women who wears curlers to bed, but if I can’t stand the cat’s padded backside, do I really think I’m a candidate for spiky plastic pink things poking me in the head all night?  No, I think not.  It’s not a look I’m going for.  But then again, neither is the Russian empress giant fur hat that lives with me.  Honestly, I’d prefer to wake up with nothing on my head.

 

Or in my head, for that matter.

 

There are people that wake up in the morning refreshed and rested because they have the good fortune to be able to shut their brain off for a few hours.  Oh, how I envy them.  Most mornings I wake up exhausted from all the work I did in my “other life” – the one I go to after I fall asleep in this one.  Since I spend a large portion of my days putting fingers to keyboards (computer and piano) many a night I drift off to sleep doing the same, only to wake up disappointed that there aren’t reams of paper or perfectly executed measures of music to show for it.  Just dark circles under my eyes.  Nobody is impressed with that, don’t you know.  Although, it might be a new look to consider with the above-mentioned curlers.  Somewhere, Carol Burnett is smiling.

 

If I’m not typing or tapping in my sleep, I’m solving the problems of the world.  Sometimes the insular one I walk in during the day and sometimes the one beyond my reach.  Waking up after this type of work I don’t mind, because over the years I’ve dealt with some pretty intense emotions that I later realized were too much for me to handle during the daylight hours.  Once I’ve had a chance to absorb and pick through the big problems of the day in my dreams, they are much more manageable when the sun rises.

 

The one thing I don’t mind doing while dozing is traveling.  No fares, no tickets and no snarky flight attendants.  For years, the only way I could drift off to sleep at all was to visit the tiny beach condo in my mind.  See, I was born near the ocean and lived most of my life not far from the sea, so it is my paradise on earth and the closest I can get now is to go there in my mind (surely this is a sign of madness, but we’ll ignore for now). When my head would hit the pillow I could envision my little beach retreat down to the tiniest of details.  Closing my eyes I would imagine myself standing on the welcome mat, key in hand, crossing the threshold and opening all of the doors and windows immediately to let the salty, humid air fill my head and heart (if only in my mind).  Then, I would walk around each room putting silverware in drawers, linens on shelves, soup in a pot and biscuits in the oven.  By the time I truly felt settled, I was down for the count.  Yet even settling into my own personal version of heaven, I’d find a way to drift off to go work on something.

 

There are so many people who tell me they don’t dream at all.  Ergh?  How is that even possible?  What is the secret sauce for that tiny slice of nirvana?  My yoga instructor tells me that hot yoga is excellent for people like me, those with a “monkey mind” — the term for the brain that never stops whirling and spinning.  I wouldn’t mind the non-stop tornado between my ears if some of it were productive or helpful to the world at large.  But, so far it’s just provided a hot head for my cat to take advantage of for her own naptime.

 

I can only hope the cat is as busy as I am when she’s sleeping.  Mostly because misery loves its’ company, even if it means waking up with a tail in your ear.