Acronym of the Day: BWFM

So far, my commitment to writing something every day in May has gone well, in that I've managed to do it and here we are at the seventh already. Like all steady writing, it's had its ups and down--some entries haven't quite held together, but I pretty much hit one out of the park on Saturday. Funny how you can never tell--I really thought that one was going to be a rather flat throw-away anecdote, but it came together very nicely.

Every now and then someone asks if they can share a link to my blog on Facebook, or forward an entry to a friend. Good God, people, yes! Imagine how exciting my life would get if my readership rose into the triple digits.

Today, I am short on ideas, so I'm going to dip into my notebook and see if there's anything I can work with...ah, OK. Here's one:

Every night when I get ready for bed, after I have done the usual tooth-brushing and face-washing, I do the following things:

1. I smear a thick ring of Eucerin--the original stuff, with the consistency of paste--around my eyes. I do not attempt to rub it in. It's just like a raccoon's mask, except in white. This is a protective layer to prevent the air vent on my CPAP mask from turning the skin around my eyes into a mess of dried-out, red and scaly lizard skin.

2. I put eye drops in my eyes. Thick eye drops, full of glycerin. They are so thick that they adhere to the surface of my eyes and actually impair my vision. The world begins to look like the dream sequence from a bad TV show. These drops are on the advice of my ophthalmologist, and are to prevent my eyes from drying out when I sleep (here also the air vent on my CPAP mask comes into play). Last fall, I experienced something called "corneal erosion," which is basically your cornea having a hole ripped in it, and it was even more painful than giving birth to Word Boy. It actually made me cry, it hurt so bad, and David had to wake up all three of the children and take me to the ER at 2 in the morning. I do not want to experience this again. Hence, the Eye Drops of +5 Viscosity.

3. I now stumble across the hall to the bedroom, ricocheting off door frames I can barely see. I sit on the edge of the bed and slather my feet with a thick coating of lotion and then put on socks. This is basically like sleeping with your feet tucked into bags of goo, but it has done a remarkable job of rehabilitating the skin on my feet after years of neglect. This summer I hope to wear attention-getting sandals, so it is important to keep up the regimen. Also, should any chivalrously old-fashioned butch woman want to give me an impromptu nurturing foot massage, I mean to be ready for it. (Also, if you see me with a professional pedicure and wonder what in the world would posses a person with chemical sensitivities to spend a long morning at the nail salon, the answer is also: Butch woman, foot massage. Why the flirty dress? Butch woman, foot massage. Why the styling product? Must I spell it out for you? OK: BW,FM.)

4. I put on my CPAP mask. It looks like this. Mine is even more tricked-out though. I have a special blue flannel pad for the forehead support thingy, because I realized about six months ago that what I thought were just age-related forehead lines was actually the permanent hourglass-shaped imprint of my CPAP above my eyebrows. And I have a special fluffy gray headgear to replace the standard blue one, because the edge of the standard blue one was--I kid you not--cutting the back of my neck and making it bleed. So my head is basically wrapped in grey fleece at this point.

5. My hands get very dry, because I wash my hands many times throughout the day and also occasionally wash dishes. So I have recently started to do the bag of goo treatment on my hands as well as on my feet. I slather them thickly with lotion, and then I put socks on my hands.

6. I whack the big ON button on my CPAP machine with one of my thumbless Gumby paws, and it makes a noise like a smallish jet engine starting up.

7. I think, "Boy, I just get sexier every day." And then I scoot the Tiny Tornado out of my spot, lie down and snuggle my teddy bear Cupcake. The Tiny Tornado makes an irritated noise and presses her knees into my kidney. And thus, I sleep.