The Better Part of Valor

Well, it’s official. I’m moving to Florence, Italy for a few months. I got a call from someone I know who is the head of an international  school in Florence asking would I fill in for a departing middle school history teacher. I’ll be there from mid-Feb to July. Come and visit

I’m just tired a lot. I needed 20 hours of wires to tell me that?

Yup, I finally did it. After years of insomnia and daytime sleepiness I have finally booked myself into the sleep clinic, from where I write today (December 12, 2008. I’m a little slow on the postings).

The pulmonary and sleep specialist I consulted offer three theories for my sleep troubles:

I may be a hypersomniac. If the average need for human sleep is 8 hours, and people like Bill Clinton and Sarah Tombaugh only need 5, someone is getting 11 hours a night to balance them out.

I may have a sleep apnea. Though I do not snore (I insist that I breathe heavily), there might be an airway obstruction that prevents me from getting good quality sleep.

I may have mild narcolepsy.

As ridiculous as the last option sounds, narcolepsy is not like we learned in middle school science (remember the narcoleptic dogs?). It doesn’t cause you to fall over mid-sentence.

In any event, I arrived last night at around 9pm. I was shown to my room, where I watched television for a good hour. The room is something like a cross between a Howard Johnson and a hospital room. I’m told it’s raining outside now, but I have no window to back up that information. Inside there’s a television, a bed, a camera trained at the bed, and a bunch of electronic equipment.

Electrodes were placed on my face, head, chest and legs to measure brainwaves and limb movement, as well as any changes in heartbeat (indicating an apnea). Also, a pulse oxometer was placed on my finger. And finally, they put small nodes in my nostrils to measure breath and record sounds.

This was not terribly comfortable. The biggest problem was the fact that all these electrodes were attached to a box, so I was unable to roll over. They kept falling out in my sleep, and the technician came in several times to reattach the wires, finally replacing them.

He woke me at 6. I was not happy. Then I had to fill out a questionnaire—how much did I think I slept, how long did I think it took me to fall asleep, how many times did I wake up during the night?

I stayed awake for an hour and a half (I watched the Today Show) while the majority of the wires were removed. Then they turned out the lights with the command: “Go to sleep,” delivered via loudspeaker into the room.

So I did. I was rudely awakened 20 minutes later. Then I did some work. And napped again for 20 minutes. I didn’t think I’d fallen asleep, but apparently I did. Then I did it again. And again. Five times. I was napteased. I had the napping equivalent of blue balls.

Staying with my brother and his fiance in Berkeley was a great pleasure. Had some wonderful blasts from the past at my readings at Booksmith and Dog Eared- no embarrassing attendance levels. Took a break from reading to attend Lorri Elder’s beautiful wedding. Then down to LA to spend a day on the beach (completely alone. Apparently my idea of beach weather is not a Los Angelean idea of beach weather.) A great book party organized by Stacy Bierlein, a fun trip to Palm Desert, where, thanks to Tod Goldberg, an attentive crowd awaited. Back to Los Angeles, where I finally had the experience every writer dreads: a reading where no one shows up.

That’s not completely true. Two friends showed up, but they both had to leave before the scheduled reading time. There were mitigating circumstances: it was a Friday night. It was Los Angeles, and there had been Prop 8 protests clogging the streets. I was, frankly, relieved. I signed stock and went to dinner.

In the Los Angeles airport I experienced a pang of homesickness and nearly boarded a plane for Newark. But I held firm and traveled to Portland for the Wordstock Festival. I first read with Richard Lange, the imminently talented short story writer. Unfortunately, we were reading at the same time as Alison Bechdel, who siphoned off all the dykes to watch out for. I also participated in a panel with Russell Perreault on marketing.

I got to spend time in a swanky hotel, and also with Katie Feiertag, who apparently goes by Kate now that she’s no longer 7 years old.

Then to Seattle, where Leah Jacobs babysat me along with her gorgeous daughter Simona. Afterwards, I spent the night at Jen Graves and Patrick’s house (adorable… hot tub in the backyard. I highly recommend it!).

Finally, I boarded a plane for New York City. Lord, it’s good to be home. I really needed new clothes.