I have a problem

“In matters of truth and justice, there is no difference between large and small problems …”

- Albert Einstein

I sleep in a recliner.

I didn’t set out to sleep in it 100% of the time. It just kind of happened.

To be honest, I’m not sure which came first: sleeping there so I could hear my mom if she needed me or having to sleep there because my back hurts too much to stay in bed for any lengthy period of time. I’m thinking it was the first, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

Don’t get me wrong. My recliner is comfortable. It’s a Flexsteel power reclining love seat with power lumbar and headrest. It’s supremo, and I love it. I give it five stars. (After nearly three years and thousands of hours of use, the padding may have worn down a bit, but everything is still holding together and working. Can’t complain. Plus, I still have the other side—the bonus of buying a love seat.)

The best thing about it is its power lumbar. It’s perfect for supporting my low back, which is my main issue.

The worst thing about it is that it’s a power recliner. I mean, it’s only bad when the power goes out, and you’re stuck and have to climb out. This is fine if your back isn’t acting like a jerk.

Luckily, it’s only happened a couple times so far, and my back allowed me to escape unharmed.

When you’ve been used to sleeping in a recliner for almost three years, it’s difficult to get comfortable in a bed. Lying flat on my back hurts, even with pillows under my knees. Lying on my side hurts after a while, and a screaming hip bone is likely to torment the best of sleepers. Lying on my stomach is an absolute no-no.

Two situations make this the not-ideal condition that it is.

First, traveling is a problem. Hotels don’t have recliners. Rentals may have them, but they tend to lack the needed support. Family recliners don’t necessarily fit the bill either.

I’m heading to Indianapolis in a month to see the Indiana Fever play on their home court. (Go Fever!) I’ll be staying in a hotel. Worse, I’ll be staying in the same hotel room as my brother and sister-in-law, because my brother wanted to “save money.” (Ticket prices are pretty hefty due to the “Caitlyn Clark Effect,” but I was totally willing to splurge on my own room.)

I tried to tell him I’m a noisy sleeper. He suggested I get a CPAP. I said it had nothing to do with snoring and everything to do with pain.

We’ll see how it goes. I don’t have high hopes, but it’s only one night.

The other place where it’s becoming a problem is … at home. My cat, Harley, whom I adopted on Pi Day (3.14) this year, has taken to grabbing my feet in the middle of the night when they’re hanging off the end of the footrest. Usually, I just yell “Hey!” and she takes off. But last night, she may have used her teeth.

I’m considering trying the bed tonight.

A trip to the salvage yard

by Angie Anderson TidBits

A trip to the salvage yard

What does a “good start to the day” look like?

It doesn’t start with having three 4s pop into the company’s login ID field after hitting the key just once.

The first time through, I didn’t notice, so I got a login error.

Then I paid attention. Every other keystroke was popping in two to three characters and backspacing took away just as many. Hmmm.

So, I took it one keystroke at a time and, after much trial and error, was finally able to get past the first guard-dog login screen, hoping it was just that particular application that was acting up.

Nope. The next login screen resulted in zero characters, no matter how hard I slammed my fingers down on the keyboard or even when I beat it with my now-bruised forehead.

Then I heard the printer. I wandered over to see what it had to say.

I quiiiitt!!!!!

Siinnncerellllyy,
YYourrr Keyyybboarrd

The resignation letter with extra characters thrown in was a little disturbing. If it hadn’t been for the other duplicate characters, I might have taken the number of exclamation points personally.

With a harumph, I headed to the drawer we should probably call the “Salvage Yard,” where the old keyboards, monitors, mice, and canned air live, and out came a clunky, dusty, big-keyed keyboard. I was thankful it was “darkest gray” and hoped that it worked.

It does, as this note can attest.

And now my fingers are basking in the loud clacking the keys make while they produce the exact number of characters requested. It’s a sound that has been sorely missed in the unrelenting move toward silent everything: keyboards, cars, people. (Next thing you know, we’ll have silent tornado sirens.)

This “new” old keyboard racket is comforting in the same way that sitting out on someone’s front porch, playing with Micronauts and drinking lemonade used to be. I’d say it’s a good way to start the day after all.