The Z Rating

For years, My Lovely Wife has displayed a tendency to doze off while watching movies either at home or in the theater. She masterfully exercises her stealthy catnapping skills in everything from family-friendly fare, to melodramas, to hyperkinetic action flicks.

The napping itself shouldn't be immediately mistaken for dismissal because good or bad, interesting or not, the nap will most likely happen. Sometimes she regrets having slept through a movie that otherwise was enjoyable. Other times there is no regret for having missed it.

When you closely examine the behavior, as we have done throughout the years, you'll find movies fall into one of six categories of what we have come to call the Z Rating System.

Z-5
A movie with a Z-5 ranking is one that, in the opinion of My Lovely Wife, should never have been committed to celluloid. Its very existence is a noteworthy offense and should require a full refund. Napping during a Z-5 is less a comment on the quality of the film and more a defense mechanism to protect the brain from injury caused by rampant stupidity, plot holes, sloppy acting, bad dialogue, the presence of an actor she finds objectionable (i.e., Michael Caine), or westerns (not excluding Blazing Saddles). As someone who fully appreciates Michael Caine and has been known to enjoy westerns from time to time, I don't always understand the application of a Z-5. Then again, it isn't my rating system.

Z-4
Almost as bad as a Z-5, the Z-4 is the kind of movie that frustratingly fails to live up to its full potential. There might be one or two redeeming qualities, but overall the movie is disappointing (such as every comedy featuring Diane Keaton or Steve Martin (or both (with the exception of the first Father of the Bride)) since the early 1990s). Napping during a Z-4 is My Lovely Wife's way of avoiding the annoyance of a good idea or a strong cast being wasted in a story that doesn't go where it should.

Z-3
The Z-3 ranking is reserved for average movies -- not great; not awful. They're better than mediocre, but not enough so to make them laudable. A Z-3 might also be a perfectly good movie that just does not interest her, such as any of the recent string of Marvel superhero movies. The nap during a Z-3 probably doesn't impede the understanding of the plot or detract from the enjoyability of a film's positive attributes. What was missed was missed and that's okay. Snoring has been known to obscure bits of dialogue from time to time, requiring those of us in close proximity to raise the volume. In the end, the Z-3 nap doesn't necessarily represent punitive judgement; it simply doesn't matter one way or the other if any portion of the film was napped through.

Z-2
The thing that differentiates a Z-2 from a Z-3 is the expression of mild regret at having fallen asleep. The occasional "I was trying to stay awake" might be uttered and there is often genuine interest about the sections of the movie that were lost to unconsciousness. However, the need to revisit the film to see the missed portions is sketchy.

Z-1
A Z-1 is a movie during which My Lovely Wife fights with all her might to keep her peepers open for the entirety of the showing. If it was something we rented, you might find her watching it again the following day before we return it. If we own the movie, she might suggest watching it again within an uncharacteristically short span of time. And, finally...

Z-0
Yes, there actually are certain movies through which My Lovely Wife manages to remain awake and alert from opening sequence to final frame. The Z-0s are few and far between, but they really do exist and are often the films we end up purchasing. The best thing about a Z-0 is its unpredictability. For years, I had tried to get My Lovely Wife to watch Dodgeball. When she finally broke down and allowed me to play it for her, she giggled all the way through and Dodgeball is now a family favorite in our household. Other recent additions to the Z-0 ranking include The Hundred-Foot Journey and Mr. Holmes. They are almost always met with the same expression of disbelief: "I loved that movie! I stayed awake the entire time!"

A Traveling Poem

This bed is all wrong.
This bed's not for me.
This bed has a bump
Where a hollow should be.

The sheets are wrong, too.
They're stiff and they're starchy,
And make my pajama pants
Crackly and sparkly.

The pillows are wrong --
I use only one.
The maniac making this bed
Used a ton!

There's two pillows here,
And two pillows there.
In case that's too little
There's even a spare!

The blanket's wrong, too.
It stops at my hips.
And, because of my snacks,
Smells like chocolate and chips.

The headboard's too short.
There's no footboard at all.
And I'm sure I can hear people
Out in the hall.

The clock ticks past midnight.
It tocks half past one.
By the time I start sleeping
It's time to be done.

Truth be it known
The room is just fine.
If a problem exists
It's entirely mine.

The mattress is comfy.
The pillows are fluffly.
The TV works well,
And the room isn't stuffy.

I prefer my own bed.
It's the best bed for me.
Because when I reach out
You're where you should be.




© 2015 Mark Feggeler

The Vominator

There's no way to ease in to this topic, so I'm going to leap in with both feet -- VOMIT!

Actually, leaping in with both feet is more than just the cliched use of a literary device, it's a literal fact. In order to deal with the Italian's vomit situation early Sunday morning, I truly had to walk through approximately twenty square feet of vomit-covered hardwoods and carpeting. And why? Because the Italian was in the living room and needed a clean shirt and a blanket from his bedroom. When your kid is sick and shivering, you walk through vomit to help him.

I was in bed when it started, having finally fallen asleep around midnight. The Italian woke me up at one-thirty by poking me in the back.

"Dad?" Poke, poke. "Dad?" Poke, poke, poke. "Dad, I threw up."

It doesn't matter how soundly asleep you are, those words wake you up in a hurry. For starters, your son is sick and needs to be cared for. Secondly, somewhere in the house is a mess that needs to be cleaned, and the sooner the better.

We've enjoyed our share of award-winning vomits during our parenting years. There was the time the German puked up Cheetos all over the back of the driver's seat in the van. There was the time Our Daughter projectile-vomited goldfish crackers four feet across the room, smack into the middle of her Mother's chest and deep into the piles of a shag carpet. There was the time Our Daughter, having finally had the chance to try RavioliOs after years of resistance from My Lovely Wife and I, permanently stained the carpet around her bed. The Italian's Sunday morning vomit easily qualifies for nomination in several categories.

Let's begin with coverage. I walked over to the kids' bathroom to survey the damage only to find myself caught in that fragile mental state between uncontrollable weeping and giddy laughter. There are days when the horizon doesn't stretch out as far ahead of me as that field of vomit did on Sunday morning.

God bless him, the boy tried to make it to the bathroom once he realized what was coming. He jumped out of bed and ran to the door, but never got it open before Vesuvius erupted. It hit the carpet with such force that the door and nearby wall were splattered more than a foot high. Knowing there was more to come, he pulled open the door, stepped into the small hallway, and let loose with another ricochet trick shot on the hardwood floor. It took me fifteen minutes just to make a safe path -- not clean, mind you -- to his bedroom closet.

For more than three hours, I wiped up the hardwoods, wiped down the walls and baseboards, depukified the doors, and scrubbed the carpet. Amazingly, the only other person awake in the house was the Italian, and only because he threw up five or six more times, albeit under controlled conditions. Even the German remained unconscious, despite the fact I was scrubbing for over an hour just feet from his bed. After the sun came up and all eyes were open, we broke out the carpet cleaner and attempted a proper deep clean.

The end result is yet another permanent stain, although perhaps not as noticeable as some others. Years from now, if we try selling the house, I might have to come up with a new name for the carpet color. How about "Nutty Brown," or "Dark Chocolate?"

Would you believe they have a carpet color called "Outback Rib Sauce and Chunky Mashed Potatoe?"




© 2014 Mark Feggeler

A Lullaby for Mr. Mushpie

In the book Holes, the mother of one of the main characters sings a lullaby to her tweenage son. It's a touching moment that was not lost on our boys earlier this week as we came to the end of the novel during one of our nightly reading sessions.

I did my best to craft a melody for the lyrics the author had written. The German smiled sweetly and the Italian hid his face under his bedcovers as I sang. The book was closed to the muffled sounds of sniffling.

The German is not typically mischievous, but his reaction to his brother's sudden bout of sentimentality was to find a way to draw out a few more tears by asking if I would treat them to one of the songs I used to sing before they grew too big for lullabies. The Italian immediately protested.

When our children were infants, my primary defense against a baby too cranky to fall asleep was to sing. You'll never see me on American Idol, or even at a local karaoke night, belting out showtunes and crooning ballads. My ability to carry a tune surpasses only my natural athletic ability, if only because I have no natural athletic ability.

Sometimes I would hum a simple melody while cradling one of them in the crook of my arm. A gentle swaying kept them mesmerized by the passing blur of the ceiling above. Other times a proper song with distracting words was necessary to make the tiny bologna loaves focus on my face and the sound of my voice to help them drift away to dreamland. The song wouldn't end until they were resting peacefully in their cribs or pack 'n play.

One song became my go-to staple in the battle against unsleepy babies: "Hymn," a 1997 song by Jars of Clay. I didn't abuse it. Only if other methods failed would I summon its otherworldly power to drain the fight and fuss from an irritable infant. Several years later the song "Evermore" by Alison Krauss joined the evening bedtime playlist. When the German asked for a lullaby the other night, it was one of these two songs he wanted to hear.

"I hate those songs!" the Italian declared.

He doesn't really hate them. In fact, they move him so deeply that he can't keep from crying when they are played or sung. I have the same reaction to the song "When Somebody Loved Me" from the movie Toy Story 2. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, whatever mood I'm in at the time, that song can melt me into a pool of tears.

"Evermore" wreaks such emotional havoc on the Italian that it once was responsible for a last-minute counseling session. He would play a game during which he would tell me he loved me to the value of ten. Without skipping a beat he would then say he loved his mother to the value of eleven. I would feign shock and sadness. One night, after he had hit the joke pretty hard, I sang "Evermore" as they crawled into bed. Tears soaked his pillow even before I reached the end of the first chorus. When asked what was wrong, he cried: "I didn't mean it. I love you both the same!"

So, when our troublesome Teutonic redhead requested a command performance of their lullabies the other night, I deferred to the Italian's protests and issued a 24-hour warning to expect the songs the following night.

The advance notice definitly helped. He needed only one tissue to get through both songs.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

72 O'Clock?

I woke up several times the other night in my Richmond, VA, hotel room. This is not an uncommon occurrence when I'm on a business trip.

For starters, I am a homebody and don't really like traveling without my Lovely Wife and kids. Okay, maybe sometimes I do enjoy traveling without the kids, but not without the wife. Even on those few occasions when she is the one traveling and I have our comfortable king bed all to myself, I tend to lay awake for hours in the flickering glow of the television. After almost sixteen years of marriage, there is something unnatural about trying to fall asleep alone.

So, this past week in Richmond, as I closed the notebook in which I scribble passages for the book I'm writing and turned off the lights in the hotel room, it came as no surprise that sleep initially eluded me. My mind reviewed the day's events and I realized, among other things, that I had forgotten to pack deodorant. I don't know about you but I need deodorant. Without it, my armpits become incubators for unnaturally potent odors, even on the coolest of days. Since mental notes to myself never seem to take hold, I turned on the light and wrote "buy Dry Idea" in the notebook, then switched the light off and tried again to fall asleep.

Sooner than is customary, I found myself in dreamland. Even as I began to dream, I recall thinking how strange it was for me to be asleep so quickly. Before long, though, I was awake and looking around the room trying to figure out what city I was in and what time it was.

The trouble with working for a hotel chain that has only one product is the tremendous consistency of the room decor. This is a great selling point for our frequent clients because it means they know what to expect from each of our inns. For me, however, a founding father of attention deficit disorder and a strong candidate for early onset Alzheimer's, waking up in essentially the same room whenever and wherever I travel is a disorienting experience.

Am I in Ohio? Maybe Maryland? This couldn't be the April training in Tampa, could it? No, that was months ago. The October meeting in Columbus? No, no. It isn't October yet. I'm going to Annapolis for a military travel fair. That's in September. This is September, right?

And if not knowing where you are isn't bad enough, figuring out the time is another troublesome task. When I'm traveling, I live in constant fear of oversleeping. Think about it. You've just driven two-hundred miles to meet with an important client. Do you really want to screw it up now just because you didn't hear the alarm clock?

Wiping sleep out of my eyes, I struggle to find the bedside clock. There it is, facing the other way because the light had been shining in my eyes when I was trying to fall asleep and I turned it away from me. Unfortunately, I am comfortably positioned in the very middle of the king bed. If I move around too much to reach the clock, only to find out I still have hours to go before it's time to get up, I might not be able to get back to sleep.

So I look around to find the microwave clock. There it is, clear as day. It says "72."

I rest my head back down on the pillow and prepare to slip away, until my brain finally catches up with my eyes. I could almost hear the conversation between them. My brain questioning my eyes, doubting them, asking for confirmation. Begrudgingly, my eyes open again and, sure enough, there are the big yellow numbers. For what seems like long enough for a minute to pass, I watch and wait, wondering if I will witness the change from 72 to 73. Guess what? It never happens.

Eventually, I'm awake enough to realize what I am looking at is the thermostat on the air-conditioning unit next to the bed and not the microwave clock, so I sit up to search for the real thing. This pattern repeats itself two more times before it's finally close enough to morning to just go ahead and get out of bed.

When I'm finally showered and dressed, wearing a watch whose battery died at 11:26 the night before and gathering a ream of printed directions because my GPS had been recalled the previous week (seems people don't like their GPS bursting into flames due to an overheated battery) I head out for my first call of the day -- Target, to buy deodorant.


© 2010 Mark Feggeler