Beds of our lives

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King of the Hacienda.

THEY SAY THAT, as you age, you require less sleep. Oddly, over the past decade, I have morphed from a seven-hour man to an eight-hour man, defying that rule.

I do not know why.

Lights out between 10:30 and 11 p.m., and I usually wake up at 7. This morning I woke up at 7:30, becoming — at least for a day — an eight-and-a-half-hour man. I was refreshed!

Being worry-free helps one sleep, and I have little to worry about. Sleeping with a young, beautiful, Mexican babe puts one at ease. I got it made.

That’s our king bed up top, had it about a decade. It’s the first king bed I’ve ever owned. Grew up on twins, then doubles — called matrimonials in Mexico — and then upgraded to queen on landing down here. Finally, after being married quite a spell, we got the king.

You enjoy lots of space on a king, which you likely know because I suspect most people have kings these days. At least people of the age that hang around my edge of the internet.

In a recent post, Confessions of a Cracker, I briefly mentioned sleeping as a kid at my grandmother’s house near a window where I felt breezes and listened to crickets. The bed on which I slept was an antique, wood, spindle bed, I think they are called.

That was the very bed on which I was sleeping in my Houston home before my second wife tossed me out onto the street unceremoniously. I had inherited that bed.

In my new bachelor digs in a downtown Houston high-rise, I slept on this bed.

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A happy bed for a miserable man.

I may have been miserable during that time but, by God, I slept on a happy bed! I had painted that bed myself due to being a Renaissance Man.

My daughter owns that bed now. Unless she doesn’t.

I renewed bachelor life, involuntarily, in 1995. For a year or two, I was not an eight-hour man. I was lucky to get four or five. I was a Valium man.

A few days ago, the wood, spindle bed came to mind, and I emailed my second ex-wife as to its whereabouts because I had left it there where it stood when I segued from married man to miserable bachelor man. I asked if she still had it.

Her brief reply: Long gone.

Damn! But so was I. Long, long gone.

Don’t worry, be happy

GALLUP HAS released its annual Global Emotions Report of where in the world people seem to be happiest and where they appear to be miserable.

Poor, old, violence-ridden, corruption-filled Mexico is in the top five happy places. Who woulda thunk it? Well, you likely would if you lived here.

Mexico is No. 4 after Paraguay, Panama and Guatemala. El Salvador is No. 5. Yes, the top five happy nations are all in Latin America.

Greece has the most-stressed population with 59 percent of the people reporting stressful lives. That number was about 55 percent for Americans.

I’m Mexican, and I feel real good today.

Pelosi predicts death from sea to shining sea

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A TOUCH OF humor as the year dwindles to its dying day on Sunday.

Yes, I know, I  know. A tax cut without an accompanying reduction in spending is putting a Band-Aid on a beheading. It’s just a short-term feel-good.

No matter. Feeling good, even for one day, plus getting more money in your pocket is a fine thing. The spending cuts ain’t gonna happen, at least not to the degree necessary.

The United States is doomed. It’s only a question of time.

In the meantime, I live in another country, and I’m old, not facing so many more years on this spinning globe. Don’t worry! Be Happy! That’s my motto.

Feel of fall

WHEN I LIVED in America, October was my favorite month.

serveimageSome folks love the arrival of spring. I imagine most of them live in the frozen north. But I loved the arrival of not just autumn but October.

October has a distinct sensation even though fall arrives in late September. I lived 98 percent of my 55 years above the Rio Bravo in spots that sweltered in summer, so the arrival of autumn was a blessing, a relief, a sigh.

Where I live now we do not swelter in summer, so the transition to autumn is not such a big deal. Our big deal is the move from occasionally unpleasant, bone-dry spring to cooler, wetter summertime.

But the feel of Gringo fall stays with me, and I felt it today for the first time this year. It’s a feeling that’s difficult to put into words, but you know it when it touches you.

I was on the upstairs terraza sweeping this morning, taking advantage of the fact that most of the floor was dry because it did not rain yesterday or last night either.

And I said to myself: This feels like fall, and it did.

I love it.