Owning a bar rules

Occasionally I have a dream that I still own the bar. For those of you that don't know, I owned a bar.

The dream is always the same. There's a ton of people waiting and I have to cook for them as soon as I walk in because the kitchen guy is late. I'll have to beg the bartender to stay past her shift.

Delivery drivers start coming through the back door to fill beer orders. Sales reps are waiting at the front to take orders for the weekend. The weasel bastard landlord is there to talk about the bar he opened next door.

Everyone orders at the same time. How is that even possible? And they all want something different. There's a plumbing problem (Again?) in the men's room.

Hell of a start for a Thursday, I think.

Finally, the cook shows and I pass the spatula. He's had car trouble and his phone is turned off. I like him, though, and he's a good worker. Just perpetually 20 minutes late. Works is ass off for me when he gets there, though.

I relieve the bartender set the room for the band. (Bands were there on Saturday. It must be Saturday. OK... hell of a start for a Saturday.) The bartender is supposed to do it but never does.

The waitress shows up drunk from being at the pool all day. She says she didn't want to let me down by calling in for a replacement. Now it's too late to have another waitress come in. It's OK, I say. I'll handle it.

The band calls and can't find the place. They're going to be late. The doorman is arrives. On time. Problem is that he was scheduled last night.

It's gonna be a long night...

I wake up really tense. I'm actually sweating. It feels like I didn't sleep at all. My teeth hurt from grinding them and I have acid reflux. My pulse is racing and my hernia is acting up.  I think I'm developing psoriasis.

Sure do miss that place.

Ramblings from a sleep deprived person about sleep deprivation

Since our twins were born (almost seven years ago), it's a rare occurrence that I sleep more than five hours a night. I've justified it by saying "I just don't need as much" or "I've got things to do" or the oft-quoted line from Road House, "I'll get enough sleep when I'm dead."

I think I've grown accustomed to little sleep. There have been segments of my life that sleep was a commodity in short supply.

Anyone who has been to grad school knows how little sleep you can survive on. We wore it as a badge of honor. A typical conversation was "You look horrible. How much sleep did you get?" "About seven hours." "You got seven hours last night?" "No. I got seven hours so far this week."

When I moved to Kansas City after grad school, I had no responsibilities and a good job with a lot of friends in the same situation. It was very unusual to get home before midnight and there were many occasions when I left the bar when the bartender did.

For six years, we owned a bar and I worked nights. We had the boys and Ashley worked days. I got used to hitting the rack at 2 a.m. or later and getting up at 6:30 when Ashley left for work and I had to be up with the boys.

But now, I don't have to survive on that little sleep. The serious side effect are lack of patience and of course, the health concerns associated with getting less sleep than you should. I'd like to be able to sack out for seven hours, but I just can't. On the weekend, my wife can sleep until I wake her. Yesterday she slept 11 hours. I'm jealous.

It may come down to the fact that the early morning hours are my own. I don't fight for computer time. I catch up on the news and scores. I can linger for a while on Facebook. I search through Twitter to see if there is anything I should be reading not covered by more traditional news media. I write my blog if the feeling hits.

It's nice and quiet in the house. The only noise is the sporadic clickety clack of me typing. It just takes so long to write anything because I yawn so hard my eyes water. I just need a little pick me up. Looks like I picked the wrong time to quit caffeine.