Panda’s require a lot of sleep.

How do I know this? I am a panda. My husband says I am.

And I Googled pandas.

Mike has spent the past several days pointing out everything that defines his reason for calling me a panda. I scrape most of the tartar sauce from my fish sandwich. “Panda!” he blurts out, pointing at my food. I put on black eyeliner to go to the theater. “Panda,” he says pointing to my face. I fall asleep in the middle of an expensive stage show at the theater. “Panda,” he whispers as he pokes me awake.

But the most important part of this is…as a panda, I require sleep. Much more than I get. Which was a total of four hours last night.

Mike and I rolled out of bed at nine-thirty this morning after staying up til nearly dawn. I had napped a bit during the show last night, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Sleep or no sleep, the plan was to have breakfast and jump into the car. Destination? The mountains. Our quest to find a historic farmhouse to renovate was renewed, and we had nothing else to do today.

I fell asleep in the car a few times on the way there, despite drinking a grande pumpkin spice latte (full caf) before hitting the highway. (I dreamed Mike colored my eyes black and dressed me in white fur.) But once we hit the quaint little town, Mike woke me up just in time for the annual Christmas parade.

At least, I think it was a parade.

There was a man in uniform directing traffic. People dressed in their holiday finery were strutting down Main Street on horseback. And a guy dressed as Santa rode what looked like a lawn mower through the center of town.

We were detoured away from Main Street, and as we snaked around the side streets, we found ourselves somehow entangled with the parade as it made its way from the other direction. Flatbeds wrapped in red plastic sheeting and carrying the town’s senior citizens strapped to weathered rocking chairs passed us on the narrow roadway. The people on the floats, close enough to stick their smiling faces right up to the passing car windows, shouted, “Merry Christmas!” at us as if it was an order rather than glad tidings.

This was a little too much for my husband to take, so we headed for the nearest parking space to abandon the car for a little lunch.

After drinking a grande latte for breakfast, I rejected the idea of eating Mexican cuisine (the most popular restaurant in town, based on the packed dining room) and instead, opted for a nice little bistro promising, “A little slice of Heaven.”

The Pearly Gates, as the place was called, was all but empty, and in retrospect, that should have tipped me off. I looked at the sign as we went in and giggled to my husband, “I hope this isn’t the last place we ever eat.”

What was it DC said in her guest post last night? Everything happens for a reason? Well, my horrible stomach ache has got to be the direct result of the food I ate at The Pearly Gates. It cost twice as much as the McDonald’s I had the night before, but it was only half as good. Even the “home-baked” brownie tasted as if it was baked last Christmas.

We paid our bill in, “cash only please,” and high-tailed it out of there before the gates swung open and George Lucas poked his head out with his shiny Christmas light-saber.

Despite the horrible meal, the rest of the day was sort of fun. We found a few houses to look at, and even if none of them were perfect, the day was as close as you can get without a winning lottery ticket (or a brand new book deal!)

I even picked up a new wreath for the front door, bringing just a little bit of Christmas home with me. If I don’t die from food poisoning in my sleep, I might even get a Christmas tree tomorrow. Then again…I might just sleep in…we pandas need our beauty rest!

Until the next time…I’ll be working on this week’s Daywalkers!

If you’ve been paying attention, you may have noticed that I’m compiling a book from my most popular blogs and some new material. I’m calling the book, “Dancing Bare” and I want a dancing bear on the cover. So I asked my husband (and someone really needs to remind me not to do this anymore, for a variety of reasons) what sort of bear would I be…if I was a bear.

So after a nanosecond of thought, he smiles and says, “A panda…without a doubt.”

Of course, I asked him why a panda. He just smiled and said, “Because you are.”

Lady Panda?What the hell, I thought. I don’t wear a mask. I’m closer to a polar bear in coloring. And I wanted to be a brown bear because they match my hair. But no. He says I’m a panda. And he won’t say why.

Fast forward to this evening when I had to pick a topic for the challenge blog. One topic stuck out like a sore…panda. That’s right. Panda bear was a topic! How could I pass up the chance to explore this a little further? So I went in with another attempt to get my husband to explain why I’m a panda. I had a challenge blog to write. He had to tell me…right?

He must have agreed…challenge blog is sacred.

So here is why my husband says I am a panda (not the brown bear like I wanted to be)…

“Pandas are not technically bears,” he started.

Of course, I already knew this, but I didn’t care. I want them to be bears, so they are.

“No, they’re not.” He likes to correct me. Pfft. “Pandas are essentially giant raccoons.”

Right. So I’m a bear that isn’t a bear. I’m a non-bear? I actually asked him that.

“Right,” he says. “You’re a pretend bear in a bear world.”

I repeat this sentence as a question and he nods. I ask him if he realizes I’m blogging this shit. He does. I start to wonder if he wants the world to think he’s some kind of villain. I don’t ask him that, but I suddenly struggle with the urge to tell him to fuck off again.

My need to know more about why I’m a panda prevails and I ask him. “Is that all? I’m just a non-bear in a bear world?”

No. That’s not all. Of course not.

“Pandas are not omnivores. They eat bamboo and that’s it. They don’t like mayonnaise on their egg sandwiches. They don’t like pickles on their cheeseburgers. They don’t want their vegetables to touch their meat or potatoes. They eat bamboo.”

So let’s recap… “I’m a non-bear in a bear world. And I’m a picky eater?”

He stares at the bag of oyster crackers I’m snacking from. “Yep. That’s about it.”

“So this has nothing to do with the black and white coat? Or the cuteness? The mask? The cuddly appearance?”

Non-Bear Picky Eater“Nope. Non-bear…picky eater.”

I keep asking him, “Are you sure? That’s it?”

Finally he makes the “mean” face and says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I think maybe I’ve drifted off into an alternate universe, but I know better. I decide to grab a pair of ear buds to listen to music while I write…the non-bear in me likes music apparently…so I plug them into my laptop and turn up the music. It’s barely loud enough to hear so I turn it up. And up again, until it’s at max volume. It’s still muffled, but I can hear my music, so who cares?

“What are you doing?” he asks…mean face still showing.

I “Grrr” a little at him…like a bear…and tell him “I’m listening to music.”

“Uh, so am I…” he pops up an eyebrow and stares at my laptop like he hates it, so I pull out my ear buds to say, “What? Oh!”

I plugged the ear buds into the wrong jack. The music was playing loudly into the room.

“Non-bear,” he says as I switch the jacks.

“Fuck off.”

The music drowns out his reply.

This is why I love a challenge blog.

Until the next time…I’ll be kicking off the Daywalkers “Getting into Character” contest tomorrow!