Tax Returns, New Wives all in a Typical Night’s Work
I’ve been taking Ambien for some time now. I’m not sure exactly how long, since my memory is not what it used to be. But I would guess a couple of years, or three perhaps. (My doctor would probably know, but I seem to have misplaced his name and phone number.)
Now that they’re finally getting around to telling us that we Ambien-takers sleepwalk and do bizarre things in the middle of the night, some of the deepest mysteries in my life are clearing up, or at least becoming less murky.
It’s a big, big relief to finally know what happened with my tax return last year. Just before April 15, I filed for an extension, like I do every year because when it comes to the IRS, procrastination is my middle name. To my astonishment, a few weeks later I got a polite note from a Mr. Johnson at IRS telling me that I shouldn’t have filed for an extension because I had already filed my tax return.
Excuse me! Already filed? But now I know that one night while in an Ambien stupor, I arose from bed and in an unprecedented pay-your-taxes-now craze did the entire return, Schedule D and all, in a single night and walked it to the corner mailbox.
I also now know how it was I came to awaken one morning , all rested and peaceful just like in the commercials, and found a strange woman next to me.
“I’m your new wife,” she said in response to my question.
Seems that I had gone out in the middle of the night to a bar, sat down next to this woman, lit her cigarette, bought her a drink, proposed marriage, and sought out a magistrate who we rousted out of bed so he could marry us.
We’re still together. She was lonely. I had been alone for years (and somewhat sex-starved). Plus, she has a good job, brings home a fat check every two weeks and hands it over to me. As they say, it’s a match made in Ambien.
Then there’s the new kitchen cabinets. The kitchen in my ancient house sucked big time. Had sucked for decades apparently before I arrived. One morning I awoke and… brand new cabinets. All the contents of the old cabinets were neatly stacked on the dining room floor, waiting to be stored in the new cabinets. Now I know, an Ambien kitchen renovation in a single night.
Finally, the Federal Aviation Administration. One day an official envelope from the FAA arrived in the mail. Inside was my new private pilot license, along with a letter exhorting me to fly safely and not take up any middle eastern-loooking men. Huh?
I’m not sure how I knew to do this, but I drove to the little airport outside town and walked into the office. The guy behind the desk knew me. Called me by name. Turns out he was my flight instructor. I had earned my pilot’s license in successive night flying lessons with him. So I rented their Cessna 172, had a nice solo flight and made a flawless landing.
I recently joined the National Association of Ambien Pilots, all Ambien-takers like me who learned to fly while sleepwalking. I’m looking forward to attending the national convention in June at Jackson Hole and will probably fly out in the Cessna 172 during one of my sleepwalking episodes.