A 4 a.m. Visit with Sleepy, Dopey, and Grumpy

🫏 A Hack Mule Field Report

I woke up about 4 o’clock this morning. I’m not sure why, but my money’s on my extremely loud neighbor who likes to play random snippets of songs at odd hours.

A few years ago, he took to blasting “Scotland the Brave” several times a day. When I asked him about it, he said he was “exploring his heritage.” I suggested he try Scotch tape instead.

But whatever awakened me, there I was, wide-eyed. So I turned to my go-to sleep inciter: lists.

My bedroom at 4 a.m.

Some people count sheep, but that’s a lost cause for me. I’m so deeply un-rural that I cannot reliably tell cows from horses in a field unless one of them is wearing a saddle — and if the cow is the one with the saddle on, I’ll get it wrong.

And sheep? I’m a mess. I start counting fluffy balls of wool, then my mind goes, “Wait, what’s a ewe? Is that a baby sheep or a female sheep?” I walk myself through it until I think I have it straight, then another neuron fires: “So. Rams. Are they in the picture?”

And why do we have “rams” but not “lams?” “Rambs” and “lambs” would make sense, too.

Once I settle all that, some other sector checks in: “Are goats and sheep related?”

At that point, I usually give up and flip on YouTube to watch videos about sheep, ewes, rams, and goats.

Fun night!

So, I switched to rolling through long lists I’ve memorized over the years: states and state capitals, books of the Bible, and the U.S. presidents.

It works very well most of the time, but it’s a minefield if I think too hard. I’ll be ticking through them like a metronome—Cleveland-McKinley-Roosevelt-Taft-Wilson—when a thought intrudes: “Wilson! Fourteen Points! What were they?”

I have no idea, but I think they had something to do with Alsace-Lorraine. Or quiche Lorraine. It really doesn’t matter, because by then I’m swimming in a sea of guilt recalling that my mother told me—time after time—not to learn things “just for the test.”

And, yet, here I am decades later, unable to recall “navigation of the seas” or “restoration of Belgium.” (Ha! I remember two of them!)

So last night, I decided to go small. I just needed a minor diversion to let myself drift off again. A short list.

The seven continents? Too dull.

The seven deadly sins? Nope, not walking off that cliff.

The Seven Dwarves? Perfect.

I began: Dasher-Dancer-Prancer—nope, nope, wrong list.

OK: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy…wow, this is like an inventory of my physical state.

Try again: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy…Doc…Doctor Pepper…”I’m a Pepper, he’s a Pepper, wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?”

Stop! Start over: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc…Doc…um…Happy! Yes, Happy!

Good, keep going: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy. How many is that? Only five. I need two more.

OK: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy…and…Sad? No. Bitchy? Too edgy…but “B” sounds right…it’s a “B” name. Bruce? Brian? Beelzebub?

I’ll try running them again: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-and-Bueller-Bueller-Bueller…

No, you know that’s not right! Start over: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-and-Baaaa…Bashful! Bashful! It’s Bashful!

What a dumb name for a dwarf.

Do people even say “bashful” anymore? I don’t think I’ve come across anyone I’d call “bashful” in 30 years. “Bashful” ceased to exist around 1998, along with shame and saturated fats.

Wait, I still have one more dwarf: Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-Bashful…and…I think it’s an “S.”

Stuart? No, you’re thinking of Stuart Little—easy mistake when dwarves come up.

Stewie? No, that’s Family Guy.

Is it another “adjective” dwarf? Skinny? Slippery? I’m getting closer…

Slinky? “It walks down stairs, alone or in pairs…” Turn off your mental 70’s commercials!

Smiley? No, we already have a Happy.

Keep trying: Stucky? No, that’s not a thing.

Slimy? Too gross.

Sleazy? No, this is Disney. Wait—not Sleazy—Sneezy! I got it!

Dopey-Grumpy-Sleepy-Doc-Happy-Bashful-Sneezy.

That’s the list! The Seven Dwarves. Or, as we’d say now, “The Seven Little Pervs Who Lure Young Women.”

Back to sleep.