That’s what my kids call it. Is there anything better than a thunderstorm in the middle of the night? Lying in bed, feeling snuggly under the covers as the skies rumble outside. After my mom passed, I did what you call, took to bed, and for many weeks, comforted myself listening to thunderstorms. You can play them through a variety of apps, but I listened to them on my tv through Amazon prime. My family knew to leave me alone when the bedroom door was closed and they could hear thunder booming from within. Oddly, the ritual helped me through my grief.

The other day I was with my cousin and she suggested I listen to another app called Calm. My mania apparently on display during a heated discussion about the lack of wall mirrors in our expensive hotel room, she thought I should check it out. She had me when she said Matthew McConaughey would tell me a beddy-bye story. Gulp.

Calm also has stories about sloths. There may be nothing cuter. Sleep stories, music for meditation, focus, and relaxation—there is a seven-day free trial. I haven’t tried it yet, I’m keeping my trial week in my back pocket for when I really need it. Like an emergency sedative chaser following several alcoholic beverages while I listen to a family member berate me for screwing up the holiday plans. It’s an annual event.

Don’t know why I wrote this other than it happens to be the middle of the night and the rolling thunder out my window is keeping me company. You know, now that I think about it, my time might be better spent in bed with Matthew reading me that story. I’ll just have to go to the guestroom so I won’t wake George. I wonder what Matthew will talk about? The website doesn’t give that tidbit up until you sign up for your free trial. Hmm. I can’t imagine any possible scenario where it would be bad? Can you?

There’s Matthew and I, meandering in the country on a warm Texas day when the skies suddenly darken and we have to take shelter in a conveniently placed abandoned farmhouse. A bit soaked from running into the farmhouse from the car, but laughing with a careless abandon, Matthew suggests we look for something to wear while our clothing dries out. He searches around and tosses some kindling into a pot-bellied stove and lights it, pleased that it appears to be working and turns to me with a smile, then spies a book on the kitchen table. He picks up a copy of The Thornbirds by Colleen McCullough.

I gotta go.