The Joys of Boys (Dedicated to Nick)
When I was a little girl my favorite toys were baby dolls. Baby GIRL dolls. I loved to dress them up in pastel ruffled clothes, rock them, sing to them, and dream of putting them in plastic doll interpretive ballet when they got older. I l-o-v-e-d little baby girls! I don’t know, maybe it was because I was a little girl myself which made me extremely biased. Naturally, I thought that when I got pregnant there was no other option for me but to have a baby girl. A baby
girl. Boy, was I off. (pun totally
not intended when I typed it, but damn, what a great one if I do say so myself) So, to make a long story short—I did not end up giving birth to a pink, Strawberry Shortcake scented mini-female. I gave birth to the anti-girl: a set of twin boys. This is where I start the topic of my blog, the topic being, WHAT IS UP WITH THE MALE SPECIES? Little boys in particular…
Not long ago, Nichole mentioned, and I quote, “Isn't it funny that we all suck at relationships with men, and are all having to raise boys?” She was so totally on when she wrote that. Between the four of us, (the Hanson girls) we’ve probably been through over a thousand men, no joke. Three out of four of us have been married, and divorced in less than two years. One of our favorite pastimes is to get together, eat snack food, and bash our ex-boyfriends and/or current partners. This is not because we are mean,spiteful bitches, hell no. We find this to be the only therapy that can get us through one more day in a world full of balls and wieners. We do this to try to make sense of something (or some gender) that does not make sense
at all. Seriously though, I’m totally digressing and getting away from what I was getting at in the first place. Trying to get some answers to the question of, WHAT IS UP WITH THE MALE SPECIES? Little boys in particular…
Some male (little boy) phenomenon I have been subjected to lately (without
any type of life preparation whatsoever):
Oozing athletes’ foot
Sweaty jockstraps
Unhealthy obsessions with sports
Fort building, followed by fort destruction
Pooh skids on tighty whities
That
“smell” (ooh, ooh, that smell)
Big Mac attacks, yes, I'm talking about the sandwich
Wrestling
Wrestling—with blood!
The TOTAL lack of using a calm, quiet voice at
any time in a 24-hour period
Urine spattered toilet seats
Dirty hands, even after showering
17 different types of stains on ONE shirt
Did I mention oozing athlete’s foot?
I was not prepared to be in the thick of all of the above, nor was I prepared to be the main cleaner-upper of all of the above. I am utterly mind boggled. How does one get athlete’s foot? Do you have to lick the floor of a locker room and then tongue a track star? How does poop get on jock straps? They don’t even touch the butt crack, do they? (Sorry for typing “butt crack” that is so crude and so unlike me, but I had no other way…)
Why must they (boys) always be participating in full-contact activities? Homework is a full-contact sport at our house. What do they roll in at school to end up smelling like “that smell”? How come their pee does not make it in to that HUGE hole called the toilet bowl? Why? How? Why? How? WHY!!??
*Sigh* I'm getting closer to the realization that I may never get answers to those questions. Who knows, maybe I was given boys to challenge me, to raise me to a whole new level of life—a level of life where I can sit through an hour of basketball and not be bored to tears and twitches. A level of life where I don’t mind that I just sat in someone’s pee on the toilet seat. A level of life where I don’t need pink ruffles or curled ponytails. A level of life where all the dirt, carnage, skid marks, and yelling are just ways a son tells his mother, “If it weren’t for you Mom, I wouldn’t be here to wipe my big booger on the bathroom sink so you can mistakenly think it’s a chip in the sink, accidentally touch it, and find out it’s not a chip in the sink, but my big booger.” And in the end, isn’t that the way all sons tell their mothers “Mom, I love you”?
Detention Details 2
Detention Details 1
Just In Case You Think I'm Joking When I Write About My Children in a Somewhat Stress-Induced Light
I came home from a most relaxing morning of sipping tea while getting my scalp rubbed and hair highlighted to this message on the answering machine:
"Hi, this is Angelique N__ calling from T__ Elementary School, ummm, Colton's teacher, I was just wanted to call and let somebody know that the boys will be serving detention after school today..."
This message was left at 10:26 a.m. What could have the boys possibly done in two hours to merit detention? I'm besides myself with excitement at the prospect of finding this out!
I guess God really loves me--he gave me
TWO children that are
TWICE as much of a pain in the a** as I was as a child. Oh, wait, is that considered love or just rewards?
Details to follow...
Because the Moon Was Phased Just So
So my last post mentioned something about the boys being rough with each other--oh, if I had only known what was in store for me as I mindlessly typed away.
Here's how it all went down:
Colton hid from Cody under Cody's blankets.
Cody, while looking for Colton "accidentally" slapped the blankets very, very, very hard.
Colton cried and became outraged.
In retaliation, Colton pushed the bunkbed ladder at Cody's face.
Bunkbed ladder hits Cody in the mouth, cutting his upper lip. (It actually ended up cutting that little slab of skin that connects your lip to your gums--that tab keeps you from being able to lift your upper lip over the tip of your nose. Cody can now pull his upper lip over the tip of his nose--do I live in a carnival or what?)
Cody falls to his knees in utter shock, dramatically holding his hands out in front of him to catch the blood coming from his mouth.
Cody is crying.
I come in the room and start crying.
Colton starts crying.
We're all crying.
I stop panicking and pull myself together. Get a cold washcloth and stick it on Cody's upper lip which is now swelling.
Cody keeps crying.
Colton keeps crying.
While the boys cry, I fanatically try to fit in some lesson about "One of these days someone is
really going to get hurt, and how would you feel if you didn't have a brother anymore?
You're brother is your best friend!" That type of lesson.
Boys were unresponsive to said "lesson" and kept crying.
Crying slowly subsided.
Color slowly came back to my face.
I force Cody and Colton to hug and apologize to each other. (I think this part actually hurt Cody more than his torn "lip flap thingy" did.)
I pour 5 oz. of vodka into a Fresca and stare at the wall for the rest of the night. (Hey, I can dream, can't I?)
So, I guess if my blogs are going to be indicative of what lies in my future, I should write more about winning the lottery or having large breasts and super white teeth--because I think I could handle that.
Skanktastic!
This blog has nothing to do with the title. I just wanted to use that as the title today because it’s Wednesday and I’m feeling reckless. Reckless like a fox in a wood-paneled stationwagon. What do Wednesday and recklessness and stationwagons have to do with one another? Can’t say that I have an answer to that question.
So I’m basically writing this blog because I have blog OCD and I, like many others I know, cannot stand looking at a blog and seeing the same post sitting there, rotting away for days and days. It infuriates me. I hate rotten blogs. Oh my goodness, “rotten blogs”, that just made me laugh! NO MORE ROTTEN BLOGS!
I’ve been having a blog subject block lately, seems that every time I come up with something witty or clever to write about it’s while I’m lying in bed at night trying to fall asleep. I tell myself while I’m lying there thinking, “This is gold. Definite blog material, must not forget while I sleep. Must not forget…must...not….zzzzzzzzzzzz.” Then I wake up in the morning and I’m back to square one. It’s not that my life isn’t interesting, it is! I had a lady come to the Church the other day and speak with me regarding one of our members who was cremating a little girl over and over again. She wasn’t sure if she was cremating her with prescription medication or with real fire—but the girl wanted it to stop. Did I mention that the girl she was describing was “invisible”? Yes, my life can definitely be interesting.
Cody and Colton keep life interesting. Lately they have been interacting with each other like a pair of feuding schizophrenics. One moment they are best buddies—laughing and sharing their goals and aspirations for life with each another. When that mode is over, they are like Cane and Able. No, Cane and
Cane. They switch from trading baseball cards to beating each other with baseball bats in the blink of an eye. (I really don’t let them beat each other with baseball bats, only whiffle ball bats are allowed in the house). Since I only used my fingernails as a weapon when I was a child (and books thrown from the top bunk), I don’t relate to these boys on
any level when it comes to their primal instinct to fight for video game territory. Could somebody give me some insight on raising Cane? Because most of the time I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.
Anyway, that’s it for now. Just wanted to keep it fresh—so fresh and so clean, clean.
PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD
I found this silly photo of me at Halloween a couple of years ago. Yeah, I'm scraping the barrel right now folks.
Cipher and the Roast
Tonight I made a roast, and potatoes, and corn...and at it all alone.
Is that sad? Part of me thinks it should have been, but I was too busy relishing the moment--sans screaming anthropoids and ESPN.
It was nice.
Just Thinking
I think that the most rewarding part of a long, sports-filled, house-cleaning, child-rearing, meal-cooking day is....(drumroll please)...TAKING OFF MY BRA!
Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
90s Throwback
The other day, I found myself reminiscing/describing the 90s Grunge movement to Cody and Colton. I told them about some of the outfits I would wear (babydoll dresses and Michele's combat boots, knee highs and Doc Martins, ripped jeans and flannels) and the music I would listen to "when I was in Junior High/High School". It was funny, I felt like some hippie throwback reminiscing the good old days. I'm not old enough to be remembering the "good ol' days" yet, am I?
This afternoon I found some radio station on iTunes that plays only 90s alternative rock. So I've been rocking out and reliving the following: sluffing school and smoking pot at "Rusty's" house, driving around in various Jeep Wranglers with various older/cooler guys by the names of "Gabe" and "Steve" and "Rueben" and "Dave". Back in the 90s I got in a lot of trouble with my friend Cally, but that's another, longer blog.
What I'm getting at is, what were some of your favorite bands of the 90s? I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours....
(in no particular order)
Alice in Chains
Live
Soundgarden
Radiohead
Rage Against the Machine
Nine Inch Nails
The Cure
Depeche Mode
The Cranberries
Simple Minds
Tori Amos
Primus
...long live military fatigues and babydoll dresses!
Making Good Use of Her Time, Charise Learns About Hellfire and Damnation
The “boss woman” has been out of the office for a couple of days this week, so after doing some of my normal daily tasks, I decided to do some extra-curricular job-oriented research. Meaning, I decided to read the Bible. I know what you’re all thinking, “You read the Bible? You, Charise, the one whose husband has to bribe her with eternal life and a kingdom in heaven to get her to go to church? The one who use to think that God made Sundays for the sole purpose of eating Krispy Kremes, and drinking crappy Krispy Kreme Koffee…I mean, coffee. The one that still thinks that God can’t see Vegas? You read the Bible? What the…?”
Anyway, yes. I read some of the Bible. Well, it was just sitting there looking so innocent and holy, and I figured I hadn’t read it in a while so I thought I would take a gander. This isn’t just any Bible though; it’s a kinder, gentler Bible. It uses words that “modern” people like me and you use—like “excrement”. No joke, that word was in there.
I don’t know why I do these things to myself, but I went straight to the book of Revelations. I chose Revelations because my faint recollections of the “good book” were of the frightening things that happen when the END OF THE WORLD comes. I get END OF THE WORLD dreams quit often, so I thought that maybe this book may have some parallels. I had no idea what I was getting into. I read the whole book, and by that time it was time for me to kick off. Immediately I had to call Nick to tell her all the hellfire and damnation that was going to happen to the Earth, I knew she would appreciate it. Some interesting (scary as hell) things that stood out to me:
The moon is going to turn to blood
The sea is going to turn to blood
There is going to be hail and fire—of course, mixed with blood
There are going to be locusts that sting like scorpions—but not to worry, they’re only going to torment the evil for 5 MONTHS!
There is going to be a wonderful variety of 7-headed beasts that want to kill everyone
There are all types of acid-trip-like angels covered in eyes, and angels that want to kill evil people
There’s going to be a lake of fire
Yes, all of the above is disturbing—isn’t it? That was just a minuscule description. But, not to worry, if you somehow make it out of all the above alive, you’ll probably get to live with God and Jesus and a lot of angels in a city made of gold and jewels. Wow. What a trip.
So, me being a believer of God and Jesus Christ, I’m obviously a little shaken up. I know, I know, most of Revelation is symbolism that is open for interpretation, but anything that can be interpreted into “nauseous and virulent sores on all the people” must not be too pleasant to begin with.
Anywhoo, my point is—I think I may just try a little harder to “do unto others” and whatnot. I don’t want to be stung by locust-scorpion hybrids for 5 MONTHS!
Yes, by my account, Revelations is a trip-and-a-half—but in the immortal words of
Lavar Burton, “You don’t have to take my word for it!”
Read Revelations for yourself!
What You're Missing Out On While You Slave Away for the Man
Vintage re-runs of...dun, dun, dun....
Tom and Jerry
Scooby Doo
Talk about nostaligia and flash-backs.
Only hash smoking drop-outs, SAHMs, and children with fevers indulge in such pleasureable things mid-afternoon on a Monday!
You jealous, ain't you?
Why Motherhussy?
I’ve been known to steal clever sayings and phrases from others. It’s just something I do. For example, one of my first phrase snatches was from my old elementary school friend, Nichole Hobbs. Nichole was the first friend to really encourage my passion for alternative music. I still remember wearing one of her Jane’s Addiction t-shirts in the fifth grade and my mother almost having a heart attack. I don’t know if any of you are Jane’s Addiction fans, but this t-shirt had Perry Ferrell on the front all gussied up in some type of corset, looking ever so angelic. I don’t know where in the hell Nichole is, or how she ended up—I imagine that she is doing something fabulously dark with art or fashion, but she may just be another West Valley burn-out too. Who knows? All I know is that I stole one of her phrases. Well, it wasn’t really a phrase—more of an exclamation. It was, “BLARS!” Incredible word, really. It doesn’t have an exact meaning, therefore the word is left open for all sorts of interpretation—just what a fifth-grader needs. Something to exclaim that would put the point across, yet not get them sent to detention. “BLARS!” was great, timeless. I still use it to this day, believe it or not.
Some other famous word/phrase thefts:
Hermansquirmenwienermeyer
Jackface
Clod
Swanky
Vanilla pudding
What’s a bisque?
In casual conversation, I use all of the above words/phrases on a regular basis for multiple meanings. The most recent acquisition to my word-vault is:
Motherhussy
I stole it from
Nichole and I loved it so much that I’m going to proclaim myself “Queen of the Motherhussies!” What exactly is a motherhussy, you ask? Well, of course it’s a combination of the word “mother” and “hussy”. But the meaning goes much deeper than that. It’s the definition of a mother who didn’t get her start the “traditional” way. Meaning, a mother that got knocked up out of wedlock and didn’t “off” her child. Yes, I was one of “those” moms—young, dumb, clueless. I’m still like that in a lot of ways, but, I’m still a pretty damn good mother (at least at this moment I am—give me five minutes). A motherhussy doesn’t quite fit the traditional mold of mother. She changes diapers, feeds kids, cleans house and helps with homework. But she aspires for more. She aspires to start her own line of religious abstract fridge magnets, maintain the body of a 20-year old, and not compromise to a life consisting only of “what the kids want.” She loves her children, but she doesn’t lose the love of herself. She’s also a total slut. Just kidding, just checking to see if you were paying attention.
The point in all my rambling is really nothing. A motherhussy is me, it’s you, and it’s your crazy Aunt Lois that still smokes, drinks martinis, and drops the f-bomb at family gatherings. Seriously though, I could go on and on, but I think I just like the word. Therefore, get use to me using it—over, and over, and over again.
PS. I’m the only motherhussy in my family right now, but I am pleased to say that in a few months,
Nichole will be the newest motherhussy! Yeahhhh!
Don't Jump
So once again I have been teetering on the edge and somehow stepped away, stopping myself from plummeting to the jagged rocks and frigid waters below. I’m speaking in metaphors, of course. If I were going to end my life I would do it in a much more spectacular and public way--that's a
whole other blog.
It’s Saturday, and I should love Saturdays but lately they’ve been a struggle. With tax season in more than full swing, (more like hyper-drive) I’m back to days with the boys that seem will never end. The poor weather doesn’t help with this at all. So lately it’s been the three of us, two of whom seem to be on never-ending espresso highs (Cody and Colton), and one that should have an IV of Red Bull in her veins to keep up (me). We’re in our little house, and I’m running out of things for them to do. They’ve already mopped and waxed the floors, scrubbed the bathroom tiles with toothbrushes, and rubbed the corns off of my feet. What else is there for eight-year-olds to do on the weekend?
Currently, they’re playing video games. I usually reserve this activity to times when all their homework is done and their rooms are clean, but today I’m just burnt. I tried to send them outside to play ball, but it’s too windy and cold, and complicated. They came back in, Cody angry at Colton for throwing the ball too high, and Colton upset that Cody was being so neurotic. There is a “special” decibel range that Cody and Colton scream in that basically brings out the Joan Crawford in me, and they were using it as they came in, that’s when I snapped.
I won’t recant the dialogue that ensued, as I would hate to have someone from DCFS accidentally find my blog. I would also hate for anyone to think that I, a mature adult individual, would lower myself to the point of fighting with my children. I will however, tell you that basically I was brought to tears by a couple of 8-year-old boys, and in return they were sent to their rooms. In the past, it was I who was the one that made men and boys cry. Now karma has caught up with me in a most painfully ironic way.
This is the part where Anthony comes in. I don’t know why I call him when these things happen, it’s not like he can do anything about it while he’s at the office. If anything it’s distracting and annoying to him. But he doesn’t treat me as though I’m distracting and annoying. He just listens and tells me he’s sorry. He tells me I’m a good mother, even though everything in my head is telling me I’m not. I don’t know if it’s what he says to me, but the way that he says it. It’s soothing, like one of those white noise machines you can buy at Sharper Image. After our conversation consisting of me babbling through tears, and Anthony sitting on the other end making white noise, I imagine he hangs up the phone thinking, “She’s flipping crazy. It must be that time of the month.” I doubt he understands, hell—I don’t even understand myself when I lose control. I’m just glad he’s there to pick up the phone and lead me away from the crumbling edge of my emotions, back to the stable ground of sanity.
Forgive Me, I Have Sinned
“Lust” and “envy”. When thinking of those two words together it usually conjures up images of married thirty-something’s watching Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee (or whoever in the hell she’s with now) make-out on VH1. Or, it’s the just-turned-sixteen-year-old male drooling over his orthodontist’s Audi TT. Usually lust and envy are associated with diamonds, furs, large homes, yachts, huge breasts, massive biceps, fast cars, $300 denim, and anything else falling into those MTV-endorsed categories. Often, I find myself a victim of lust and envy. Sometimes I wish I had massive diamond encrusted biceps, or that I lived in a large home made of fur and $300 dollar denim. Yes, I lust for these things—and envy those who have them.
Today I enviously lusted after something again. But this time, it wasn’t the huge-breasted yacht that was made out of a fast car. Today, I lusted after a pair of book shelves. That’s correct, book shelves. Oh, I know what you’re saying—“Book shelves, what the heck! Bookshelves don’t have big boobs, or get drunk and wreck Lamborghinis, or have adopted children from foreign countries! Why are you lustfully envious over bookshelves? Guuuuuurrrrl, you crazy!” Before you start judging me, let me tell you why I have such lust for a pair of inanimate objects. These aren’t just any shelves, these are a pair of vintage mid-century modern bookshelves that are making me drool on my keyboard just thinking of them. The fact that they are vintage mid-century modern isn’t the only reason they are such objects of lust and envy to me. What makes them extra special is how we first met. The shelves, I will refer them from here on as “Babs and Lola”—my affectionate terms for them, were not found in an Ikea store, clever reconstructions of cheap steel and particle board—No! Babs and Lola were not found online at some degrading eBay auction—No! Babs and Lola weren’t even found at a kitschy South Bay furniture boutique. Babs and Lola were found—get this—in the Church lounge!
I had been to the lounge before, it was there I interviewed for my current job. Why hadn’t I noticed them then? I must have been somewhat nervous, distracted by run-of-the-mill interview questions (“Who is your God and eternal Savior?”—just kidding, my boss found out everything she needed to know about me on myspace.com, hehe). During the interview I also had a coughing fit which may have made me appear to be some type of nicotine junkie, but I digress. I didn’t notice them the first time, or even the second time I was in the lounge. But today, today was special. While I was going about my secretarial duties, there they were. They were just sitting there, innocently—unaware of the seduction their very beings placed on me. I saw Babs first, and she took my breath away—(really, I passed out and hit my head on a folding chair). I cannot describe in words the way she looked, her double shelves stacked one on top of the other, teetering on four thick-then-thin legs. Was that walnut she was wearing? I don’t know, but I had my suspicions—shelves like her are known to dress in fine woods like that. Before I could completely envelope myself in the fantasy of carefully placing an abstract object on her top shelf, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Was it? Could it be? Oh my Herman Miller! Babs had a twin sister! The fantasy now began to spiral out of control. Lola was every bit as beautiful as her sister, and I couldn’t help but feel the heat they brought to the room when they were together. My mind began reeling as I paired them together in all types of compromising decorative predicaments. Side by side in the front room, on either side of my bed in the bedroom, as shelves for black and white photos, beat-junkie books, hand-painted pottery bowls—I even got twisted enough to put them in the boys room, but I realized then I had gone to far. I needed to bring myself back to reality. I stopped, wiped the stream of drool coming from my gaping mouth, inhaled/exhaled several thousand times, and that was when the tears came.
I realized that Babs and Lola were all alone there in the lounge most of the time. Who knows if anyone really cared about them? Did anyone understand the beauty and fulfillment they could bring to a soul such as mine? I did. I worried about Babs and Lola being in the lounge all alone, so I thought I would bring up the subject to Pastor Katherine.
“Katherine, have you noticed the shelves in the lounge?” I asked, sounding casually disinterested at first. If only she knew the wave of lust I had just experienced—I would have had to go to confessional.
(*Not Verbatim) “Oh my gosh, you mean those two sweeeeeeet mid century modern shelves?” she gushed. “Aren’t they cool?”
“Uh, yeah. Real cool.” I tried to hide my enthusiasm again.
“So, uhhhh, you think that anyone would want to sell them to me? Like, uhhhh, in a rummage sale or something? Any teeny tiny chance of something like that happening someday before I die? GOOD LORD ALMIGHTY I WOULD GIVE MY SOUL FOR THOSE SHELVES!”
(*Not Verbatim) “Sorry, I already have dibs on them,” she replied.
See, that right there just proves that Pastors can be ultra cool and hip.
I may never experience the rush that those shelves could bring to my life on a daily basis, but Babs and Lola will forever be in my head, in my heart, and in ALL my furniture-oriented fantasies. Now that I think about it, it isn’t lust and envy I feel for those two girls—it’s pure, unadulterated love.
FIN
Brainstorming
So, nothing out of the ordinary happened today. Nothing that made me "guffaw" out loud--(GOL as opposed to LOL). It must be Wednesday or something. Since no day is completely complete for me until something funny or silly has happened, I will now force myself to be amused...by myself.
Things That Sound Funny To Me When I Type Them On My Blog
by Charise
Triple taped sickle celled xylophonists
Orange licking tiger balm sniffing turkey trainers
Monkey grinding licorice vendors
Rigorous armadillo carnival sponsors
Cloven hoofed fuller brush salesmen
Suspender snapping horse training mimes
Marsupial money lenders
Hash smacking turtle waxing do-gooders
Monopoly manipulation shadow puppets
Circus pushing toe rubbing parapalegic pushers
Awwww gee, who am I kidding, it's a loss tonight--I best go waste my mind on American Idol.
Yes, I Actually Said This
On the phone to Nick the other day:
"I better go, I have a roast in the oven."
The most hilarious part about that...I
really did have a roast in the oven! Somebody shoot me, please!
Pillow Talk or Too Much Information in the Second to Last Sentence
Lately, I’ve been having a reoccurring thought. This thought has to do with sleeping, and who in the hell started the tradition of married couples sleeping in the same bed? This thought has come to my attention after several nights of less-than-blissful sleep.
I remember the single days. Days when I would plop my (insert word: tired, drunk, sick, spent, lazy) self into an empty queen-size bed and call it a night. I would drool on the pillows, toss, turn, mumble in my sleep, and wrap the blankets around myself like a mummy or just kick them off entirely. I would do all of those things and nobody would complain. After getting married this is not how it goes at all.
My night now goes a little something like this:
Depending on who gets in bed first, usually me, I get all cozy and prepare for a much earned and much desired comatose state. Moments later I am awaken by the rush of cold air being inhaled into my down cocoon. It’s Anthony. Couldn’t he somehow slither under the covers without disturbing the warmth I’ve worked so hard to create? By working hard, I mean tossing and turning so I generate enough body heat that I can sleep without icicles forming on my nose. (Our house is cold—but I’ve already blogged about that. If you didn’t read it, then damn you.) Sometimes I think he does this on purpose, as a way to punish me for getting cozy before he does. He knows that there is nothing more in life that I loathe than being cold. I know, I know, I live in Southern California—it’s not as cold here as it is elsewhere (like Utah). But it’s a different cold here. When it’s cold here, it’s like having Jack Frost beat you about the face and body—and then having a bucket of water on poured your head. I’m sure that painted the perfect picture. But I digress.
After Anthony had disturbed me with the cold air treatment, he then proceeds to pull the blankets off of me. Mind you, I have them wrapped—neigh, formed—perfectly around my body so as not to let any heat escape. Well, he has no respect for the art that is blanket wrapping. He just disregards it and pulls them away so he can get warm too! So selfish. Eventually, a silent blanket tug-of-war ensues. He pulls a little, I pull a little. He pulls more, I pull more. Eventually we either end up wrestling each other onto the ground, or we exhaust ourselves to sleep—regardless of who has the perfect balance of blanket.
Once asleep, I begin to dream. I dream of all sorts of wonderful things. Finding money in my clothes pockets, being naked at my old high school, discovering and extra addition to the house that contains a mini-fridge and all the bottled Mexican Coke I can drink. Right as I’m going to: spend the money, hand in my science project for an “A”, or drink my sixth bottled Mexican Coke, I’m awaken by a rattle. Judas! Is the San Andreas shifting again? That happens sometimes. No, it’s not the fault—it’s Anthony. Snoring. Anthony doesn’t just snore. He doesn’t just saw logs. Anthony massacres rainforests and leaves exotic frogs homeless with his snores. Most of the time when I first hear his snoring, I usually panic and start a mini heart-attack. When I realize it is just his snores, I kick him. That usually helps for about ten seconds. Then I kick again. Then he gets mad and I remind him that he’s waking up babies in Thailand. Usually then he rolls over to his side, the snoring stops and I fall asleep again. If all goes well, I sleep until the alarm goes off in the morning. If all doesn’t go well, Anthony gets restless and tosses and turns and stands up and wanders around and gets back in bed and tosses and turns and stands up and does old man calisthenics and pops a couple of Tylenol PM and falls asleep. Then I fall asleep.
After reading the above, can’t you see how totally right it is for couples to have separate beds and bedrooms? Granted, this doesn’t happen every night. On the nights we have hot, passionate, wet, wild…..uhhhhhh…….yeah. Well, on those nights I sleep just fine.
