Rude Awakenings

I have a headache that feels like a taser to the temple. The fact that I guilted myself to sit in front of my lap top and write an entry for you should make all of you feel very satisfied. Now stop harassing me. You know who you are. You've heard the unedited version anyways so suck it up and grow some patience like everybody else.

I like to sleep. Frankly, I excel at it. Nap time is a very happy time for me. Bedtime is all the more fantastic. I suppose much of this good sleepy-time fun is due to the engorged queen-size bed (also referred to as a king-size) with that delicious pillow top that hugs me close every night. This gal can crash in a matter of seconds and be out for a full eight hours...okay, eleven hours. We don't judge here. No wait, I do. Rather often. New deal for the blog: I can judge whomever I want and those folks that are tolerant enough to hang around and continue reading what I write do so without judgement in my direction. Yes? Marvelous. Moving on. I don't even hear Boyfriend's alarm when it goes off in the morning. My sub-conscious knows that that alarm holds  no meaning for me, so it keeps me dreaming rather than fumbling around for a snooze button. Screw ignorance, this is bliss.

However, Boyfriend and I have sleeping habits that may not exactly jive with the other half. I'm a talker. I probably snore, it's never been mentioned, but it's safe to presume. I'm a pillow thief. I get the restless legs and rather than leave the room, I like to stay in bed and do horizontal Rockette high-kicks to tire my muscles out. Boyfriend is usually in the way when this happens. We'll just chalk up any damage done here for payment of bad behaviour that he engages in that I am unaware of. What else? I get crazy ideas that I need to put into my notebook at all hours lest I forget so there's the constant use of my night light to scribble my hoards of thoughts that usually don't make much sense come the next day. I drink a lot of water before bed and also when I wake up through the night which means frequent trips across the hall. There are a couple other little things, but who cares about those? Boyfriend's bad sleeping habits are these: he goes to bed way before I do and he's a light sleeper. This is such a headache if I knew what I was getting into these two things would have been a deal-breaker. Just kidding. No I'm not. Am I? I can't watch TV in bed because it will wake him up, Mutt and Fat wake him up and then he wakes me up because I don't hear them and how is it possible that I don't hear them? I have to be quiet after he retires for the evening. It's all just very not good.

The other day, we had an interesting occurrence: we woke each other up. Somehow in my sleep I became empress of the TV remote. I don't know. I wasn't paying attention to my physical body while I was unconscious and got hold of what many would deem the Power. And in obtaining the Power I put into our morning the small series of events that would lead to my own crabbiness. I don't know if this means I have too much practice with the converter, as Boyfriend would call it (Right? Who calls it that? Took me eight months to figure out what he was talking about.), but I turned that beast of a television on. Operating TV = Awake Boyfriend = Boyfriend's outburst (REALLY?) = Awake and confused me (What? You're watching TV. What? Watch it in the other room. I'm not watching TV. Oh. The TV's on.) = Crabby me. Le damn. Such not a good time.

As I mentioned, Boyfriend has his habits that hammer away at my sanity. Boyfriend  has a talent much like that of the cinematic serial killer that won't die. Don't go anywhere, hear me out on this one. I came home late the other night from work, and well, Boyfriend had put in a full shift watching some kind of sport...hockey? Maybe football or lawn darts. I don't know. The point is by the time I get home some sort of TSN or golf channel or something else that oozes testosterone blares from the television. Asleep on the chaise end of the couch is one cozy Boyfriend with a smile adorning the corners of his mouth. Even in slumber the proximity to the Sports Net or NBA All Stars delights him. If I'd taken a snow pick to his frontal lobe he'd have died happy. The good news is I haven't gone beyond thinking about it, so Boyfriend is still alive. A big you're welcome to Boyfriend's boyfriends, your buddy is still among us. Back to the freaky part. As I gaze down on him, deep in sleep, feeling kind of like a weirdo myself for digesting him visually, my eyes zero in on his hand. It's positioned beside his hip and still holding a can of beer. Any person in their right mind can see the future here. He's going to flop over onto his side and paint my couch a lovely amber ale colour. Not today pal. I can play nice and rather than venomously snatch it away I grasp the top of the beer can, feeling the sloshy movement of the beer indicating how very full this can is. The thing is, it's not coming out of his hand, it's wedged in there pretty good. No matter. I use my one hand to pull his fingertips away from the can while I pry the beer away with the other. As I lightly tug his fingers, Boyfriend's eyes snap open and eye me with fury. I see more of the whites of his eyes than I ever have. He doesn't blink, but the usual green/brown/blue (it's not that I don't know, I just can't tell which of these colours his eyes are) fades and is overtaken by the murderous scarlet colour that usually occupies the numbers flashing from the alarm clock. I hear a mechanical whir as he robotically raises his free hand to my throat and lifts me off the ground; my feet dangle a good 18 inches off the floor. This is where I find out that Boyfriend is a robot. That would have been awesome if that happened and I lived to tell the tale. His eyes do bolt open when I attempt to remove the beverage from his hand. In the movie version I step toward Boyfriend (in the film he plays the psycho killer) thinking he's finally dead, the panic slowly dissipates and I approach him just to make sure the terror is over. My movie self would offer up one of those one-liners, something lame like, "See you lager? I don't think so." His eyes open and eye me with pure hatred. If he was harbouring a weapon, this is the point where he uses it to stab me in the chest when I become distracted reaching for the beer. The protagonist (that might be a matter of opinion, but mind your business) bleeds out on the living room floor and Boyfriend sits up, downs the last of his beverage, crushes the can and saunters almost out of the frame. He stops dramatically, then slowly turns to gain eye contact with me before he utters the last words in the film, I've never spilled a beer in my life. The end. In all honesty, he did say that when I took the can out of his hand, but then he rolled over and went back to sleep. Believe me, you'll love it when it hits the big screen.

Well, time for tea,

K