My Dearly Beloved is a very light sleeper.
I have previously explained our differences in sleeping habits. I sleep soundly and deeply. So that I won’t be mistaken for a corpse, my engine purrs when I sleep– loudly, so DB frequently reminds me. Snoring is my emergency generator.
Noises rarely disturb me, but jostling the bed may, and I’ve been waking at suspiciously odd hours lately, like a few nights ago during a thunderboomer. I thought perhaps my dog-mom instincts were kicking in. Miss Piggy likes to hide from storms, so I pushed back the covers to get up and go help her find a good hidey hole.
“Where are you going?” DB asked before my feet hit the floor. There was no trace of sleep in his voice.
“To check on Miss Piggy.”
“She’s in our closet,” he informed me, a smug note to his voice. “I’ve already taken care of her. Can’t you hear her snoring in there?”
No, I couldn’t hear her snoring, nor did I want to. I don’t lie in bed and listen for sounds to obsess about. Why should both of us do so? I realized that it hadn’t been the thunder that awakened me; he sounded too guilty. He’d been prowling around the house again.
Before I was able to drop back into Dreamsville, he was out of bed once more, searching for some imaginary moth wing-decibel noise. Most people in search of disquietude might arm themselves with something like a baseball bat. Not DB.
His weapon of choice is a pillow.
To his credit, he makes the bed every morning. That way, he can collect the pillows he strategically placed during his ramblings to cover excesses like the blazing beams from electronics (i.e., the VCR button) and to smother deafening sounds (electric clock.)
“Why don’t you simply unplug the clock?” I asked him one night. I mean, it’s not like it’s even set to the right time. Nope. That’s not the way he works.
I have removed my little bedside radio from the nightstand in order to save him a pillow. (And to protect mine, lest he snatch it from beneath my head.) I would not be surprised to find one on the bathroom counter, covering his electric toothbrush. That green dot on the handle that shows it’s charging must be a lighthouse beacon to Mr. Light Sleeper.
Wondering why he doesn’t simply close the door to shut out some of the distractions? He wouldn’t dream of it. He has to track the offending objects to their source and punish them for their misdeeds.
Last night DB got back into bed after one of his spectral searches. None too carefully, I might add, for he woke me in the process. He’d heard a noise. I don’t mean a “someone is breaking in” sound. Oh no. I’m talking a Was-that-a-leaf-dropping-off-that-loud-plant-of-yours cacophony.
“What time is it?” I asked, sleepily.
Great. I’d been asleep for about an hour. I groaned and rolled over when he came back to bed.
“Don’t worry. My golf clubs are safe in the garage.”
I didn’t respond.
“You’ve seen that commercial, haven’t you?” he asked in his let’s chat voice.
I haven’t seen the commercial and didn’t want to hear about it at 12:30 AM.
(And my dentist wonders why I grind my teeth at night.)
DB says not, but I’m wondering if the man has OCD (Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder.) I certainly realize what I’m dealing with in my own situation: PITA.
Pain In The Ass.
Did you hear about the great new restaurant on the moon?
The food is excellent, but there’s no atmosphere.