Night Time Adventures (Get Your Mind Out of the Gutter!)

I like to sleep.

I like it a lot.  I like it so much that if I sit still for too long, I will start to drift off to that sweet, sweet spot where sheep jump fences and Town East Mall morphs into my grandmother's old house.   (Yes, I have a recurring dream about that and no, I won't talk about it today. That's a whole 'nother blog post.)   I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime.  I kinda like to look at it as a challenge.  Asleep in the car? Amateur.  Asleep in a restaurant, totally sober?  OH YEAH.  

I typically go to bed before my husband.  I'm sure there are those of you out there lamenting the state of my marriage, but it works for us.   He's a night owl who needs about two seconds of sleep, jumps out of bed in the morning, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and pissing me off with  his cheerfulness.   I, on the other hand, fall asleep seconds after the sun goes down, sleep 10 hours, hit snooze 50 times, and then stumble around like an extra from the Night of the Living Dead for two hours trying to wake up, biting everyone's head off in the meantime.   I know what you're thinking.   My hubby is a very lucky guy.  Yeah.  He is.  I am a joy.

Recently, I think I may have discovered why he SLEEPS the sleep of the dead and I LOOK like one of the walking dead when I wake up.   It all comes down to quality of sleep.  He gets it.  I don't.

Our boxer usually wakes me up several times to go outside and do her business or eat crap or chase skunks or whatever the heck she does at one, two, and three o'clock in the morning.   I would love to leave her out there and snuggle back up in my comfy-foamy-heaven-in-a-mattress bed, but she barks non-stop.   Not conducive to sleep. So I stand around by the back door for twenty minutes while she pees and then sniffs every freakin' blade of grass in the backyard.  I'll open the door and hiss like the Crypt Creeper for her to come.  I whisper-holler her name.   She typically looks up at me, wags her tail, and busts her butt to run to the back of the yard. I never love that dog more than when she does that. I love her so much in these moments that I would like to open the gate and see if the old adage is true about if you love something set it free.  Of course, even if the gate is open, the dog won't leave.  We've tried.

When I finally make it back to bed, there's the hubby. Moaning, dancing, and singing,  I mean TALKING, in his sleep.   It's like sleeping with a zombie backup dancer for Michael Jackson on his "Thriller" video.   I dodge flailing limbs, finally get settled, and then the singing and humming begins.   He typically hums all original tunes, sporadically throwing an arm or a leg out for emphasis on a certain note.

Occasionally, he will roll over and begin to talk.  These are my favorite times.   I used to ask questions until he got all huffy about "invading his brain" when he found out.   Now I just listen, write them down, and tease the heck out of him the next morning.

One night, he was all about the helpful advice. "Chicken is best when is fricasseed."   Really, Paula Deen?  Good to know.   Other times, it's just information, "The penguins stole my toothpaste."   Arctic Fresh Crest apparently really is!  Who knew?   Sometimes, he channels newscasters, "The truck is in the ditch, people.  This is bad."   All righty-then.

If I can make it through the dog and her repeat attempts to go outside, the chatty/singing/dancing hubby, then there is the psychoti-kitty to endure.   We recently adopted a feral cat.  Still not for sure why, other than the look of adoration in my preteen's eyes.  I know that light will go out soon enough when she hits her teenage years and realizes I'm an idiot, but for now I like that look of worship.  At four in the morning when the kitten is bouncing around on my face and chest  like a Halloween cat and bringing me wet mouse toys he has drowned in the dog's water bowl and then dropping those on my forehead, I question our decision.   I can't imagine why.

After thirty minutes to an hour, I'll  grab the ol' iPhone and play a couple of rounds of Words with Friends.   Around five, five thirty,  I'll get tired and doze off.  The alarm goes off at six. I hit snooze until I have no choice, and I rise from the bed stumbling around on my newborn zombie legs.   My hubby, meanwhile, pops out of the bed like toast from a toaster, all smiling and happy and talking about how poorly he slept and chastising me for my bad mood.  Really? Poorly?  You?  Interesting.

So the next time you see me and my eyes are blurry, my mouth slack, and I don't answer, don't worry that I'm on drugs.    I'm just trying to catch up on some sleep.