Friday, October 15, 2010

How do you say, "If you don't stay on your side of the bed, I'm going to smother you"??

I have a problem. Ok, I have more than one problem (read: issue, psychosis, etc.), but right now we'll just address one.

I am sleep deprived. My body sort of finds itself in a constant state of twilight (and no, not the movie although, right now, that would fucking rock, because I wouldn't care if I wasn't sleeping).

Sometimes I can fall asleep, but not stay asleep; other times, I can't fall asleep at all. When I do fall asleep, I'm usually awakened by one of any number of random annoying fucking things, like my skanky neighbor's out of control dogs barking, a mouth breathing brat standing right over my face mumbling something about hot dogs or carrying permanent markers about to throw down some rockin' graffiti because they are sleep- walking. Awesome.

Or, my very fave...Saint Jason, rubbing my ass cheek (supposedly in his sleep) or attempting to spoon with me, or sleeping in the middle of the fucking bed with his head on my pillow. FORBIDDEN.

I have two rules, people. Only two. Don't use my toothbrush and don't touch my fucking pillow. And about those two things, I am extremely neurotic. Say what you will, I care not.

Saint Jason has been, of course, very saintly about respecting these rules, and also respectful about my body's need for space when I sleep. He makes an extra special effort to sleep as far away from me as he can so he's not tempted to "sleep fondle" as we call it. Rubbing my butt apparently calms him; this is also, apparently, an inherited trait he got from his father. Ewww.

Where were we? Oh yes.

Well, this week, thanks to the return of Zoloft to my nightly routine, I have been sleeping a little better (thank you, gods of the pharmaceuticals), however, am still adjusting to the meds so am dragging at night. I was looking very forward to snuggling up in my bed with my perfect pillow and falling into the 4 hour coma that Mr. Z has provided me each night this week.

Alas, it was not to be. Who should appear at my back, all spoon happy and ready to cuddle (all the while invading my personal sleep nirvana)? Saint Jason.

DAMMIT! (OK, so that word was just for my own pleasure)

My text to him this morning was something like:

If I have sex with you tonight, will you promise to stay on your side of the bed for the rest of the weekend?

Because, I'm not a total bitch. I know the man has needs.

See...the Zoloft is working.

**I did do other nice things for the world (or my small part of it) this week. I spread some awareness with this video re-posted on my FB page (which sent my mother in to a tailspin wanting to know who was bullying me & mine--she seriously needs a FB tutorial).

And I posted a very personal story at one of my very favorite support group sites for people from every possible walk of life: Band Back Together. (If you read this, please read ALL the comments to get clarification on a statement I make about cutting.)


Doc said...

I promise I will never touch your toothbrush or your pillow! EVER!

Atypical Scott said...

Ah, the throws of cuddling. A topic I am familiar with and abide by saying ass rubbing is totally an unspoken request for you to pony up the good stuff, and in return you get this awesome minute and a half (or however long it takes to pitch a tent) tush massage.

My wife loves a good ass rub, and I hate it with a kind of passion that only, oddly enough, Zoloft can suppress. I hate it, because I cannot escape touching her ass without also popping a rod into the crack of her ass-by mistake and proximity of said boner to said ass-which inflicts a comment that usually ends with some type of "fuck you then." or "fuck YOU then." depending on this ass being a request for comfort or one of sexual release.

Still with me? OK. A compromise for your consideration. A saintly sacrifice that starts in any other room than your own, which should leave Saint Jason's Johnson in a state of relaxation on the couch, while you crash into your pillow for, at least, an hour or so before the good saint realizes his place in the world and joins you in the bed.

On an unrelated note, the negative of flavored coffee, especially that which is not a brand, but rather the store knock-off, retains its smell long after its contents have been emptied from your favorite morning mug. Mine happens to be covered with smiley faces. It helps some with having to be here...slaving...and breaking all the rules by taking time form my workday and posting here.

Fickle Cattle said...

My boyfriend and I sleep as far away from each other as possible. We both like having our own space in the bed too.

DLK said...

Found you on Skirt - glad I did. I will be happy to follow you. You're too funny! Don't bother checking out my site, I pale in comparison!