I drove six hours, one way, to Richmond, Virginia on Thursday after work. It was impeccable timing, seeing as how the cheapest gas I could find was over three freakin' dollars a gallon!
Can you say "price gouging"? I knew you could!
Not only that - but my mom went with me.
In a car.
With my mother.
"Lord help me be strong and fight the temptation to leave her at a travel plaza with nothing but her oversized beaded bag and her designer imposter eyewear."
We got there at a little past midnight - Harry came out to the car and our suitcases (mine was the size of Texas - but it was for FOUR DAYS - I needed lots of stuff for that amount of time...) and took them upstairs. Mom slept on the couch, Summer took the guest room and Harry and I slept in sis' room.
About three AM I woke up and turned over towards where my sleeping husband lay on his side. I reached over to lovingly stroke his back, I just missed him so much....
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaagh!" He screamed and pulled away from me like someone suffering from Battered Wife Syndrome. He almost fell off the other side of the bed - teetering like a deranged Weeble, stiff and tense and clutching on to his pillow for dear life while being - completely and soundlessly asleep.
"Well - Harry!" I said and then patted his butt. He snored and relaxed - but I couldn't help but wonder about my Homecoming and what was in store for me in the nights to come.
As usual, my assumptions were correct.
The next night we inadvertantly switched sides of the bed - which must be the only explanation for the events that happened soon after we went to sleep. I had just begun my dream about being Buffy the Vampire Slayer - when - all of a sudden, my pillows were ripped from underneath my head! My noggin' flopped against the mattress and I looked to the right just in time to see my dear husband folding my two pillows up under his chin, coupled with his two, he appeared to be sleeping soundly atop a large fluffy mountain. I stared at him and then did what any loving wife would do - I took ahold of the corner of the one nearest to me - and yanked with all my chubby might.
Needless to say I slept sans pillow that night.
Since I am in a state of Nocturnal Know-it-allness - I will share with you, you poor readers of my blog, the night I fondly call "The Ass of Fire." One frigid night in December, Harry stayed over at my apartment. Now, in those days of pre-marital copulation (yup - we did it - lots - now - moving ON....) we shared a twin bed. Lemmie put this in to a better mental picture for you - Harry - not a small guy - and me - NOT a small or medium girl - shared a TWIN bed. A tiny, not fit for anyone over the age of seven, TWIN bed. And Phoebe insisted on sleeping with us, too.
So, one night, we are sleeping when I hear a thud and then smell something burning. It's 2 AM so I just figure that Tiffany was up making herself something to eat - she worked odd hours and was always up doing something - I learned to ignore it. But the smell intensified. I finally looked up to see that Harry had fallen out of the bed and had landed with his boxer-clad ass against the space heater - STILL ASLEEP.
It was too cold for me to get out of my nice warm bed and assist him in his predicament - so I took to yelling at him in between my fits of laughter.
"HARRY! HARRY! HEY - YOUR ASS IS ON FIRE! HONEY -YOUR ASS - IS ON FIRE!"
He woke up, looked around in a confused stupor, glanced behind him and went, "oh."
Yeah. And he's ALL mine.....