September 21, 2010
I Have A Mother F-ing Ballerina and I’m Not Afraid To Use Her… AKA: If you’re thinking of burgling me, think again.
When The Hub is out of town I usually sleep like a dead person. I know, I know. Most people say stuff like “I slept like a baby” or “I slept like a log.” But if you ask me, neither one of those comparisons makes any sense. It has been my experience that since babies are pretty much selfish assholes with severe drinking problems, they don’t sleep. At all. Well, except if you drive them around, or carry them around, or push them around in a stroller, or give them Benadryl with a whiskey chaser, or change their pants and wipe their butts, or give them more to drink. It’s really alot like having an alcoholic incontinent paraplegic hobo living in your house. I would guess that it even kinda smells the same. And logs? They are hunks of wood that are used for fires, and as far as I know they don’t sleep so much as lay there being hunks of wood that are used for fires. And why would you want to sleep like a log anyway? The only possible outcome to that is waking up to find your wooden ass in some jerk’s campfire. Bad idea. So anyway, I prefer to say that I sleep like a dead person. That is much more accurate since I don’t really move much when I sleep, and as far as I know, dead people don’t move much either. Except for Zombies. But that’s a whole other story.
Since The Hub was out of town last night, I fully expected to do the super hard-core version of my dead person sleep. The super hard-core version only happens when I sleep alone and there’s nobody there to bother me with their tossing, turning, farting, snoring, Undiagnosed Except by Patti Restless Leg Syndrome, and various other sleep issues. I used to think that I had a severe bladder disease because I would get up a hundred times a night to go to the bathroom. I even went to the Dr. for it and he put a camera someplace where one should never have a camera put. Ever. And although he severely mutilated me and made me yell verbally abusive curses at both he and his old lady nurse, he never found a problem. Then The Hub started traveling on business, I got to sleep alone, and I realized that when I sleep alone, I lie down on my back and wake up on my back without even messing up the bed. I. Don’t. Move. The Hub’s business trips made me realize that my bladder is fine, but HE is a fidgety-make-my-wife-think-she’s-dying-of-bladder-cancer-so-she-has-to-get-a-camera-shoved-into-her-pee-pee-spot asshole. When The Hub is here his sleep jitters are waking me up and forcing me to think I have to pee a hundred times a night. And every time I get up to pee, I start thinking about something like aliens, ghosts, or zombies, and I can’t get back to sleep, because…..Hello! Somebody has to be on alert for that shit. I used to try to get back and forth from the bathroom with my eyes closed, thus tricking myself into thinking that I was still asleep, but then one night I almost peed on The Hub and that was the end of that. (Note: Men should not be allowed to sit down on the communal toilet at night, in the dark, because you will not see them there and you will pull down your pants and sit on their lap and freak both of you out like you’ve never been freaked out before. You’re welcome.)
So I thought I was gonna have the sleep of a lifetime last night, but I didn’t, due to the fact that I had -what I assume – were beer and Bunco-induced nightmares. Or my friend Stephanie may have slipped me some sort of roofie because she knew Steve was out of town and she was wanting to get a piece of my action. I don’t know all the details yet. But something happened. Anyway, I didn’t even get to sleep until midnight, then I woke up at 1:30 because I had a dream that I got a finger monkey that was trained to find bedbugs, but he kept eating them because according to National Geographic that is what monkeys do when they pick bugs off of something, and the ingested bugs turned finger monkey into some kind of finger monkey bug of death and I woke up in a sweat. Then, I had a nightmare that The Boy had caught a robber in his room and was beating him with a bat. That nightmare woke me up at 3:30, and I thought “It was just a dream” and I tried to go back to sleep. Then I thought “What if it isn’t a dream and The Boy is up there all alone and beating a robber to death? He’ll be scarred for life unless I dispose of the body and give him enough cough medicine so that he forgets everything that happened here tonight!” So I went upstairs armed with Nyquil and a tarp to check it out. With my ballerina statue as a weapon. Because she may look sweet but she could totally bash in your skull. Thankfully The Boy was asleep, although it looked like he’d been involved in some sort of scuffle because his sheets and pillows were on the floor. Even his fitted sheet. That kid is even more of a sleep-wiggler than his dad, so I will have to remember when he gets married to warn his wife that no, she doesn’t have bladder cancer, and yes, the Ford men are sleepy-time freaks.
Anyway, I went back to bed, but by that point I was awake enough to start thinking that my white noise machine was talking to me again. And I was hearing creaks and moans, otherwise known as: Holy crap balls…There is someone trying to get into my house! Since the alarm was on I assumed that nobody was inside the house…yet, but were possibly at the trying to get in stage. Although when I thought about it I realized I had hired a babysitter that night so I could go to Bunco, and it’s quite possible that she could have let in a burglar who was now hiding in my attic waiting to pounce on me if I went back to sleep. She seems like a nice girl, but teenagers will do lots of things that are crazy or just don’t make sense. It’s called hormones, people. So I decided to get back up and walk around the house a bit, just in case a burglar was watching, stopping every so often to do that amazing kick that Ralph Macchio did at the end of Karate Kid when he finally showed those Cobra-Kai assholes who was boss. And I would also pick up various household decorations (vases, statues, etc…) and swing them around to show that I had some bad-ass hitting-people-with-random-household-objects skillz. I talked to myself a lot too, because (a) Talking to yourself always makes you look crazy, (b) Crazy and scary are the same thing, and (c) I talk to myself all the time anyway, so I was really just doing it out of sheer habit. But I did talk more gangsta than usual, to, you know, show the would-be robbers I was not one to mess with. At all. I may not pop a cap in your ass, robbers, but I will smash a cute ballerina statue into your skull. Word.
|I realized today that the only bat we had in the entire house was this pathetic miniature one. I’m sure that would have done the burgular in good.|
P.S. The Hub is now back from his trip so if you were thinking about robbing and/or attacking me, you can forget it. Not that he could kick your butt or anything, but his annoying wiggling will keep me awake all night so me and my ballerina will be ready for your burglar ass.
P.P.S. I am fully aware that “word” doesn’t sound very gangsta, but the only gangsta-ish things I know how to say are “word,” “yo”, “fo shizzle,” and “Bring me a bottle of Cristal.” I did the best I could.
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