Saturday, May 28, 2011

Predictability is Highly Overrated

I hate being...what is the word?...oh yes, predictable.  It's annoying and embarrassing; however, there is just no getting around it.  My body clock is set.  At 9:19pm at the sound of our local weatherman's voice, I'm done.  Kaput.  Finito.  The bummer here is that I specifically would like to hear what to expect for the next day's weather.  This is Colorado, folks.  There's no such thing as a seven day forecast in this state and more often than not, these specialists are hit and miss.  The rule is, and local friends feel free to chant out loud while you read this, if you don't like the weather in Colorado, wait ten minutes.  At any given moment it can be sunny and 70 degrees then a front will blow in from the north and we'll have snow flurries.

So I go to sleep at 9:19pm and wake up at 7:24am if and when I can sleep in without the dog slapping me in the face, having to make lunches, or listening to cartoons blaring.   Why 7:24am?  Why not 7:30am?  That's a nice round number.  7:24am - that's just weird - and when I roll over, look at the clock, consider the strangeness of it, and attempt to sleep in towards a nice round number, I end up making eye contact with my face slapping dog.  At this point it's all over.  He knows I'm awake.  If I even consider rolling over without dolling out his mandatory belly rub he'll walk on my head and start pulling at my hair with his teeth.  I love my dogs.  Have I mentioned they're spoiled rotten?

I bring this up because my husband and I, after close to sixteen years of marriage, really need to work on our timing.  I'm tremendously in love with my man; however, I don't feel as if I give him as much attention as he deserves (take this as you will).  Often times when I fall asleep we're still relaxing in our sitting room.  After he's finished watching the news he'll go through the evening routine of locking up the house, turning off the kids' stereos, and facing the daunting task of cajoling me into my PJs and bed.  Sometimes I've forgotten to give him his medicine shot.  Poor guy!  No wonder he has anxiety attacks.  He has to ask me to administer it to him in my sleepy, grumpy state.  Oh my!  He's lucky I don't stick him in the wrong end.

After all is said and done, and we're snuggling in bed, usually giggling (after sixteen years together, there's a heck of a lot to giggle about), we talk about our day, our kids, and our dreams.  At this point, things can go one way or the other.  Unfortunately for my dear one, it's usually well past 9:19pm if you catch my drift.  So last night Eric was sharing something with me.  Something is the key word here because he asked for my opinion.  This morning, all I remember about my "opinion" was that I told him "I don't like grapes in my salad".  I also recall, after apologizing profusely for missing the point, was that he laughed at me and told me we'd talk about it in the morning.  I sure hope it wasn't important.  Well, at least now, after all these years, grapes in a salad is no longer a mystery.  He'll know never to order me one. 

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