There’s a good chance I could have been in jail right now.
I typically go to bed after 11:30pm, most times by 12. My brain shuts down around 10:30, so any choice I make after 10:30 should count as temporary insanity.
That time between 10:30 and whenever I fall asleep is when my worst choices are made: brownie eating, impulse buying, mouthing off to people on Twitter, skipping showers.
I’d like for this post to be used in my defense if I’m ever on the stand.
Last night was no different from any typical evening at MessyHouse. Patrick went to bed at 10, and I was up late “working” and watching Ice Road Truckers: Deadliest Roads. Even though I object to the shows featuring the IRT on non-ice roads, it’s still fun to see how many times the truck wheels can hang over a 1000-foot drop in South America to sure death if that pebble gives way.
By the time I made it to bed and watched a few minutes of Letterman, Patrick was fast asleep into his Ambien stupor. As per normal, he was snoring, but not loudly. The point when I start closing my eyes “just for the commercials” is when I turn off the TV, roll to my right, and gently nudge Patrick over to his side of our bed.
Next, forcefully nudging with a “roll over” whisper.
Then, jabbing in the ribs with a stern, “turn over.”
I think, maybe I can fall asleep, even with his pattern of throaty, nasal gargles.
Willing myself to sleep.
Really willing myself to sleep.
I roll over onto my left, how I normally pass into Dreamland, and in adjusting the cover, a waft of stale fart creeps into my face. I am displeased.
I roll back over, shove Patrick in the shoulder, raising my voice to say, “ROLL OVER ONTO YOUR PILLOW.”
Reaching up to to his unshaven face, I aim to turn his head to his right, hopefully stopping the rhythmic nasal chorus.
In that moment, I realize I can plug his nose and cover his mouth with one hand. In that second, it occurs to me that I could stop the snoring and fall asleep, all with one decision. It’s either smother him in his sleep or hope that creepy House Elf, Wilson, sits on his face and drops a deuce in his mouth.
Either option seems fine to me in that moment, because mama needs to get to her beauty sleep.
Luckily for Sane, Awake Me, I decided against 1st degree murder, physically rolled Patrick over onto his stomach, got out of bed, popped my Klonopin magic sleepy pills, and fell into a deep sleep of Dreamland where Dane Cook awaited my arrival into his bed.
And that’s how I discovered I have a “thing” for Dane Cook.
I’m blaming Patrick and the Klonopin.
image credit Dane Cook