I was laying in bed, nursing a headache and squeezing my eyes closed tightly in an effort to will sleep to come to me, but it didn't happen. So, per my usual, my insomnia has brought forth a craving to write.
I have a hard time understanding why I must continuously convince Gigi that naps are good and finally compromise that she doesn't have to sleep, just "rest." She usually ends up giving into to the snoozing gods anyway for a good two hours, while I am silently left bartering my first-born child in exchange for the opportunity for my own nap.
However, when the time comes for me to finally crawl into bed at the end of the day, I turn out the lights, rev up my humidifier, place my glass of water and chapstick nearby and wait....and wait...and wait. It seems odd to me on the nights that Pat is away, I tend to sleep restlessly, if at all. When he is home, it is a completely different story and by 10 o'clock on the dot, I am hit with a sledgehammer and out like a light. During times like this, when I am watching the hours melt away until I have to get up again, I try to sort out what exactly I am missing.
I certainly miss his company, but I do not miss his cover-stealing spread eagle spider monkey sleep habits. My big skinny man may appear to exude masculinity, but I am about to out him. He is a cuddle FREAK. When we intially turn out the lights, I enjoy some light spooning for about 5 minutes. I like feeling his warmth next to me, but it isn't too long before I need my space. But not Pat. Ohhh no, once he sticks himself to me, he leech-like ALL NIGHT LONG. Just the other night I recall waking up 3 times.
Time #1: I'm cold. Our bed is the host to a flat sheet, fleece blanket, and down comforter, but at 2am, there isn't a cover to be found. I decide I need to handle this problem with a bit of force based on its frequency, so I stand up, grab the edge of the covers and YANK them to my side. Somehow, to my horror, he comes with the covers and my next feat is to scoot him over, back to his side. I cross the room to his side of the bed and bend down. I try to coax him over with niceties but when he isn't responding to my cooing, I put my hands on my hips (Ashley pouting-pissy style) and yell his name. He jolts awake. Scoots. Problem solved.
Time #2: I'm f-a-l-l-i-n-g! What in the world?! I feel the edge of the bed getting closer and in my sleepy haste, I am frantically grasping at the night stand and my pillow. Apparently, my knight-in-shining-armor has felt the need to claim his territory and x-marks the spot! He is laying on his stomach in the shape of a perfect X. Now, if you will allow me to mentally illustrate this scene for you, I can be found folded in half, having been eaten by the outside portion of his X-clamation of space...
FINALLY, some sleep....
Time #3: It seems as though only mere minutes have passed since the previous debacles and already I find myself awake again. This time the culprit is my husband's effort at a lullaby for himself...snoring. I shove a hip in his direction. Nothing. In fact, its now louder. Okay, fine. I elbow him in his ribs, twice. Still nothing. I pull out my triple threat: hip-check, elbow, and yelling his name all at one time. His response: "What?! What's wrong, baby?" Me (through gritted teeth): "Puh-leese flip onto your side so you stop snoring." Pat: "Oh sure, I'm sorry honey." And so he does, right into a death-grip half nelson for me. But alas, I give in and close my eyes, a prisoner in my own bed.
Now, if you see my husband on the street and confront him about this situation, be assured, that he will deny it. He seems to think that his cuddling addiction is not transparent, but I beg of you...look through his pictures on Facebook and I promise that within the first 20, you will see him wrapped around someone or something...then, you will know the truth.
Apparently though, he is onto something; because as the minutes tick away now, my eyes are not becoming any heavier. I feel compelled to seek out late night episodes of Law and Order or scrounge for a snack. All the while, missing my spider monkey...
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Always Remember...
So, today is Valentine's Day. To many, February 14th represents a cliche Hallmark created holiday that causes single ladies to band together, frantic men scurrying off to the nearest Jewel or Dominick's, and the very rare couple that spends the day as an extra reason to show appreciation to each other. I feel lucky to say that I was in the last category and I spent my 1st married Valentine's Day celebrating with my husband and our friends.
Unfortunately, Februray 14th also strikes a large black mark through it's spot on the calendar. It is the 2 year anniversary of the tragic shooting that took six lives at Northern Illinois University. My alma mater. The events that took place that day are horrifying and it strikes a fear in what is familiar. NIU is where I spent the best four years of my life, I met my best friends, and I grew up. Cole Hall was the large lecture auditorium where it was easier to catch a nap or gossip about the weekend rather than pay attention to your professor, and now it will forever be known as a place of terror.
To me, this is heartbreaking. A friend of mine on Facebook said it best when she said, "Our connection to the school and each other really means something to each of us, and it doesn't falter with tragedy or time." The emotion that it conjurs up in each of us as we solmenly change our pictures to the faithful Husky adorned with a black ribbon to remember is an act of unification. Each of us spent our days at NIU differently, but we still all hold a certain affection for our school; particularly on this day when we remember those that were lost.
I was not an undergraduate student at Northern when the shooting occurred. But I was back on campus twice a week for a graduate English class on days that sandwiched that fateful day. When I came to campus when it re-opened it was as though a silence had fallen over our town. There were counselors, and tears, and memorials. In fact, I've still kept the Northern Star, NIU's newspaper, which offered textual support and reassurance that the Huskies could rise above. It solidified my feelings of loyalty and pride in my college and I didn't feel like a stranger in the sea of devestated strangers, everyone was one.
Violence against one another has become an epidemic and it is sickening to me. You feel sad when you hear about it hear about its spread throughout the country, but the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming when it hits so close to home. So today, I reserve a special place in my heart for my school and those who's lives were lost. I also feel appreciative of what life represents and that I am given me another day to kiss my husband goodnight and feel thankful that I have him.
Unfortunately, Februray 14th also strikes a large black mark through it's spot on the calendar. It is the 2 year anniversary of the tragic shooting that took six lives at Northern Illinois University. My alma mater. The events that took place that day are horrifying and it strikes a fear in what is familiar. NIU is where I spent the best four years of my life, I met my best friends, and I grew up. Cole Hall was the large lecture auditorium where it was easier to catch a nap or gossip about the weekend rather than pay attention to your professor, and now it will forever be known as a place of terror.
To me, this is heartbreaking. A friend of mine on Facebook said it best when she said, "Our connection to the school and each other really means something to each of us, and it doesn't falter with tragedy or time." The emotion that it conjurs up in each of us as we solmenly change our pictures to the faithful Husky adorned with a black ribbon to remember is an act of unification. Each of us spent our days at NIU differently, but we still all hold a certain affection for our school; particularly on this day when we remember those that were lost.
I was not an undergraduate student at Northern when the shooting occurred. But I was back on campus twice a week for a graduate English class on days that sandwiched that fateful day. When I came to campus when it re-opened it was as though a silence had fallen over our town. There were counselors, and tears, and memorials. In fact, I've still kept the Northern Star, NIU's newspaper, which offered textual support and reassurance that the Huskies could rise above. It solidified my feelings of loyalty and pride in my college and I didn't feel like a stranger in the sea of devestated strangers, everyone was one.
Violence against one another has become an epidemic and it is sickening to me. You feel sad when you hear about it hear about its spread throughout the country, but the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming when it hits so close to home. So today, I reserve a special place in my heart for my school and those who's lives were lost. I also feel appreciative of what life represents and that I am given me another day to kiss my husband goodnight and feel thankful that I have him.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Over Here, Over There, Oh LOOK! There is Ashley in her underwear!
If you are under 18, turn-around and leave.
If you are faint of heart, find another blog.
If you are newly-related to me, proceed with caution.
This post will prove to be a touch risque. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to take my blog into a vulgar direction, but this story I am about to tell you is actually hysterical and I, myself, will be laughing as I type it.
This is your last chance to turn-around....
SERIOUSLY....
So, as many of you are aware, my husband travels frequently for his job. He is away for days at a time and toward the end of each trip, we are both happy to have him back at home.
Well, at the close of one trip, many many moons ago in January, I decided to plan a special evening for him. I was scheduled to pick him up at the airport around 9:00pm, so I spent the better half of 3 hours primping and preparing myself. I'm not sure exactly what got into me, but I decided to be playful and shock the socks of him when I picked him up.
It was nearing the time in which I had to begin my trek to O'hare, so I slithered on a pair of fishnet stockings that paired perfectly with some carefully chosen lingerie. I shook out my sex-vixen barrel curls, spritzed on some perfume, stepped into my high-heeled tall black boots, and cinched my trench coat. I was ready to go. (This may all sound cliche to you, but that is exactly what I was going for).
I raced down the three flights of stairs and into my car, eager to get to the airport and gauge Patrick's reaction. I sent a text message to my 4 college girlfriends (whom will be referred to as, "THE GIRLS," from here on out), giving them a hint of my quest and telling them to pray that I did not ironically end up stranded on the side of the road. I received electronics giggles and well-wishes in response as I merged onto I-90.
BAH-BUMP-BAH-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP!!!!
Not even 1 minute later, I hit a pot-hole and my tire was down for the count!! Naturally, I am panicked and shouting a slew of curse words that would make my grandma blush. In this moment, I truly did not know how I was going to fix my tire, but, what I did know is that I was NOT getting stuck on the side of Chicago's busiest tollway at 9 o'clock at night in my lacy skivvies. I can only imagine the disbelief of a police officer pulling over to help me as I frantically explain that I was not headed to work my night job....
Nope, not. going. to. happen. So, I put on my flashers and I drive 20 mph with cars whizzing past me. I bump, bump, bump down the interstate with an air of determination. I can feel the pull of my tire as I'm certainly crushing my rim at this point, but I only have to make it 4 miles. And, I did. As I'm sitting at a stoplight at the bottom of the off-ramp, wating to turn into a store parking lot, a lady in the car next to me is waving her arms around and pointing at my tire. I politely acknowledge her and then sever any further eye contact.
Eventually, I make it to a parking lot but amidst many of the obvious problems in this situation, Patrick still needs a ride home. So, I sheepishly call him, give him my location, and tell him that I have a flat. He, as any protective man would do, offers to call his dad to come assist me until he can get there. I practically scream that I don't think its a good idea. His response? "Why, what are you, naked???" Oh, for the love of all things Holy, YES! The jig is up. I had to give myself away because at this point, I'm not calling Triple A, I do not need my future father-in-law to witness this pathetic scene, and I don't think my fishnets offer much by the way of cushioning for me to change my own flat tire in the snow. We settle on that fact that I still sit tight and await his arrival in a cab.
In the meantime, I call my mom. She doesn't answer. So, I call again.
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Hey mom. Whatcha doin?"
Mom: "In the car with your dad, Aunt Brenda, and Uncle Rod. We just had dinner, now headed for a drink."
Me: "Oh neat. I have a flat tire."
Mom: "Are you ok? Did you call someone?"
Me: "Yea. Pat is on his way. Oh, by the way, I'm in my underwear. The fancy kind."
Mom: "Wait, what?"
Me: "Yes, you heard me."
Mom: SILENCE
Mom: long, loud, laughter and her telling my aunt, uncle, and dad the story!
I know your jaws have all hit the floor in shock that A. I told my mom and B. She told my dad. Well, you'd have to know us, but we're that kind of family; hence, her laughter. My dad made some comment in the background about not getting out otherwise my butt cheeks might get frost bite and atleast I left the house wearing clean underwear. At this point, I had to hang up, there was not much left to chat about.
Finally, Patrick arrives and practically has to shoo the courteous cab driver away as he offers to help. Pat opens the door, puts his suitcase inside and just looks at me. I'm still wearing my coat and he catches a glimpse of the fishnets and starts laughing. I glare at him and he proceeds to change the tire.
After all of that drama, we were on our way home within 15 minutes. Pat was driving and he reaches over to put his hand on my knee and I glare at him again, then yank it away. I had temporarily lost the humor of the situation and I didn't find it again until I was at home, warm, and wearing sweat pants.....
I learned a lot that night. I most certainly don't send text messages to my friends that are certain to doom me into jinxing myself incase I do decide to try it again... ;)
If you are faint of heart, find another blog.
If you are newly-related to me, proceed with caution.
This post will prove to be a touch risque. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to take my blog into a vulgar direction, but this story I am about to tell you is actually hysterical and I, myself, will be laughing as I type it.
This is your last chance to turn-around....
SERIOUSLY....
So, as many of you are aware, my husband travels frequently for his job. He is away for days at a time and toward the end of each trip, we are both happy to have him back at home.
Well, at the close of one trip, many many moons ago in January, I decided to plan a special evening for him. I was scheduled to pick him up at the airport around 9:00pm, so I spent the better half of 3 hours primping and preparing myself. I'm not sure exactly what got into me, but I decided to be playful and shock the socks of him when I picked him up.
It was nearing the time in which I had to begin my trek to O'hare, so I slithered on a pair of fishnet stockings that paired perfectly with some carefully chosen lingerie. I shook out my sex-vixen barrel curls, spritzed on some perfume, stepped into my high-heeled tall black boots, and cinched my trench coat. I was ready to go. (This may all sound cliche to you, but that is exactly what I was going for).
I raced down the three flights of stairs and into my car, eager to get to the airport and gauge Patrick's reaction. I sent a text message to my 4 college girlfriends (whom will be referred to as, "THE GIRLS," from here on out), giving them a hint of my quest and telling them to pray that I did not ironically end up stranded on the side of the road. I received electronics giggles and well-wishes in response as I merged onto I-90.
BAH-BUMP-BAH-BUMP-BUMP-BUMP!!!!
Not even 1 minute later, I hit a pot-hole and my tire was down for the count!! Naturally, I am panicked and shouting a slew of curse words that would make my grandma blush. In this moment, I truly did not know how I was going to fix my tire, but, what I did know is that I was NOT getting stuck on the side of Chicago's busiest tollway at 9 o'clock at night in my lacy skivvies. I can only imagine the disbelief of a police officer pulling over to help me as I frantically explain that I was not headed to work my night job....
Nope, not. going. to. happen. So, I put on my flashers and I drive 20 mph with cars whizzing past me. I bump, bump, bump down the interstate with an air of determination. I can feel the pull of my tire as I'm certainly crushing my rim at this point, but I only have to make it 4 miles. And, I did. As I'm sitting at a stoplight at the bottom of the off-ramp, wating to turn into a store parking lot, a lady in the car next to me is waving her arms around and pointing at my tire. I politely acknowledge her and then sever any further eye contact.
Eventually, I make it to a parking lot but amidst many of the obvious problems in this situation, Patrick still needs a ride home. So, I sheepishly call him, give him my location, and tell him that I have a flat. He, as any protective man would do, offers to call his dad to come assist me until he can get there. I practically scream that I don't think its a good idea. His response? "Why, what are you, naked???" Oh, for the love of all things Holy, YES! The jig is up. I had to give myself away because at this point, I'm not calling Triple A, I do not need my future father-in-law to witness this pathetic scene, and I don't think my fishnets offer much by the way of cushioning for me to change my own flat tire in the snow. We settle on that fact that I still sit tight and await his arrival in a cab.
In the meantime, I call my mom. She doesn't answer. So, I call again.
Mom: "Hello?"
Me: "Hey mom. Whatcha doin?"
Mom: "In the car with your dad, Aunt Brenda, and Uncle Rod. We just had dinner, now headed for a drink."
Me: "Oh neat. I have a flat tire."
Mom: "Are you ok? Did you call someone?"
Me: "Yea. Pat is on his way. Oh, by the way, I'm in my underwear. The fancy kind."
Mom: "Wait, what?"
Me: "Yes, you heard me."
Mom: SILENCE
Mom: long, loud, laughter and her telling my aunt, uncle, and dad the story!
I know your jaws have all hit the floor in shock that A. I told my mom and B. She told my dad. Well, you'd have to know us, but we're that kind of family; hence, her laughter. My dad made some comment in the background about not getting out otherwise my butt cheeks might get frost bite and atleast I left the house wearing clean underwear. At this point, I had to hang up, there was not much left to chat about.
Finally, Patrick arrives and practically has to shoo the courteous cab driver away as he offers to help. Pat opens the door, puts his suitcase inside and just looks at me. I'm still wearing my coat and he catches a glimpse of the fishnets and starts laughing. I glare at him and he proceeds to change the tire.
After all of that drama, we were on our way home within 15 minutes. Pat was driving and he reaches over to put his hand on my knee and I glare at him again, then yank it away. I had temporarily lost the humor of the situation and I didn't find it again until I was at home, warm, and wearing sweat pants.....
I learned a lot that night. I most certainly don't send text messages to my friends that are certain to doom me into jinxing myself incase I do decide to try it again... ;)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
