I’m not feeling terribly well today. My belly hurts. In fact, it feels like someone filled my intestines with Mentos and Diet Coke. I’ll just let you enjoy that visual for a moment. Some days I wouldn’t mind going through menopause again.
You know what else hurts? My face – thanks to my dear husband’s elbow.
My husband has taken to voguing in his sleep. When I got up to pee around 2am last night, he had made a tent with his knees and then rested his hands on his raised legs. Just as I as about to smack him for being ridiculous, he pursed his lips into a little pout. I swear, although he was still lying horizontal in the bed, he had somehow managed to channel his inner Marilyn Monroe and re-enact that heating grate photo.
His other favorite pose is very complicated. First he twists his torso in a Bollywood beckoning kind of way. Then he kicks up one leg as though he’s some blond bombshell on the receiving end of a Dean Martin smooch. While cradling the back of his head in his hands, he lets his arms fall open like butterfly’s wings…if butterfly wings had hard pointy bones covered in rough scaly flesh, that is.
This pose always involves some sort of major trauma to my face. Usually I get struck in the striking of said pose. Fortunately for me, Rocco has a flair for the dramatic. So he swings his arm in a slow graceful arc, minimizing the momentum behind his elbow’s impact with my sinus cavity.
The real problems arise when the pose is already in place, the elbow quietly laying in wait. Then I, flopping with wild abandon, inevitable roll onto my side and impale my face on his elbow. Fucker.
…and then we’re both crabby. We’re both sleep deprived as a result of the fracas and I’ve usually got a black eye or other sexy bruising. Poor Rocco gets the worst of it though. The boy has to listen to me yell while he tries to pull himself back to reality after he’s spent the night parading about in an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini on a secluded beach while Jorge Posada and Derek Jeter shower him with affection.
I really like sleep. I do not react well to interruptions. I’ve had my peaceful slumber disturbed in many ways: blaring alarm clocks, fire trucks responding to the gas leak across the street, the cat hacking up a hairball on my pillow, a drunk neighbor screaming as she topples down a flight of stairs, a strange man giggling at the foot of my bed. I prefer them all over the elbow to the face (ok you’re right, the cat puke one is worse).
I’m going back to bed now.