Wednesday, March 26, 2008

My Marital Spats Are Different Than Most

Every once in awhile, I fall asleep on the couch but wake up in bed, and Jeff assures me that the process of moving me from said couch to said bed is, to put it mildly, difficult. Apparently I bat him away, cling to lamps, wriggle and squirm, and generally make my body as heavy as possible as he attempts to drag me into the bedroom. What he didn't know -- until last night -- is that I sometimes fall asleep on the couch on purpose.

Last night, I thought Jeff was working in the study, so I turned off Letterman, tucked myself in with a blanket, nestled my head into the scrotum-like beanbag pillow that my Mom gave me for Christmas a few years back, and was reaching to turn off the light when Jeff wandered into the living room.

"Nope!" he cried, lunging towards me. "You can't sleep there. Up!"

"Nyargh!" I replied, pulling the blanket over my head.

"Get up, you little asshole!" He started pulling my feet off the couch.

At that point I was motivated solely by pride. "No, I like it here!" I feigned sleep, making elaborate snoring sounds.

And that is when my husband punched me in the ass.

Gently, but firmly, he was pushing me -- by the ass -- off the couch. It worked, too, because if someone grabs your arm you can pull it away, but when a foreign object is flying towards your ass you tend to get up.

(Note: Jeff wants it made very clear that he was not abusing me. Which is technically true, though interrupting sleep is very close to my definition of torture.)

Now, of course, Jeff has discovered my kryptonite, so my clandestine, on-purpose dozes are probably a thing of the past. At least I can thank God he didn't punch me in the boobs. It really hurts to be punched in the boobs.
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