Castles with Axles

It didn't occur to me that the mode of abode for most of my young life might have been atypical, déclassé, or second-rate.   I never gave it much thought.  Call it what you will: mobile home, manufactured home, prefabricated house…it was always simply a “trailer” to me.  When I was in third grade, my family moved from a rent house into a brand-spanking new trailer.  And it was so cool. 

It was the early 70s, and bold earth-tones dominated middle-class style.  The aluminum siding on the trailer was white, with brown and orange shutters and trim.  Inside, shag carpeting moved like fire, all over the floors in vibrant orange, gold, and brown, save for the slightly-elevated floor of the kitchen, which denied the flame with its mushroom-brown surface.

Plus, the house came with its own groovy-cool furniture: two swivel-rockers covered in saffron crushed-velvet accented with white buttons, a matching headboard for my parent’s king-sized bed, and harvest-gold kitchen appliances in stark relief against pearly-white cabinets.  I immediately fell in love with the place. 

During my time in our trailer, I experienced some of the most lasting memories of my childhood:

·        Producing, directing, and starring in plays and musicals in our backyard (yes, I was, and am, just that gay)

·        Watching my mom’s fish give birth to speck-sized guppies in our large tank on the kitchen bar

·        Helping my dad build a plywood shed for our riding mowers

·        “Playing sick” on winter mornings by placing a thermometer on the floor heater vents, so I could cut class and watch TV gameshows all day

·        Spinning for endless hours on the candy-apple red merry-go-round that my dad built for us

·        Playing baseball with my buddies so late in evening that pitches became bruise-inflicting grenades in the disappearing sunlight  

·        Calming my sister, who would wake me in the middle of stormy nights, asking, “Hey…do you hear a train?”  She thought that sound was a tornado’s voice, and firmly believed that mobile homes were twister-magnets.

·        Proving my theory that Santa was a big hoax by silently observing my dad putting presents under the tree in the wee hours of Christmas morning

We moved from the trailer when I was in eighth grade, and as happy as I was to move into the trailer, I was just as happy to move out of it, and into our new ranch-style house in the adjoining lot.  My honeymoon with the trailer was over, I had the five-year itch, and the grass, which was only 300 feet away, looked so much greener.

My grandparents moved into the trailer, so I visited often.  But it was no longer my trailer.  I’d moved up in the world, and my love affair with the trailer was over.  My grandmother passed away while she still lived there.  And my grandfather lived there as long as he could, before his move to assisted-living, due to the debilitating dementia of Alzheimer’s. 

I would live in a trailer once more in my life.  Shortly after I was married, my wife and I bought a mobile home from my aunt.  The home was across the way from my parents’ house and, as a result, my old trailer, as well.  It was comforting to see my two former cribs from my new bedroom window.

When my marriage ended, I got custody of my new trailer.  When I decided to move to Houston, I toyed with the idea of transporting the mobile home to a trailer park in the city.  But then, my city friends told me that trailer parks in the city were not lower-middle class; most parks were upper-lower class at best.  So I sold my trailer to my sister, and she became a Louisiana landlord.  Parting with the new trailer was not difficult.  It hadn't been my first love.

All these memory bubbles came up when my husband mentioned an interview that he heard on NPR with a county music singer-songwriter, Kacey Musgraves.  Musgraves is a young, but wise, artist.  Her major-label debut was released earlier this month.  And it’s full of musings on everyday life in the lower middle-class of rural-suburbia.  The name of the disc?  “Same Trailer, Different Park” 

Before hearing the music, I thought that I’d never miss my old trailer.  A sincere thank-you, Kacey, for proving me wrong.

As Innocent As I Can Get

Since Labor Day was last week, today was a double-dip Monday.  It was like the extra scoop of Rocky Road that you really didn’t want and certainly didn’t need.  Ok, ice cream is probably a bad analogy.  But Rocky Road…nail on the head, folks.  Nail. On. The. Head.

After I arrived home and wolfed down the tasty pizza that my husband made for me (complete with the black olives and the mushrooms, which he both loathes), I went immediately to the piano.

I noodled around in Burgmuller’s Opus 100 (which is basically a beginner’s book for classical music aficionados), and finally set myself to work on “Innocence,” the number five piece.  I kept having a tough time getting it right.  My electronic keyboard has various voice settings, so after starting in “Grand Piano,”

 

I always laugh at myself, when I make mistakes

My piano teacher is very familiar with the sound of my laughter

 

I worked my way through:

·         Electric Piano (better suited for A Flock of Seagulls than Burgmuller)

·         Strings (too saccharine, even for a interpretation of innocence)

·        Church Organ (raised as a good Southern Baptist boy, I almost pulled this off, but the resonance in our music room,...ok...our dining room..., was a bit overwhelming)

·        Harpsichord (brutal in showing all the flaws of my technique – or altogether lack thereof)

I finally landed on “Vibraphone,” the last setting on my piano.   The sound was warm, soothing, and very forgiving of my uneven tempo, my occasional botched notes, my disregard for dynamics, and my clunky runs.

After a Rocky-Road Monday, I needed a bit of mercy and a lot of goofing around on the ivories.

 

 

A bit better.

You'll notice how I immediately pull my hands from the keyboard.

This way, I can guarantee there will be no additional mistakes.

 

(Special thanks to my cinematographing better-half - somehow he always hears beautiful music coming from my keyboard.  And that's only one reason that he's my husband).

 

Man...I hope my piano teacher doesn't see this post.

Labor Day. Yeah, Well…I Did.

On Labor Day this year, the GOP House Majority Leader, Eric Cantor, posted a statement on Twitter praising entrepreneurs, and downplaying the importance of our United States labor force.  Makes perfect sense to me.  I do not own my own business; therefore, I ended up working all weekend.

With many of my projects at work wrapping up at the beginning of the 4^th quarter, I’ve had competing priorities without a clue on how to decide what takes priority.  So, when many of my gay brothers were spending the weekend partying it up at Southern Decadence in New Orleans or sunning themselves at Last Splash at Hippie Hollow near Austin, I found myself in the office or both Saturday and Sunday.  Additionally, when I left the office on Sunday, I brought my laptop home so I could work Monday as well.

If I’d only taken better notes or paid better attention to my professors in business school, maybe I’d be running my own empire.  And I would imagine that, as a business owner, I still would have worked the weekend.  Running your own business is a tough job.  As a child, I watched as my enterprising father run businesses simultaneously.  Well, I caught sight of him occasionally; the man was busy. 

In addition to doing my day-job work each day of the holiday weekend, I went to my piano lesson (it’s an effort, people, albeit an enjoyable one), I did my yard work (I’m the rare Houstonian who knows how to push a lawnmower around his own parcel of land), I bathed the dogs (you can read what a chore this is here), I cleaned the litter box (yes, I’m a servant to my animals).

If I examine the amount of time that I spent on the activities mentioned in the preceding paragraph, maybe I did have a sufficient holiday. 

·         My piano lesson?  Typically, after practicing for an hour each day, I tend to make the same mistakes over and again at my teacher’s piano, laughing at myself as I play.  But there is that moment of zen, when all falls in place, and I perfectly play a passage that had given me the devil for weeks.  It surprises me, although my teacher says, matter-of-factly and with a smile, “You worked it out.”  Ok, so maybe it’s not work.

·         The yard work?  I watched my grandfather do his own lawn up until the time that his vision prevented him from seeing well enough.  I feel connected to him as I push my mower around the yard.  I plug in my headphone, put some rock music on, and the whole task seems like it’s over in minutes.  (But why does my iPod always offer me “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas?  It’s a pretty, but disheartening song.  I really need to remove it)

·         Bathing the dogs?  They smell so great afterwards.  ‘Nuff said.

·         Cleaning out the litter pan?   Oddly enough, the cats act grateful.  (I mean, who wouldn’t be happy if someone came in to clean your bathroom?)

 

But I am left wondering how Eric spent his weekend?  Given the perks and privileges offered to a high-rolling politician,  I’m guessing that his was not remotely like mine. 

 

"Once Upon A Time, George and Weezie Moved to a Deluxe Apartment in the Sky"

I woke this morning in time, barely.  7:55 AM.  As I threw back the covers and took my initial stand, The Man was already beckoning “CBS Sunday Morning is about to come on.”

The Man…oh, The Man.  How he’s changed my life in so many wonderfully expansive ways.  And one particular not-so-wonderfully-expansive way.  Re-introducing Cable TV into my world. 

It’d been years since I enjoyed Cable TV.  I haven’t watched much TV as an adult, mostly because I had pigged out on every 60s & 70s sitcom available in my youth.  You name it; I watched it. The Jeffersons, Gilligan’s Island, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, Good Times, The Facts of Life, Diff’rent Strokes, etc., etc., etc.  I can remember sitting on the floor with my back against my parent’s bed, door closed, watching One Day at a Time and smoking cigarettes. (My parents both smoked, so their bedroom smelled like a pool hall anyways.)

At any rate, I did get hooked on CBS Sunday Morning.  It’s my kind of weekend morning news program; no pieces too incendiary to blow the Hell out of my mood on my (Christian-upbringing) pre-designated day of rest.  So I settled into one of the orange living room chairs to enjoy the show.

And my mood was blown to Hell.  At the top of each episode, Charles Osgood offers the “serious news.”  He could have kept it to himself today.  Washington fighting over the debt crisis (still) and tax reform.  A national sales tax?!  Really?!  Great, U.S. government, infringe on the method in which many states and municipalities fund their own governing bodies.  I was outraged.  I settled down rather quickly (I always do).

What followed was:

• A wonderful story about a young woman, who started a school in Georgia.  The academy teaches refugee children who have settled with their families in this small rural town.  Heartwarming and inspiring.
• A fascinating story on Clive Davis, and his influence and success in popular music.  I’m wild about music, so this story was especially enjoyable.
• A thought-provoking, but characteristically-acerbic commentary by Nancy Giles.  This little rant focused on excessive bank fees. Of course, she mentioned my mortgage holder – the granddaddy of all evil financial institutions – Bank of America.  Again…look at me, outraged. 
• A segment on some surfer.  Whee. 
•  A piece on Martin Sheen.  Perfect for a Sunday Morning actor feature.  Martin Sheen is like a tepid oatmeal breakfast.  Filling, but not tasty.  (For my morning meal?  No oatmeal.  Over-hard eggs and grape-jellied toast, courtesy of The Man.)

The episode wrapped up with the customary nature scene:  this one from the Tennessee/North Carolina region.  Lots of beautiful fall foliage.  Gorgeous waterfalls.  Open fields with tall wheat-colored grass.  Elk and turkey grazing around.  Having recently chosen a vegetarian lifestyle, all I could think was “I hope that is a wildlife preserve, or someone is gonna slaughter those animals.”

Next up…Face the Nation.  This is the part where I rather go kill bandits and monsters in my computer game or go play the piano.  But I stuck it out.  Mainly because Michelle Bachmann and Rick Santorum were going to be featured.  The Man asked, “Can we turn this off?”

“Oh, no.  I want to hear what these two say…’Know your enemy,’ right?”

As I expected, they laid all the blame for the recent warfare directly at the feet of Obama.  Hmm.  Didn’t our government originally take a warrior’s stance when George W. Bush was in office?  Hmm.  I honestly did enjoy the foolish rhetoric of Michelle and Rick. 

Then Joel Osteen with the Lakewood Church came on.  I didn’t feel like hearing platitudes (well, actually I never do…), so The Man suggested a bio-piece on Benjamin Franklin.  It was engrossing, but an hour in, when the program hadn’t yet reached the American Revolution period, I asked The Man how long the show lasted.  Two hours?  Interesting show, but I couldn’t devote another hour of my precious time. 

So what’d I do instead?  Nap.

After an afternoon of vacuuming, practicing piano, going to my piano lesson and ironing this week’s clothes, I made the mistake of turning on the TV.  And promptly got dragged into a new show, “Once Upon A Time.”  Great…I already have a weakness for fairy tales (I’ve mentioned it before – yes, I’m gay).  I watched the whole damn show.  And it sucked!  Well, I mean that it sucked a whole hour from my life.  

I know that I’ll be sitting in front of our TV next Sunday at 7:00 PM. 

Shit.

Finally!

At last, it's raining in Houston!  I don't mean to be so excited about it, but it's been a long dry spell.  The last good rain that I can remember fell in late June.  We've had a couple of showers in the interim, but nothing like the past couple of days.  I even stood shirtless in the driveway last night, just to feel the cool wet drops on my skin.

Given my cafeteria view of religion, I'm left wondering who to thank for the rain:  I'm left with thanking God (my Christian beliefs), or thanking the Universe (my Buddhist beliefs) or thanking the Moon and the stars (my belief in Astrology).  OK...so it's a gumbo of beliefs, I'll agree.

If I followed my husband's beliefs as a chaos-theorist atheist, I would be left without being able to thank anyone.  You have to admit that it's kinda nice to just be grateful, period; without having to be caught up in thanking anything but nature.

Regardless, I say "Thank you, God," "Thank you, Universe," "Thank you, Moon and stars."

Thank you all for ending that damn drought.  Keep up the good work.

Hey...It's My Castle...

It’s bone dry in Houston with no end in sight.

 

I was outside watering our front yard oak this evening.  The Man and I had seen quite a few trees in our neighborhood dropping large limbs onto lawns, and worse, onto roofs.  I like our shady tree a lot and don’t want to see it turn on us out of neglect.

Seeing that outdoor maintenance and yard work is my responsibility (The Man does most all of the indoor work: cleaning, cooking, laundry), I am the one to face the brutal Texas heat.  This year I have been exceptionally lazy with it.  The lawn gets no moisture outside of the monthly shower; therefore, the grass is a lovely shade of taupe.  Our dogs have thoroughly trampled any semblance of greenery in the back yard.  It seems as if most of my neighbors are taking the same course, letting the weeds grow in hopes that those will at least protect the topsoil.  But fighting an uphill battle, the brown lawns and the casualties of the flower beds show that we’ve all given up the war on the drought.

A nice surprise that greeting me this evening?  The soil is separating from the foundation of our house, in some sections as much as three or four inches.  It’s like the ground is saying to the structure, “I'm outta here!”  Our house had started its own complaining; doors that suddenly refuse to shut, bathroom tiles that decide they want nothing to do with one another, new cracks in the drywall smiling malevolently down at us from the corners of rooms.

Our little cookie-cutter house in decidedly greener times

The whole situation just got me thinking.  If you let the foundation of your life drift: your beliefs, your friends, your family, your fun, your livelihood, you might get a rude shock.  Suddenly your home, your base, your world may completely come apart.

Life in south Texas has its challenges – drought, hurricanes, fire ants.  We don’t have the challenges of other locales – tornados, earthquakes, blizzards.  Everyone has their own environmental demon to face.  The Man and I will get some soaker hoses this coming weekend to help secure the clay-based terra to the base of our dwelling.   However humble, our house is our home.  We are a bit crazy in love with our little fortress. 

For the Love of Wet Dogs

Tonight was bath-night at our house.  No, not for me.  I take a shower each morning, thank you.  Tonight's spa treatment was reserved for our two dogs.

This event does not happen as often as it should, by my measure.  But I'll explain why.  Our dogs live indoors.  They visit the backyard a few times throughout the day, but since Luke has to be around The Man and me, and since Casper has to be in Luke's company, they do not stay outside very long.  If it were up to Casper, they would live outdoors.  It's not up to Casper, it's up to me.  I'm Alpha here.

Another reason the dogs do not get bathed very often ... the whole process wears me out.  Well, mainly Luke wears me out on bath night.

Here's how it usually goes:

• I start preparing the bathroom; getting towels, dog shampoo, opening the shower curtain wide.  M'aiq comes in snooping around and purring, wondering what the big deal is.  The dogs catch wind that something is up and run to the bathroom, just up to the door, no further.  M'aiq makes a frantic run from all the ruckus.
• Ophelia, from her vantage point on the bed, acts interested ... for a minute.  Then she goes back to napping
• I call Luke first.  Since he is the biggest challenge, I like to get his bath over with first.  Of course, he comes, but only to the door.  Then Casper runs in, at which point Luke decides to join him.  I usher Casper out, and Luke rapidly follows before I can close the door behind him.  This goes on about ten times until I have to get Luke by the collar and lead him into the bathroom.  This happens every time.  I'll learn one day.
• I fight Luke the entire time in the shower.  He is a mass of solid bulk and muscle.  No matter how many times I tell him "It's all right" and "Good Boy," my assurances are useless.  He is convinced that he will be killed in this process and resists accordingly
• Finally he is done, and I dry him the best I can.  He's not very patient with this either.  I get him half-way toweled-off, at which point he breaks free and shakes water all over my bathroom.  A mountain of thick black and white hair is clogging the shower drain.
• Casper's up next.  He comes with no dragging.  Luke has headed for the kitchen, the farthermost spot away from my bathroom.
• Casper steps into the shower with just my telling him to.
• He stands motionlessly while I bathe him.
• He stands completely still while I dry him entirely
• Casper free, both he and Luke run wildly all over the house.  Apparently the aftermath of the bathing is quite exhilarating, although they both acted as if they were going to the guillotine when entering the shower.    

They say when something has a bad scent that it smells like a wet dog.  Both of my dogs are wet now, and they smell wonderful.

Casper continuing to sit perfectly still while I shoot his photo

At this moment, Casper is lying by my desk licking himself dry(?)  Luke's hanging out with The Man in the living room, away from me and the imagined danger of an impending revisit to my bathroom.  Completely exhausted, I'll probably hit the hay early.

Luke refusing to sit, still too excited

The Promise of Nothing, or “Me vs. My Plum Tree”

About six weeks ago, I took the following photo of the plum tree in our backyard:

As you can see, the small tree was crazy with tiny flowers.  In the weeks to come, I expected that at least a couple of plums would form and reach a light-green shade before the birds or the squirrels took them.  But yesterday when I was mowing, I checked the progress:  after all those blossoms, nothing. 

I wasn’t aggravated.  Outside of the jelly made from the fruit, I’m not much of a plum fan anyway.  But still… 

I’d predicted the outcome when I initially took the photo and remarked to friends that the tree was just showing off and trying to fool me.  Yesterday, I sighed when I saw the tree bare of fruit.  Then inexplicably, I imagined a conversation between me and the tree:

Me:  You did it to me again.

Tree:  I’m not sure why you are bothered.  You don’t like my fruit anyhow.

Me:  I might eat one if you’d just produce

Tree:  You didn’t plant me, you know.  I was here before you were.

Me:  I understand that.  I wouldn’t have planted a plum tree.  I would have went with a lemon tree

Tree:  No need to be bitter…

Me:  Ha, ha.

Tree:  You do realize that you’re talking to a tree, right?

Me:  Yes.  I’m tree-lingual.

Tree:  OK, I got in a bad one.  You got in a bad one.  We’re even.

Me:  Yep.  Well, I should get back to mowing.

Tree:  If you want to visit again, you know where I’ll be.

Me:  Sure.

Tree:  Oh, by the way.  My blossoms weren’t a guarantee of fruit.

Me:  Yes, I realize that.

Tree:  You don’t really want plums.  Did you enjoy the flowers?

Me:  Well…yes.  They were quite pretty.

Tree:  Thanks.  I’ll do it again for you next year.

The tree had not promised anything (I’ve been living in the house for six years and have yet to harvest a plum).  My own expectation at the appearance of the blossoms was the root of my disappointment. 

In getting to a deeper meaning, people in our lives offer the best that they have to give.  And in that giving, they may best know what we’ll enjoy most.  And the beauty in that is invaluable.

M’aiq Is From Mars; Ophelia is From Venus

I have never read the book, but about fifteen years ago Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus was published.   I do know that the book spoke on how we Earthlings are expected to feel and act according to our gender.  The ideas presented in the book created a bit of a craze, the theories that illustrated some of the differences between how men and women operate:  men are about abilities and working alone, while women are about feelings and co-operating.  People latched a hold to the ideas and ran with them.

 

The Man and I have four pets (pretty crazy, I know).  Even crazier … I had all four pets before he entered my life.  And when the invitation was extended,he decided to move in with me, regardless, … really.  Even with all my ‘indoor’ animals.  Amazing.

All six of us live pretty well together, even though we all have distinct personalities.  Our dog Luke is the wildest of the bunch.  The Man says that he has Attention-Deficit Disorder.  Luke is excitable, energetic and focus-less.  Each morning when The Man wakes at some ungodly hour (I think it’s 5 AM or even 4 AM – if it’s a “gym” day), Luke does a “Tasmanian Devil” spin all the way to the back door in front of the man.

Our other dog Casper is the quietest of all the animals in the house.  Casper, in principle, does not belong to the Man and me.  Casper is Luke’s dog.  I got Casper as a companion for Luke, hoping that he would settle Luke down.  That did not happen.  Our Casper is a sweet, mild-mannered, quiet and slim dog, who appears to move on tip-toes.

Our cats, M’aiq (pronounced “Mike,” or as I say it, “Mi-iiike”) and Ophelia (one lone household female) came from the same litter.  M’aiq is a large long-haired all-white male; one of the most beautiful cats that I have ever seen.  Ophelia is a smaller short-haired gray and white tabby, beautiful in her own right.

Which brings us back to “M’aiq from Mars; Ophelia from Venus.”  M’aiq likes his alone time.  He actually broke out of the house (to our horror) a couple of years ago.  We imagined the worst, but he soon materialized, and we coaxed him back into the house.  M’aiq is all about himself.  He’ll come to us for attention and insist on it more often than Ophelia.

Ophelia, when feeling a bit neglected, will meow loudly and simply jump in one of our laps, settling in for some petting.  Or she’ll seek out M’aiq where he is lounging and cuddle up with him.  It never happens the other way with M’aiq seeking out Ophelia.  And my biggest clue about the Mars/Venus theory … Ophelia helps groom M’aiq. 

She spends a lot of her own time licking and cleaning his fur. 

Sweet. 

M’aiq never returns the favor. 

Typical male.

But I’ll stop here.  I mentioned all of our pets earlier (not just the cats) for a reason.  Our male pets, the two dogs and M’aiq, are somewhat independent (well, as independent as pets can be).   While Ophelia is a bit more dependent, demanding more attention and on most nights, sleeping with The Man and me in the bed.

Luke and Casper clean one another.  When the lazy Queer has put off giving them their regular bath, Luke and Casper lie on the floor and lick one another.  So which one of the dogs is from Mars, and which one is from Venus.  I would naturally think that Luke is from Mars and Casper is from Venus.  But no… Luke is the co-operative one.  Casper is much more about getting the job done (he scares away all of the backyard squirrels; Luke just wants to play with them – I can tell).

One of our close friends always talks about the dual nature of everyone and about how each of us has both male and female energy.  So I think I’ll just buy that.  I mean, seriously … we are living on Earth.  Whether you come from Mars or Venus, we are all immigrants here.

Burn, Baby, Burn

Let's perpetuate the stereotype, buddy ... well, maybe you can do that for both of us.
You'd have to understand. I met him on a gay internet site. The first image that I saw of him was that of a tall man with a shaved head and a soul patch in a leather jacket standing in front of his motorcycle. Whoa! I checked his online profile a few times and finally got my courage up to send him a message. And here we are ... almost four years later.
When I first saw his photo, I must admit that I began filling in my own blanks. I imagined him to be super-masculine (a plus), gruff (again, a plus) and good-natured (the biggest plus). Turns out that he was just a guy, much like me. Which brings us to candles...
There's a old joke about how the number of candles in your home relates directly to how gay you are. Me, I've always had candles in my house. But I usually just received them as gifts from women friends or other gay guys. Sometimes I would get crazy and buy a lot of them in an Ikea shopping spree, but mostly I just had one or two in the house.

He shops yesterday, and this is what he brings home:


But that's not all. Let's stop and examine...
There are 19 other candles scattered around the house right now. Jeez.
I have already told him not to put food-scented candles in the office. It just makes me relentlessly hungry. So what's burning right now? A food-scented candle. Do I not talk English to him? Next up is Garden Rain. So, I'll just keep my mouth shut.
I'll just listen to "Burn Baby Burn" by Ash and inhale Fresh Melon Slice.



That's better. Cheerleaders, Crunchy Rock, and Scent of Melon. Most times, my life is just this wonderfully weird.

"Honey, are you gonna get the calorie counter?"

Mornings. Not my best time. Well, if I didn't stay up so late... Anyway. My partner has to be at work at 8 AM; I, at 8:30. He gets up around 5 AM, I think ... I'm never up that early.
In the four years that we have been together, I'll admit that I've gotten a bit spoiled. I mean, the man does a lot for me: all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the laundry. Me, I do the yard work.
One of the ways, that I have been spoiled is by having him morph into my personal alarm clock. Plus he snoozes! A couple of "Honey, it's time to get up,"'s can be met with "Just five more minutes..." and I get a little extra shut-eye.




He does get his entertainment out of it though. After a long night and some spicy Mexican food, I'm usually guaranteed vivid dreams. One of the more recent ones involved him making out passionately with another man in front of his brother and me. When I woke up and shot him a go-to-Hell look, he just laughed and snickered, "What did I do? Needless to say, my explanation was comical.
He gets other entertainment as well. When my sleep cycle is spinning to an end, I apparently get quite chatty. Groggily, I'm sure.
This morning, the first thing I said to him as he was trying to wake me was, "Honey, are you going to get the calorie counter?"
He said, "What??"
I said, "Huh?"
He repeated what I said.
I just said "Oh."
I got my extra five minutes of sleep.