I appologize for grammatical errors.

It’s late. 4 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I blame it on the Olympics..messing up my sleep schedule, like that. I blame it on my husband, too. He can’t really help it though. He hurt his back today at work, so we spent 5 hours in the happiest place on earth…no, not Disney World, the E.R… I never understood why they keep hospitals so dang cold. I think they ship all the doctors and nurses in from Alaska. I believe from the “Know-it-all-but-do-nothing” tribe. I’m sure you haven’t heard of it. I thawed out in the sauna of Georgia..the Valdosta heat, as they poked him and asked him a barrage of questions leading up to the prescription of pills…a.k.a. The reason I can’t sleep.
The funny thing is that earlier in the evening, after he had taken these pills, I woke him up and told him “Honey, you might want to try to stay awake…at least for Michael Phelps’ race…or you won’t be able to sleep tonight.” How ironic.
These pills have already lead to the following conditions for yours truly
a) He’s going to eat more starches than he normally does, which leads me to believe that I should buy stock in Publix.
b) He’s going to talk in his sleep…even more than he normally does.
c) He’s not going to be able to bend over to lift the toilet seat.
Let’s review: a) self explanatory.. Anyone who knows the love of my life, knows the love of his life…food (especially if cooked by himself or his mother).
b) He talks in his sleep. And with these magical sleeping pills, he does it ALOT. It’s something that I’ve gotten used to, but every once in a while he catches me off guard. The conversation is usually about work (apparently he even works in his sleep, and is always having a bad day), and goes something like this:
Him: “Yeeaaahhhh. I’m gonna need those numbers”
Me: “What numbers?”
Him: “The numbers…I’m gonna need them for a little while. And I think we have extra cases in the back..” ::mumbles, rolls over::
And that’s usually the extent of our sleep-conversations. But tonight, he carried on for like ten minutes about a magazine called 106 that was supposedly being delivered to our apartment. Complete with directions to his co-worker on how to get here. It was interesting to say the least.
c). This one, may get graphic. You see..like most married couples, we have the unwritten “toilet seat clause” embedded into our marriage license. You know what it is. So it should be no surprise to you that I was quite surprised when he breached our contract. The poor soul “tried” but he couldn’t bend over quite enough to lift the seat. Suddenly, I am reduced to using my home bathroom the same as I would a public bathroom. I’m talkin’ bout some David Copperfield kinda magic up in there. Some hovering. Some acrobatics. Some yoga, complete with chant : “I will not fall on the toilet seat. I will not fall on the toilet seat…”

But, I decided to put this all aside, and I climbed in bed after the girl’s gymnastics (not the ones in the bathroom, the ones on t.v.) were over. And besides, he looked so beautiful in the moonlight…not pastey, like he had before I turned out the light. Yeah, I know it sounds bad, but he had been unusually pale all day since the “incident”. “I’m gonna need him to get over that, ” I thought, as I stared as his handsome peacefulness. Lord knows, I’m pale enough for the both of us on an average day.
And then, the thing happened that finally drove me out of bed after several hours of tossing and turning (his, not mine)..he found a comfortable position. On his back. Which means a log-saw testing facility suddenly had moved into our bedroom and was not leaving anytime soon.

So now I’m up…and I’m staring at these pill bottles. They come with a warning about taking the pills with alcohol. I think it should come with an alcohol warning label for spouses right under that one that says “Go ahead, you’re gonna need it.”