So. The women in my life snore, as do the two barnyard animals hiding in my closet. Last night, SAC Ellen slept over to the ranch, and since the Squirt was translating a news release from English into Swahili, she stayed over as well.
I grilled some bison for dinner and we had that with new potatoes that the SACster made, cool weather lettuce from the winter garden, and a butternut squash soup that Streaker Jones brought. It was the first time I have seen Streaker Jones and my dog, Dixie, for a few days. As Dixie says, “I’m simply too old to spend all day with you, Mooner. I’m old, I’m tired and I’m sick of your shit.”
That doesn’t bother me at all. First off, I can handle rejection better than gasoline salesman in Hell. Second, Dixie doesn’t mean any of that nonsense. She has simply fallen in love with all things spore. She’s assisting Streaker Jones with his spore research.
What does kind of piss me off is that I know she has started talking to Streaker Jones directly, you know– not using me as an interpreter. They both deny it but it has to be true. I spent the last fifteen years trying to get her to speak to someone besides me and she refuses. Now that she does, I’m pissed.
Go figure. I justify my anger with the fact that they both deny it. Sounds like a psycho therapy subject to me.
Anyway, dinner was a spot-on success all the way around. Have you ever eaten bison? Try it.
We played some poker after dinner for nickel-dime-quarter and I won about thirty bucks. I bet SAC Ellen a back rub of choice on this one hand and won that too. So, when we get ready for bed, I tell the Squirt that she needs to find something to occupy herself with for an hour or so.
“Porque?, Senor Mooner. What’s up?”
“None of your beeswax, Squirt,” I told her. “I’ll call you when it’s bedtime.”
SAC Ellen says, “You stay right where you are little girl. Mooner’s getting a back rub and nothing else.”
“But I won the rub of my choice,” I started.
“You’ve lost your mind if you press me on this, buster. I’m tired and have an early day.”
Squirt always sleeps with me when she stays over. I love having her little soft and furry carcass in the bed. She burrows herself deep under the covers and goes to my feet, where she starts scratching the sheet like she’s digging to China. She’ll lie down against my feet when she first goes to sleep and then she works her way up my side throughout the night.
At precisely 4:20 am, she’s laying on my arm, or in the crux of my arm if I’m on my side, in a classic spooning pose. At precisely 5 am, she turns over and starts staring at me from maybe two inches away. You can see her thinking, “It’s time for the dog to eat. Please feed me!!!”
Sometimes I think I can hear her telepathically, and the conversation always escalates to her speaking out loud. Cutest shit you ever saw.
Anyway, I guess the entire household of tenants and guests alike have got the cedar fever. Cedar fever is like the flu except it’s a pollen-based malady. Plugs up you nose and makes breathing difficult, which encourages snoring. At 3:30 I’m still awake, tossing and turning in an effort to block out the noise. Squirt snores just like a human except quietly, and cutely. She really is adorable.
Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are loud and obnoxious snorers, but I have gotten accustomed to the racket my pig and ostrich make as they spoon in my closet. It really is sweet how they snuggle together, and I don’t have the heart to break them up.
SAC Ellen is my real problem. She snores like a Sumo wrestler, has the reflexes of a cat, and she sleeps with a loaded Glock 9mm lightweight under her pillow. The one time I decided to awaken her so I could catch a short break from her snoring was one time too many.
My new technique is to pull the covers off her a little at a time– gentle tugs at the top of the sheet or comforter. After a while, enough of her creamy skin gets exposed that she turns over and tugs back possession of her covers. This has worked until last night.
So. I’m laying there at 3:30 am wearing the armor of frustration that can only be worn by spending five hours trying to sleep with a roomful of snores. SAC Ellen’s cacophony of racket was the straw on my camel– the extra decibels she added to Squirt and the boys in the closet was too much for me. It was like Tchaikovsky’s big, booming Overture in full stereo.
I was starting to think I was going crazy. Instead of gently tugging the down comforter a few inches my direction, to uncover another small patch of luscious breast– I yanked and rolled away from her to my side and uncovered her to the waist.
The snoring stopped. “Dear God,” my prayer of thanks started. “Thank you for…”
Have you ever heard the “snick” noise made by a well-oiled Glock handgun as its operator prepares it to fire?
“Snick,” is what I heard. Then I felt first a tickle of warm breath on my ear that make my privates tingle, followed by the shock of cold metal on my ribs that took all tingle away.
“Why do you keep stealing my covers, Mooner? I told you I’m too tired for sex tonight.”
SAC Ellen had told me she was too tired for sex, but again, I handle rejection like a pro.
“That wasn’t for sex, sweetie, you were snoring and I wanted you to roll over and stop.”
If I ever say that I’m smart or that I have something figured out ever again, would somebody please slap me. After ten failed marriages you would think I’d catch a clue about women. But I did manage to catch some sleep before the Squirt woke me up for her breakfast. I moved into the warm spot SAC Ellen left in the bed and breathed the smells she left behind. I was out in ten seconds.
I’ve already ordered flowers and made an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for a psycho therapy special session. I’ve been needing more special sessions than Congress.