Smith Says

  • Tuesday, February 5, 2013

So, a Myrtle Beach woman tried to strangle her boyfriend last month… for stealing the covers.
Tina Berryhill Rucker, 42, allegedly became enraged when her boyfriend rolled over and did the old blanket grab. Rucker, who was reportedly intoxicated (ya think?) commenced to choke him out. He had bruises and scratches on his neck, and she had a swift trip to bond court on a charge of criminal domestic violence.
First of all, these folks need a bigger blanket. And Tina could possibly do with some anger management classes. But a teeny-tiny part of me sees her drunken point. Sometimes a blanket hog needs a lesson. Not saying violence is the answer, but putting an ice cube in his ear might have gotten the point across.
I would never commit violence against my husband for bogarting the blankets. We have plenty of bedcovers, thank you very much. If and when I snap, it will be for snoring. How many of you feel me on this?
Here’s the scenario: I always retire at least an hour before Widdle Baby, which in itself annoys me. If I wanted to go to bed alone every night, I’d have stayed single. Usually, Widdle dozes off on the sofa in the den and sleeps like the dead. You can’t wake him without a police whistle or starter’s pistol, and I don’t own either.
Some nights, just to mix it up, he says, “I’m coming to bed right now,” and then promptly remembers something he has to find online IMMEDIATELY that takes at least 30 minutes of research. Either way, it’s me and my latest book at bedtime. Even the dog won’t come to bed until Daddy does.
That’s not the worst part. That comes later, after I brush my teeth, moisturize my face and mourn the state of my neck. After I take my sleeping pill and crawl into bed with a book. After I turn off my little reading light, let the book fall to the floor and drift off to sleep.
Just as I’m in that blissful, weightless state of almost-no-return, the door creaks open and Widdle trudges across our dark bedroom to his bathroom. He doesn’t tip-toe, but in all fairness, neither does he stomp. Regardless, I hear the floorboards squeak and snap awake. Wide awake.
I usually get up and stagger to my bathroom, then get a glass of water from the kitchen and go back to bed… but not to sleep. No, I turn on the light and start reading again, because once I’m up the whole getting-sleepy process has to start over.
Widdle crawls into bed, we clink wedding rings (a sweet ritual he introduced years ago) and he’s out—asleep in seconds. I toss and turn and read some more until at last, I snap the little light off again and sleep overtakes me.
Then, as I sink into sweet oblivion, he lets out a high-pitched, strangled snore that sounds like a goat digesting barbed wire. It jolts through me like an electric shock, and I darn near levitate off the bed.  Then three things happen: 1) I punch his shoulder; 2) he hollers, “Why you hit me?” and 3) he resumes snoring with even more gusto.
Do I contemplate murder at such moments? Of course; I’m only human. But usually I just grab my pillow, deliver one last smack and scurry off to the spare room.
Alone again, naturally.
Julie R. Smith, who used to eat granola in bed before Widdle noticed she was costing him a fortune in dental bills, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.
 

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