He’s the Man of My Dreams. Unfortunately, I Can’t Sleep Long Enough to Have Any.

I would like to discuss the absolute HOSTILE sleeping conditions at Morgan Mile Manor.

Specifically: Jeremy (aka JET).

This man SNORES.

And before Jet, I genuinely thought snoring was mostly an overweight-person situation. I don’t know why. I’m not a doctor. Clearly I made this medical diagnosis based on absolutely nothing.

Because Jeremy is not overweight at all and this man can SNORE WITH THE BEST OF THEM!

Between him and the Sugar Bear, our bedroom at night sounds like two grizzly bears fighting over a rotisserie chicken inside a metal dumpster.

Cadence is over there going:

HHHHHRRRRRRNNNNGGGGGHHHH.

Jet answers from the other side:

GGGGGGRRRRKKKKKKHHHHH.

And I’m lying peacefully between them like a Victorian woman slowly losing her fucking mind.

Sometimes I can get Jet onto his left side and that helps.

HELP is a generous word.

It changes the snoring from “logging operation” to “commercial refrigerator with a loose belt.”

There is ALWAYS something.

But my personal favorite is when he really gets cooking.

He’ll be sawing logs so violently I’m pretty sure the property value drops…

and then...NOTHING.

Silence.

No breathing.

And now I’m wide awake staring at him.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

HELLO???

Ten Mississippi.

JET.

Eighteen Mississippi.

SIR.

Twenty-six fucking seconds.

Yes. I count.

Because apparently I’m not his girlfriend anymore. I’m his overnight respiratory technician.

So now I’m lying there wondering at what point I’m supposed to flip this grown man onto the floor and start CPR.

Do I call 911 first?

Do I put pants on?

Is there time for pants?

Because if the paramedics arrive and I’m performing chest compressions in a golden girls type mumu and my ass and vagina hanging out, while Shuggs supervises, I’m moving. We can never live here again.

And meanwhile, because I cannot sleep, I begin quietly planning Jet’s demise.

Nothing serious.

Just normal 2:13 a.m. girlfriend thoughts.

Pillow.

Stairs.

Perhaps a mysterious boating accident despite the fact that we do not own a boat.

Then I look over at him.

And I gently whisper…

“Babes, roll the fuck over before I put you in the Lord’s hands.”

Then I lovingly shove him onto his left side with the force of a defensive lineman.

He grunts.

Cadence farts.

Everyone immediately goes back to sleep.

Except me.

I’m still awake.

In the middle.

Between a snoring man and a Great Dane who sounds like she smokes two packs of Marlboros a day.

This is apparently the life I prayed for.

And you know what?

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But I AM starting to understand why couples in the 1950s had separate beds.

They weren’t prudes.

They were fucking exhausted.

But then I glance at him again, in a moment of silence (or death - who knows)....

He's sleeping peacefully.

Exhausted.

Because this man works his ass off every day, comes home, takes care of things, cooks dinner, makes sure Shuggs and I are fed, and loves us both like crazy.

And suddenly I’m like…Fine.

You can live.

Tonight.