Texas Chainsaw Massacre

There is a reason I go to bed hours before my husband does, and this right here is exactly it.

It is 1:06 am and I am sitting on the couch with that exhilarated feeling you get in your head and your forearm for exactly 1.37 seconds when you just *know* that this time, the lawn mower is going to start. 

My father will tell you with no hesitation that my first step-mother attempted to murder him in his sleep one night. He woke up in the middle of the night to find her straddling him (easy, tiger, it's a family blog) with one hand over his mouth and the other pinching his nose shut. 

They say we all marry our fathers. I guess I married my father's sinuses. 

When I was very, very little, we lived in a house made of stucco and mud. The walls were ridiculously thin and my bunkbeds shared a wall with my father's headboard. Knowing this fact, you think they wouldn't have let me watch hour after hour of The Incredible Hulk, but no one ever said my parents were smart and more nights than not I ended up wedged in between them in their bed where I could confirm with deafening certainty that the source of that horrible, wall-shaking noise was my father's face. 

I guess it's not until you're married for a few years that snoring goes from lullabyish soothing to force-choke worthy.

Tonight I laid in my bed, counting chain saws, trying to figure out why I let him go to bed first and how much duct tape it would take to remedy the situation. I tried to channel my inner four year old and find a way to be comforted by the audio reenactments of the book of Revelations on the pillow next to mine, but it turns out that pretending your husband is your father, even for a second, it just a terrible, rotten, no good very bad idea, indeed.