The only issue Ben and I have taken with our otherwise perfect new home is that sleeping upstairs on a Summer's night can be like trying to relax in a scalding hot bath. As I fell asleep without too much trouble, last night, I was disappointed when I opened my eyes to find that it was not only still dark, but that I seemed to be suffering from dengue fever. I got up and cooled myself with a wet face washer, leaving it beside the discarded cloth where Ben had apparently done the same. This had the effect of about zero to minus 10 in terms of helpfulness, so I retrieved the face washer and this time returned to bed wearing it on my head (blokes dig it). The idea was quite effective if I was prepared to move the face washer to a new place on my body every few seconds. I thought, "It's probably almost time to get up, anyway," but the clock said, "Nup. It's 2 am, sucker."
"Damn you, clock! (I really must replace you with something less abusive.)"
I had forgone the use of the floor fan before bed to spare Ben its noisy chugging, which now proved more of an annoyance than a kindness as I resorted to crashing about in the darkness to set it up. After only a few little gusts of warm wind from the fan's rotation, though, I cut my losses and stumbled downstairs in search of a cooler bed.
The lounge was bright, so I went about closing all the blinds and switching off all those damned bright little lights you get on electronic devices. Two trips up and down the stairs later, whacking the spare mattress into any loose object within it's range as I went, I was all set up to sleep on my new slice of floor. And so was Malcolm, the cat.. It's bad enough having that hot little fluffball weigh down your legs on a cool night, so I kicked about until I'd convinced him it was a no-go.
My next obstacle was the ticking of a cuckoo clock I had once told Ben was not too loud to have near the telly. Oh, the irony! My fatigue finally won the battle, though, and I drifted off into something like sleep. Malcolm waited whatever amount of time he thought was fair before tangling himself in the blinds, trying to reach the cat door. I dragged myself off the floor and cleared his way, to have him just sit in front of the now accessible door with a look that said, "Why'd ya do that, mama?"
Mmmother FUCKER!!
It seemed Malcy would be my tormentor of choice over the heat, that evening. I next awoke with him cheekily laying across my legs, which wasn't so bad until he started biting my toes! (He may have received a kick for that.) Then, of course, he started his usual crying for food at 5 am, despite being fed at 6:30 every morning, which got my own stupid stomach to grumbling. This was the final straw before I decided to use.. the water spray. The spray was only a recent tactic that Ben and I were usually hesitant to use on our precious babies. On this occasion, however, I almost relished the thought of soaking Mal face-first as I triumphantly stated, "That's it, Malcolm! You were warned and now you're getting the spray!" The second my hand reached for the bottle, I remembered I'd moved it to the bathroom to use on my hair.
Uggghhhh.....
And that was it for me. I was done, broken. My joints all ached from squishing up on the small, unsupportive mattress, which my hip had weighed down to the floor. So, I dragged my sorry arse back up the stairs to lay on my comfortable bed in my uncomfortably hot room for the last half hour before my obnoxious alarm.
I have remained tired and bitter all day and I hope you appreciate me writing this blog! You better, or you'll get the spray... *Shakes fist.*
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