It's Bob All Day But It's Nick At Night

Of all the things Bob does in his sleep, his talking is the most entertaining.

“Sandwich,” he said last night between snores.

I whispered in his ear, “What kind of sandwich?”

“A  . . .  beautiful blonde sandwich.”

I figured this would be the perfect time, therapeutically, to bring up an issue I’ve been carrying around 25 years. You know  . . .  while my husband is sleeping and defenseless. “Blonde like beautiful Jennifer, the girl you dated while you were dating me?”

“Yes.” He began making kissing noises into the pillow. “But you had the good personality,” he murmured.

I wrenched the pillow from his arms and slammed it on his head. Then I heard him laughing. “April fool!” he said, toppling over in hysterics.

Lately, I’ve become an insomniac. I know a lot about this. I’ve read about keeping a pen light and paper next to your bed so that you can jot down your worried thoughts then go back to sleep. I’ve tried that. By the time I’m through writing all that’s worrying me, it’s way past daybreak.

If you’re having trouble sleeping, let me warn you of a few things.

1. Without sleep, you get more emotional. Last month, AT&T bought our cable company. We had 1 more month of Mediaone. I wept uncontrollably on Bob’s shoulder, “I never even got to say ‘Goodbye.’”

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you.”

“I need more time!” My crying grew more urgent. “One lousy month is not enough! All the things I could have done – should have said.” I couldn’t catch my breath. “And the last time I spoke to them, I was angry. My last words were  . . .   oh God   . . .   my last words were, ‘The cable’s been out over an hour. When is it coming back on?’” And I slumped to the floor, convulsively sobbing.

Bob picked me up and lovingly said, “You are such a gigantic doofus.”

2. Don’t watch nighttime info-mercials. I bought fat-blocker pills. They haven’t worked, but I’ll keep trying. I figure by the time I’m 90, I’ll have a body like Cher but a face like Henry Kissinger.

3. During the night, stupid things seem important. “I have something to tell you,” I said to Bob, tenderly touching his face as he slept. He opened his eyes, looked up at me, then closed them. I handed him a Kleenex. “You’ll need this.”

He sat up. “Somebody better be dead.”

“Theo Huxtable didn’t make it.”

“Have you taken your medication today?”

“It’s no time for jokes, sweetheart,” I said, softly. “I’m afraid Rudy won the favorite Cosby kid contest on Nick at Nite.”

He gently held my face in his hands and said, “Please go away.”

So, since everything’s fine physically, why can’t I sleep? I may have found one answer last week at 2 am. Bob came in as I was sitting on the floor watching Taxi. I had a dozen cat toys around me and a nutty cat having a blast. I had my favorite drink, seltzer with orange juice. I was laughing, playing, and having what I always refer to as a stolen moment.

“You should play like this during the day,” he said.

“Yeah, right.” I rarely justify guilt-free play during must-be-productive daytime.  

“Then you might not need to play during the night.” He poured himself some seltzer, nuked 2 slices of Jack’s Lounge pizza, sat with me on the floor, tossed a bunch of fake mice in the air for the kitten, and laughed.

We had a stolen moment – one I treasured, and one I hoped to repeat often and without guilt  . . .  even when the sun is out.