Futures and Frosting

My dad had told me to try buying a box of nasal strips for Carter to fasten across the bridge of his nose every night before bed.

Didn’t work. I woke up the next morning with nasal strips stuck in places where nasal strips should never be stuck.

It’s all fun and games until you need to lock yourself in the bathroom with tweezers, a mirror, and a flashlight.

I’ve kicked my feet and smacked my hands against the mattress repeatedly in frustration while whisper-screaming about cock-sucking snorers and their lack of respect for people who sleep quietly, and I’ve jerked the covers off of him, hit him in the face with his own pillow, that I yanked out from under his head, while plugging his nose.

Hey, don’t judge me. I’m losing sleep here.

And I had only plugged his nose long enough for him to start choking on his own spit. As soon as he could speak, he told me all about the dream he was having where he thought he was suffocating and how he realized while he was dream-dying that he forgot to tell me he loved me before he went to sleep. Yes, I felt guilty. Yes, I made it up to him by having sex with him at five in the morning, and no I have never told him that it was me who actually tried to off him in his sleep.

Sometimes couples need a few secrets.

Carter thinks my irritation with his snoring is cute. Of course he does. He's not the one with his ears bleeding in the middle of the night, praying for his bed mate to asphyxiate in his sleep. Oh no, he is off in dreamland, wondering why the soundtrack of his really good sex dream suddenly includes the melody of knives being sharpened.

Last night, one of my well placed kicks to his thigh, er, I mean gentle taps, finally got him to shut up and roll over. It was a thing of beauty. The silent, peaceful tranquility that flowed through the bedroom almost made me weep with joy. Sadly, as soon as I fell asleep and began happily frolicking through my own dreamland, Carter was shaking me awake and asking if I said something. Because according to him, he had been sleeping like a rock but could have sworn he heard me ask him if the green Jell-O should go in the trunk with the snapping turtles.

A public service announcement for men: If you see that your significant other is fast asleep and your initial whispered question doesn't get a response, don't be surprised if we start spewing green vomit out of the mouths of our rapidly spinning heads as you shake us awake to ask your stupid question fifty decibels louder than the first time.

So here I am again, wide awake at five in the morning, giving the love of my life the stink eye in the dark and wondering if I will be able to keep a straight face when looking at him if I go ahead and order that chin strap contraption I saw on the Home Shopping Network the previous week. As I stare at the ceiling and wonder why a snoring prevention mechanism has to look so much like a jock strap for the face, I suddenly remember something else I read on Google not that long ago that I haven’t tried yet (Fred, the forty-one-year-old goldfish – FRED IS REAL, dammit!). The article had stated that a short, loud yell of a random, one-syllable word will break through the snoring person’s conscience just enough to get them to stop snoring without fully waking them up.

I roll my head to the side to stare at Carter’s profile. Watching him sleep soundly while I currently reside in insomnia-land, as a direct result of his deviated septum, makes me feel stabby. Since I can’t take my anger out on his septum without making him bleed, I figure I might as well try one more thing. Especially since buying the chin/jock/anti-snoring strap will require that I address Carter as Dick Face from now on. Something I’m assuming he will frown upon.

I take a deep breath and let out my one-syllable word. "F-U-U-U-U-U-U-C-K!”

In the blink of an eye Carter jolts awake with a scream, flailing his arms and legs and scrambling across the bed until he falls off the side and lands on the floor with a loud thud.

"Son of a bitch! What the hell was that?" he mutters from the floor.

"I think there’s green Jell-O in the trunk with the turtles," I state before rolling over and snuggling under the covers.

2. My Dog Has the Hungry

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Claire.”

I roll my eyes at my dad as I shove a tray of fresh Butter Brickle Bars into the display case under the front counter a little harder than necessary. A few of the bars jump out of their spots on the tray due to my irritation, and as I reach in to fix them, I have to force myself not to eat another one. As much as I love making sweets, I normally don’t eat very many. My tastes tend to lean more towards salty snacks. I don’t know what is wrong with me lately though. If I keep sampling the goods like this my ass is going to grow another cheek to make room for all the fat.

“I really don’t think you’ve thought this through,” my dad continues as he leans his hip against the counter and folds his arms across his chest.

I take that back. I know exactly why I’ve been pigging out on chocolate and cookies.

I reached into the glass case and grab the Butter Brickle Bar closest to me and shovel the whole thing in my mouth at once. I take a moment to savor the taste of brown sugar, vanilla, and toffee bits, letting the sugary sweetness do its trick of removing some of my stress. Since I can’t physically chuck the six-foot-two tension problem I currently have out of the store without giving myself a hernia, this will have to do. I swallow the mouthful of cookie bar and try not to think about it forming little legs and sprinting straight to my ass, leaving pats of butter behind on my hips as it goes. I take a deep, fortifying breath so I can deal with my father. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">