I hate those bitches. Just so you know. Have I ever mentioned that Fred and I sleep in separate rooms? When I first moved to Alabama and in with Fred, we had separate rooms because the spud had no idea that we were romantically involved, and for the first year, we referred to Fred as our “roommate.” After we’d been in Alabama for a year, I approached the spud with “What would you think if Fred and I wanted to be boyfriend and girlfriend?” She grinned and said “Not good!” It took a few months, but she eventually accepted the fact that we were “dating” (though there were, of course, no actual “dates”) – and it was probably another three or four months before Fred actually kissed me in front of her. Hmmm. I seem to have gotten off-track. Where was I? Oh yes, separate beds. So while we were still in the apartment, I would occasionally attempt a “sleepover” in Fred’s room. I usually stayed for an hour before his snoring drove me back to my own room. The only thing I hated about having separate rooms was that after we were done with our nightly cuddling and chatting, I had to get up and leave his room to make the (albeit short) trek back to mine. Let me tell you, it was a lonely feeling, one that I didn’t care for at all. The summer of ’97, while the spud was visiting my parents, he and I went to Florida for four days. Which meant we had to share a bed, since two rooms would have been way more than we could afford. The first night, he snored so loudly that I took my pillow and a blanket and tried to make a go of it on the bathroom floor. When he realized his snoring was keeping me awake, he kindly went out on the balcony and slept most of the night in a lounge chair out there. I think he did that most nights – I don’t know how else we would have ever made it through the trip. When we moved into the house, we decided that we would share the master bedroom. I was sure that the first few nights would be rough, but once I got used to the noise, it would be smooth sailing. Then something happened I hadn’t counted on. He was bothered by my snoring. After a few weeks of not sleeping very well at all, he started getting up in the night and going into the guest bedroom. I was sleeping like a rock for the most part, which was the problem. I snore like a drunk longshoreman on the best of nights, it would appear. Anyway, the guest bedroom quickly became Fred’s bedroom. These days, we lay in bed and talk for at least half an hour, then he gets up and goes into his bedroom. Funny enough, since we’ve gotten married, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest to be sleeping in separate rooms. I love having the king-size bed to myself, though he’s suggested more than once that I should be sleeping in the guest bedroom so he can have the big bed. And he can just keep dreaming. —–]]>