Isn't he just adorable?
One of these days SB may find out that I am posting pictures of him sleeping and will strangle me. But most likely he will never know because he sleeps through the morning when I am stalking him with my camera, and he isn't able to remember my blog address when he wants to turn the tables and stalk me. So I am safe.
His memory is sometimes worrisome. I have attributed it to stress and most recently, to lack of sleep. He goes to bed very late on weekdays and gets about 7 hours of sleep, which is good for me but apparently not as good for him. This seven hour rest includes the time that he takes to do his "princess and the pea" fluffing and refluffing of his multiple pillows (my single pillow has a mis-matched case so he can't annex it). He also needs the bottom sheet to be unwrinkled and tucked very snugly to the mattress that has yet to be replaced. Finally, he has to thrash about and sprawl in many positions before settling down into the sleep position that is the most uncomfortable for me, usually with an elbow into my neck and large leg thrown over my rib cage or bladder.
Then, the next morning he gets up and stumbles around. One Monday evening he was packing up his kit when he could not find his shorts. Yes, somehow he had misplaced all three pairs. After quizzing him I discovered that two pairs were at the laundromat, where he was supposed to pick up his laundry over the weekend. Oops. Did I mention that last time SB came for his much delayed laundry pick-up the man behind the counter punched him? Yeah. SB yelled, "Oww!" as the man's wife giggled from the back area. This time SB sent me for the laundry but I managed to avoid the punching.
Despite packing his kit, he managed to leave it at home (again) and I had to carry his kit and mine to training (again). As I put his kit together I noticed a lack of scrum cap (again). I phoned him and got an earful about how he was sure that he remembered packing it in a bag after his shower after the match on Saturday. It is hard to convince me of this when he has been sure about packing up the cap on three other occasions where it has never been found again. I'm not sure who he thought he should be yelling at but I wasn't interested. Then I could not locate his cleats. That phone call yielded more frustration on both our parts. When I arrived at the pitch with some trainers for him, I discovered that there were a pair of large cleats and a scrum cap in the lost and found. Apparently some goblin crept into his bag, removed the smelliest items, and hid them in plain sight in the locker room for the staff to happen upon later that night. After marinating in a plastic bag in the closet for several days these items were not fit for use.
We went to a pub after training and I suggested that SB and I try something from the happy hour draft specials. "How do we know if it is draft?" he asked. "Because it says 'draft specials'," I replied. It took him so long to choose a beer from the list of FOUR happy hour choices that the server came by three times and I had to flee, but not before telling him what I wanted to drink. When I came back to the table he had forgotten to order my drink. Because one beer order (for himself) is all he can manage. Then came dinner. "Let's split a burger and large order of fries," I suggested. "OK." he replied. Five minutes later when the server came by to take our order he asked for just a burger and then turned to me and asked what I wanted to eat.
"Have you had a stroke?" was my reply.
His memory is sometimes worrisome. I have attributed it to stress and most recently, to lack of sleep. He goes to bed very late on weekdays and gets about 7 hours of sleep, which is good for me but apparently not as good for him. This seven hour rest includes the time that he takes to do his "princess and the pea" fluffing and refluffing of his multiple pillows (my single pillow has a mis-matched case so he can't annex it). He also needs the bottom sheet to be unwrinkled and tucked very snugly to the mattress that has yet to be replaced. Finally, he has to thrash about and sprawl in many positions before settling down into the sleep position that is the most uncomfortable for me, usually with an elbow into my neck and large leg thrown over my rib cage or bladder.
Then, the next morning he gets up and stumbles around. One Monday evening he was packing up his kit when he could not find his shorts. Yes, somehow he had misplaced all three pairs. After quizzing him I discovered that two pairs were at the laundromat, where he was supposed to pick up his laundry over the weekend. Oops. Did I mention that last time SB came for his much delayed laundry pick-up the man behind the counter punched him? Yeah. SB yelled, "Oww!" as the man's wife giggled from the back area. This time SB sent me for the laundry but I managed to avoid the punching.
Despite packing his kit, he managed to leave it at home (again) and I had to carry his kit and mine to training (again). As I put his kit together I noticed a lack of scrum cap (again). I phoned him and got an earful about how he was sure that he remembered packing it in a bag after his shower after the match on Saturday. It is hard to convince me of this when he has been sure about packing up the cap on three other occasions where it has never been found again. I'm not sure who he thought he should be yelling at but I wasn't interested. Then I could not locate his cleats. That phone call yielded more frustration on both our parts. When I arrived at the pitch with some trainers for him, I discovered that there were a pair of large cleats and a scrum cap in the lost and found. Apparently some goblin crept into his bag, removed the smelliest items, and hid them in plain sight in the locker room for the staff to happen upon later that night. After marinating in a plastic bag in the closet for several days these items were not fit for use.
We went to a pub after training and I suggested that SB and I try something from the happy hour draft specials. "How do we know if it is draft?" he asked. "Because it says 'draft specials'," I replied. It took him so long to choose a beer from the list of FOUR happy hour choices that the server came by three times and I had to flee, but not before telling him what I wanted to drink. When I came back to the table he had forgotten to order my drink. Because one beer order (for himself) is all he can manage. Then came dinner. "Let's split a burger and large order of fries," I suggested. "OK." he replied. Five minutes later when the server came by to take our order he asked for just a burger and then turned to me and asked what I wanted to eat.
"Have you had a stroke?" was my reply.
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