Aaron pushed me off the bed last night, murmuring in his sleep, "Nightmare, claustrophobic, sorry." I tried to climb back into bed, but by the time I got my bearings he and the dog had conquered it. I told him to scoot over and he told me, sleepily, that I had plenty of room while I was standing next to him not on the bed at all. It was 2am so rather than argue myself an extra foot of snooze space I took my blanket and pillow into the bathroom.
I've slept in the bathroom before, once, when Aaron was playing Halo late at night (as is his wont) and refused to turn it down. I locked the door after me so that he couldn't break in and disturb my pout session. Once I got some padding set up, it was actually really cozy: soundproof, warm. I snuggled into my makeshift nest and fell fast asleep, awaking at 6am to move back to the bed for another bless'd hour of sleep. The same thing happened last night.
Aaron awoke this morning as I clacked around the apartment in my faux-alligator heels getting ready for work. He asked what happened last night and I told him that I would tell him later, then set his alarm for 10am for a little belated revenge.
Which brings up the point of this: why is it so bad to be passive-aggressive when it seems like the only other option is fierce-aggressive? If I try to talk things out I get patronizing and Aaron gets more annoyed and/or doesn't pay attention, but if I yell and scream and throw things I tend to get things worked out much more efficiently.
...
We had a nice weekend. I watched Spanglish Friday night (highly recommended), spent Saturday traipsing around Bayview to pick up some fish that had neglected to be delivered to Aaron's restaurant, cut myself making a salad (I'm a horror in the kitchen, which reminds me, why hasn't anyone done a spoof of the Amityville horror but it would be the Amityville whore?), had a fantastically awkward-but-delicious dinner at Samantha's with her new boyfriend, went to the ballet and got pissed at Samantha for being deliriously trashed, watched Mommie Dearest afterwards (to celebrate Mother's Day a little early), and did ... something ... on Sunday. It wasn't a terribly relaxing weekend, but then, it never is.
I'm in the frame of mind, school-wise, that everything I need to do will magically get done, just like it always does. I never know quite how but I've managed to crank out anywhere from five- to twenty-five-page essays in mere hours, but somehow I do. I'm not stressed but I am slightly concerned.
Getting my wisdom teeth out on Thursday and I'm terrifically excited at the prospect of a Vicodin-hazed weekend. Weee!