'Austar moments' and a bed of nails
THERE'S nothing quite like the comfort of your own bed. A place of relaxation and rejuvenation, a place to rest your head after a long hard day and a place of peaceful slumber.
That is until you have to share it with a spouse with whom you've had a ding dong, drag out, 10-round screaming match. Then suddenly that happy little haven is as comfortable as a bed of nine-inch nails.
Like most couples hubby and I have what I call "Austar moments". These moments happen during inclement weather and can lead to a temporary loss of transmission of marital bliss or, if things get really stormy there is a complete communication breakdown and the after-dark fun channel will cease to operate.
Oh don't get me wrong, even though our wedding cake was eaten years ago we still love each other deeply. He is my soul mate, my partner for life …. blah, blah and I'm his. I still laugh at his tired old jokes and he still pretends not to notice when I sneak the last Tim Tam. But even with all this adoration and devotion there are times where I could happily beat him to death with the vacuum cleaner.
It's always the same thing that gets me started. My requests for a little help with the dishes or the washing or the cleaning are met with "yeah, yeah, honey, sure - later".
And when "later" does come (after two hours of no movement) and my repeated request is called "nagging", voices become raised, tears are shed and accusations of "why do I have to do everything around here" are met with "what are you stressing about?" and suddenly there are more plates flying around than at a Greek wedding.
That old expression, "never let the sun go down on an argument" is all well and good when you have a heated exchange at two in the afternoon. You've got all day to get it out of your system, forgive each other's foolishness and if you play your cards right, the "Adult Austar" channel will be transmitting after dark.
But there is no coming back when these exchanges happen late in the evening. The haven that was once your bed becomes a battleground. The other night I slammed the bedroom door so hard it made the window rattle. I laid there in the dark under the doona - absolutely seething. And when the love-of-my life finally came into the bedroom guess what he was doing? Humming. I almost hired a hitman on the spot.
Apparently while I had been in bed sobbing into my pillow and poring over every heated word, "Dory"' had completely forgotten about the argument and had been watching telly. Trust me; without saying a word, I made sure he was quickly reminded of the state of play in the bedroom.
Battle lines were drawn - right down the middle of our Sleepmaker Deluxe. During the night, inches of doona and mattress were fought over like the inches of territories won and lost in WWI trenches. And if he dared to begin breathing in a slow rhythmic manner indicating sleep was close, I began a series of Cirque de Soleil tumble rolls.
By the light of dawn, big toes carrying white flags of surrender crossed both sides of the battle lines and slowly a tentative peace was restored to our boudoir. Although "Dory" is still trying to work out why the fun channel hasn't resumed transmitting.