Twenty Winks Are Not Half As Good As Forty

Ho ho ho hum.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's sleep was interrupted last night. Interrupted first by Farmer H and his flapping man-hand that flicked my butt until I woke up. He denies the transgression, but short of him having a seizure until I got out of bed to complain, there is no reasonable alibi.

No sooner had I laid back down to slumber than Farmer H jumped up to go potty. In doing so, he nearly strangled me with the sheet that creeps two feet over the top of the quilt.

I readjusted that sheet to below my neck, took a breath, and was ready to nod off when the phone rang. Uh huh. At 2:15 a.m. Of course I got out of bed to answer. The phone is on my nightstand. Farmer H lunged off the toilet, it seems, because he hollered, "I'll get that." He must be two-timing me with Jake From State Farm. "No. The third shift must have left a door open. I'm not coming in. Reset the alarm. My password is BLEEP."

Then Farmer H re-entered the bed, sending me surfing like I was bobbing on a crest of the Bonzai Pipeline.

Just drifting off five minutes later when the phone rang again. Oh. Now it was the police department of the town where Farmer H works. Again, I rolled out of bed to grab the phone. What good is a nightstand if you still have to get up to reach things? But Farmer H had sprinted for the bathroom phone ahead of me. "I'll get it! Hello? Yes. Since the alarm company reset it, I'm not driving up there. Must be a bird got inside and is tripping the alarm. Okay. Good night."

Only it wasn't.