There is an ongoing war in my marriage. A struggle that has occurred nearly every bed time since the official honeymoon was over.
C’mon- don’t play coy…you know what I’m talking about.
It’s epic.
It pits will against will.
It’s the battle of the Readers vs. the Television watchers.
My husband is the telly watcher. I am the reader.
He likes the TV blaring and I like a light on and absolutely no sound at all (although I will try my best to persist with my reading through his loud snoring and occasional bum-cough without poking him hard between rib four and five.)
My bed is my sanctuary. After a busy day my pleasure (apart from other obvious ones) is to curl up under my fluffy doona and read until my eyelids droop close just once. I then quickly flick off my light and fall effortlessly into slumber.
Dear husband however likes the telly on. The blare and flickering lights set my nerves jangling. He’s usually not even interested in what’s on. I can ask him what the show is called, who the characters are, which actors are in it and all I get is a shrug of his shoulders, and if I’m lucky, a grunt in response.
I’ve tried earphones for him and earplugs for me. They didn’t help at all. I simply can’t understand why he even prefers the teeny-tiny wall mounted telly in our bedroom when he has a monolithic plasma in the lounge room- complete with comfy sofa, cushy-cush-cushions and fireplace.
He says it’s his way of relaxing and falling asleep.
Balderdash. This is the man who starts snoring half way through saying “good night honey sweet dreamzzzzzzzzzzz”.
Lately we’ve adopted a new tactic. We try to beat each other to bed, in some kind of weird I-was-here-first-claim-rights to the telly or the light.
“I’m just having a shower” I say and then rush into bed. Ha! Loser!
His strategy is to leave the television on in the lounge room as a decoy. I’m happily Twittering away on the desktop. When ahh- I notice the Americans have started tweeting. This is my cue for bed (oh that sounded political but this is just about international time zones. I *heart* you American Tweeter pals- I truly do.) I hurry to the bedroom flinging clothes off as I rush down the hallway, only to find him in bed already. With the television on. And a giant smirk spread across his face.
Drats. Foiled again.
I’ve thought about throwing a nice spiked heel into the screen. But that would only mean two things,
1. I would ruin a beautiful shoe (sorry oh Shoe-G*ddess for even thinking this alarming and sacrilegious thought.)
And,
2. He might consider replacing the broken teeny-tiny-telly with a mammoth flat screen.
There has to be a better way to win this war.
I’m off to consult Sun Tzu.