I am the queen of sleep.
There is no dispute, ask anyone who knows me, I have a gift. I can sleep for days. In highschool, my parents thought I might be anemic due to my sleep schedule. I think they even had me tested for it but it was a no go. My blood work was fine, I just loved to sleep.
I remember, on weekends, my dad would make breakfast. He’d come into my room and tell me to wake up. I’d mumble something and just fall back to sleep. Eventually, he’d come in and take all my blankets. That would usually convince me to get out of bed and join the rest of the world.
Now that I’m an adult (at least in the eyes of the law), I’m able to sleep to my heart’s content. On a typical weekend, I’ll hop into bed around 11pm and awake the next day sometime around 1pm bright eyed and ready to get going. This presents a strange time warp because by the time Kevin is ready for dinner at 6pm, I’ve only been up for a few hours. Oddly enough, I can fall right to sleep at 11pm and wake up the next day at 1pm with no problems for two days back to back. So on a typical weekend, I spend 28 hours sleeping and 18 hours awake. What can I say, it’s a gift! If I’m really tired, I’ve been known to sleep through days. I’ll hop into bed on Friday and won’t arise until Sunday afternoon. I think I was a bear in another life.
Kevin, however, cannot join me in restful slumber. He is plagued by Blitz. That’s right, big fat fatty has Kevin trained. At 7am every morning come rain or shine, fatty sits by the front door and begins to meow. She wants out. Now. Kevin will hear her mournful cries wafting up the steps but can bury his head under the blankets and tune her out. After a few minutes of no response, fatty moves to the bottom of the stairs and continues to wail. Again, Kevin will bury his head and hope she gives up. Next thing he knows, the crying has moved closer – she’s on the railing at the top of the stairs. He can almost feel her glaring at him through the comforter. He lies very still and hears a thump, the bed shakes, and before he can save himself, fatty is squatting on this shoulder, bellowing into his ear. At this point, Kevin gives up. He stumbles out of bed, bleary eyed, and drags himself to the stairwell. By the time he gets there, Blitz is at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him, thinking, “Come on tubbo, move it, I want out.” She continues her cries while Kevin plods down the stairs and opens the front door. She slips out without a backward glance and Kevin hauls himself back upstairs where he tosses and turns for 20 minutes before giving up and getting up for good.
We tried to alleviate Kevin’s misery and installed a cat door in a basement window. Unfortunately, Blitz doesn’t like to use it in the mornings. We think she is too lazy to walk down the stairs. Instead, she prefers to continue to sit and cry at the front door for Kevin. I asked him today why he doesn’t just pick her up and walk her down to the basement cat door. He said, all he’s thinking about on 7am on Saturday morning is killing the cat. It takes all this strength not to drop kick her out the door in the morning and trying to catch her and walk down to the basement is just too much for his sleep addled brain. Myself, I don’t even hear her, even when she perches on my stomach and cries at my face. For this reason, she doesn’t even bother trying to wake me from my hibernation. She knows who’s the softy and heads right to him every time.
Talk about a well trained owner. You’ve just got to admire my fat fatty! And so, if you are to call my house on a weekend before, oh, 1pm, don’t expect me to answer the phone. But don’t worry, I can sleep right through the ringing!