Sleeping Quarters

have you ever been to the biltmore estate? i went over a decade ago and it was stunning then. i remember giggling at the separate sleeping quarters for mr. and mrs. vanderbilt.

sometimes i envy them.

i'm sure i could convince my husband to adorn our room in purple velvet and gold embroidery. totally within our price range as a one income family in the military. clearly that's not the issue.

generally speaking our queen size bed has just enough space for the two of us.

generally speaking.

while watching a dvr-ed episode of harry's law, we began discussing our restraint of using violence against one another in our marriage.

translation: i mentioned to e that there have been a few times that i have honestly had to stop myself from punching him in the face.

e: "really? like when?"
me: "umm.... well, you've been asleep every time..."

let's talk about the olden days of yore.

when babies were teething, the remedy was whiskey. when people were fever stricken and hallucinating, the doctors poured liquor down their throats. what would warm a person on a cold winter's night when central heating and air hadn't made it out east yet? ALCOHOL.

i imagine the vanderbilts have more in common with us than fine taste in drapery.

 my guess is that mrs. vanderbilt had seen mr. vanderbilt fall "ill" so many times that she knew precisely how a night of sleep would (or rather, wouldn't) play out once the nuptials were said and done.

she knew she would wake up to find a sweaty ogre crushing her right leg, breathing on her face with unbrushed teeth while wrapping himself in her half of the blanket as well as his own (and sweating through it, might i remind you). she knew that no matter how many times she tried to frighten him into moving off of her side of the bed with her freezing cold feet, tried pinching his nose shut or lightly slapping his face, he would not budge. she was aware that she could scream at him and the screams would be unheard because his headphones would be blaring a senseless comedy channel on the aol radio directly into his eardrums, rendering him temporarily deaf.

and as a last ditch effort to reclaim her side of the bed and a few winks of sleep before she inevitably was the one to get up with the toddler the next morning, she would reel back and punch him in the chest. and he would, finally, move.

luckily for her, he would have no recollection of the domestic abuse, but she would live with the guilt for many moons.

so she just went ahead and got herself her own room.

that's my version of the story, but i could be wrong. i can't really speak from experience or anything.