Wake-up calls

I slept fitfully last night, unable to achieve more than an hour and a half at a time. Part of it was just being overtired and restless, but part of it was something more concrete: at one point, as I was either just drifting off or just regaining consciousness (I don't recall which), I found myself shrinking into the pillows under a sharp stabbing pain in my left ear. It seems rafaela was jabbing me in the side of the head with her fingertips, all while snoring away happily. Swell.

Now, normally, when my bed partner is displaying Excessive Nocturnal Mattress Territorialism (that's ENMT, should you wish to write it down), I quietly but firmly nudge them back to their prearranged side, or move the offending limb elsewhere, or give up and curl up on some distant corner of the bed, cowering. This, however, was a bit much, and I found myself giving her a shove and saying in a loud voice, "Ow! Stop that!" I didn't expect an answer from her. I got one.

"I'm sorry. You were petting a service dog," she mumbled. "You shouldn't do that." And went back to sleep. Oy.

I have to say, though, that it's still better than my sleeping first wife screaming, "Well, what the FUCK do you expect me to do about it?!" in my ear and ramming me repeatedly in the throat with her elbow in the wee hours without waking. And anyway, Anna was right: Dream-Me shouldn't have been petting a service dog. Mea culpa. Just...take it out on Dream-Me himself next time.
All of this reminds me of my high school buddy Mike's favorite limerick:

"'Twas a girl from the Rising Sun
Who flattened her boyfriend in fun,
Saying, 'Don't worry, kid,
It's for nothing you did;
It's for something I dreamt that you done.'"

On that note, g'night, all. Sweet dreams.