Had an interesting conversation with the wife the other night. She was preparing for bed and I for the shower. With a wave of her arm, she drew my attention to the disarray of the bed's sheets and blankets.

"I had all this straight yesterday. Nice and neat, all made up."

"Ah yes," I replied, "your once a week neatnik binge." She wasn't very regular about it, nor was I, nor did I hold it against her.

"Well, it would be nice if someone else could once in a while..."

"It's your fault," I said. "You thrash around in your sleep like a fish on the dock. And by morning you've cocooned yourself and left me with nothing."

She disputed this vehemently, insisting I was the one who thrashed, or was at least equally guilty and ought therefore to be responsible for making the bed at least once a week, "just for old time's sake," this last dripping with sarcasm.

"If I'm the one who thrashes, then why do I wake up freezing every day?" We have a room air conditioner. It's an old house. Central air and heat was never installed, so we survive summer on three wall units, one in each bedroom and a main unit in the dining room which feeds most of the house. I like it hot; she likes it cold. Our temperature preferences differ by almost ten degrees. When she leaves for work in the morning, I turn the main unit up. When she comes home, she turns it down. When she goes to bed, I turn it up. When she wakes up, she turns it down. The one in the bedroom falls to her mercy when it's time to sleep. I go to bed in the cold, and wake up in it.

She then pulled one of those female tricks of argumentation, in which the thread of the dispute shifts subtly from one area of blame to another. Whether its impulse is founded in reason or instinct I have never been able to determine.

"Well, if you wake me up with your snoring like you did last night..."

My expression feigned surprise.

"Yeah. You woke me up at four A.M. and I couldn't get back to sleep. Sleep on your stomach, okay?"

"Yeah?" I said. "And whaddya gonna do?"

"I'm going to turn the AC up so high that when you wake up your little..." [and here she used the term for those sensitive male organs of sperm production].."will be shriveled to nothing."

First, note how far we have come from tangled bedsheets. Quite masterful, really. A transition of one sentence, and I hardly saw it happen. Experience sharpens the ear. Second, I don't know if I was more offended by her use of the malicious "little" or by the intent to render them useless. It always comes down to this, doesn't it? One is tempted not to take her seriously, but in the era of Lorena Bobbitt (has a last name ever served a more suitable mistress?) such threats carry resonance. I don't think men sleep as well as they once did - one eye open, as they say.

"Well, if you do that, I'll throw ice water over the shower curtain." This was something we used to do to each other in the early, more playful years, the victim's screams bringing delight to the perpetrator.

"Well if you do that," she said, "I'll turn the heater off as soon as the weather turns cold."

Here, I knew I had her. "Right," I said. "You're going to crawl under the house."

The heating system came with it. It's as ancient as the building itself, an old gas floor heater. It does a good job, but to turn the pilot on or off, you have to go underneath the house, so we just leave it burning year round. I'd been down there a couple times myself. You have to drag yourself through the dirt on your elbows like a soldier in training, with the underside of the floor a ceiling to bump your head on. It's claustrophobic, and you expect possums, racoons, snakes and rats to come at you out of the dark. At night, from inside, you can hear the racoons and possums moving the grates on the outside of the house to gain access. I don't bother them, but I have killed a rat or two.

"Well?" I asked.

She was stumped. She chewed her lip. "I'll think about it."

The next day - I having assumed the matter was forgotten - she confronted me in the kitchen. "I'll call the gas company to turn it off," she announced triumphantly.

I nodded. "And when even you need the heat, how will you turn it on again?"

More lip chewing. "I'll call back the gas company."

I reminded her that the gas company could turn it off from outside, but that they couldn't re-light the pilot without crawling under the house, and they don't do that anymore. She'd have to hire an outside contractor, and each of those service calls would cost her about fifty bucks each. She was willing to spend one hundred dollars merely to... to what? To get me to make the bed? Which was where this all started, if she cared to remember.

She gave me one of those stares that look at and through you at the same time - resentful, withering, calculating. She wanted more time to think about it.

This is not a conflict that admits of a resolution. It's not a battle with a victor. It's ongoing. Men learn quickly that even when they win, they lose. There's no joy in it. It's the testy, edgy side of love. You play the game for the love of it, not to win. They, women, may be the weaker sex, but they don't give up. It's a quality to admire. I think.

 ______________

Comments:
I'm glad you've got such a positive attitude towards it!
I'd like to point out that MY HUSBAND is the cover-stealer and cocooner in my house. When I crawl out to another bed for warmth, my little kids hop in. One sleeps parallel to me and steals covers; the other sleeps perpendicular and flamenco dances into my ribs.
I'd go to the couch, but my 14-year-old sleeps on it (he bed is covered with 14-year-old girl stuff).
Maybe I could go live where it's forever warm, under Bill's house...
Posted by KTC email at September 24, 2003 07:10 PM

Seems to me the woman of the house ought to have a peaceful place to sleep. I hope things get better. And if you ever come to my place, you can have the guest room all to yourself. It's not sweltering under the house, remarkably cool, really, but I wouldn't dream of putting you down there with the animals.
Posted by William Luse email at September 24, 2003 10:27 PM

They've gotta be easier to sleep with than my kids...(!)
Posted by KTC email at September 25, 2003 08:39 AM

We have a heated waterbed, and we fight over how hot to set the thermostat. I am usually freezing by the time he is comfy, and if I am comfy he is sleeping on top of the covers where we can't cuddle. Our solution is that we have extra blankets that are one person sized, to go on top of the quilt, and used if needed.Snoring, on the other hand, I have no solution for.
Posted by alicia email at September 25, 2003 09:13 PM

My husband and I have used the "separate quilt" technique!
Posted by KTC email at September 25, 2003 10:38 PM

I didn't know they let thirteen-year-olds get married, least of all to one another. Being, however, another female polar bear married to a snorer, I suppose I'd sympathize with Mrs. Luse (charmingly designated by you as "the wife") if I had to choose. And you needn't go to the trouble of pointing out how mean I am, as you seem to do with women who criticize you; you can't imagine how much it wouldn't hurt me.
Posted by Elinor email at October 16, 2003 01:07 PM

You're mean.
Posted by William Luse email at October 16, 2003 01:52 PM