SuperHubs

by tess

The Hubs is really smart. Waaaaay smarter than I am. He may not know the truly important things like who Jennifer Aniston’s dating this week, but he’s a whiz when it comes to stuff like electricity and geography and carpentry and algebra and plumbing. I can’t even figure out how to edge the stupid lawn without knicking the curb. Not that I want to edge, btw, but I would feel seriously brave and strong if I could install a light fixture or repair the sink. Alas, like so many other middle-aged women, I would be entirely at the mercy of unscrupulous repair men if not for The WonderHubs.

Which is why it’s particularly strange when he proves to be less than infallible.

A couple of months ago our stereo receiver died so we had to buy a new one to make our surround sound, DVD, cable box, and Roku play through the TV. The replacement arrived last weekend and The Hubs can’t make it work. This wouldn’t be a problem except that if the receiver doesn’t work, then the headphones don’t work, and if the headphones don’t work, then I don’t sleep. And that’s massively uncool.

See, between 9 and 10 each school night, The Wee Beasties and I repair to the bedroom to read. We bequeath the remote control to The Hubs who finally gets to watch something he likes … while sporting his wireless headphones.

And before you throw a big fat pity party for his having to wear (next-to top-of-the-line, thank-you-very-much) headphones, our bed is directly next to the television and he enjoys listening to even the news in surround sound at 12 gazillion decibels. And when I’m up before (or after) him, I wear the headphones so as not to disrupt The Snoring which could not be disturbed by a 12.5 earthquake. The man slept through hurricanes Frances, Jeanne, and Wilma (not to mention my own incessant wailing) for god’s sake.

Having read a few chapters, I can usually drift off within 30 minutes. And that’s fine even without his Crown of Thorns (aka the headphones) because he’s watching some boring news show which just drones on in the background, almost as sleep-worthy as baseball.

But sometime after that, he generally flips to HBO which for some completely unknowable reason has a different volume structure than other channels. So inevitably by midnight I’m trying to sleep with the pillow over my head rather than be That Woman, the Monster Shrew perpetually shrieking at her husband to turn down the &@#^ TV.

Still, by 1 AM I fly from my cave like a Ringwraith descending upon poor little Frodo.

And there he snores; fast asleep holding his pistachio bucket in one hand and his half-full glass in the other. Silent as death, I turn off the cable and tippy toe back to bed. I’ve learned the hard way that “Snookums? Sweetie? Honey-baby? Wuggum-bears? Wakey-wakey” doesn’t work out so well.

He startles awake and stares at me as though his worst nightmare has sprouted three chins and come alive. Perhaps it has. He rubs his eyes thinking, “It wasn’t just a nightmare. I really am married to Grimelda the Gray SheBeast.”

In any case, he won’t come to bed whether I wake him or not, so I let him sleep through the ordeal. Later I wake to hear him jolting out of his chair and ambling bed-ward. Without opening my eyes, I grin, knowing that the glass must finally have tipped over drenching his crotch in air condition-cooled wetness.

My glee is short-lived; the Monsters are awake. They took a quick vote and apparently it’s time for breakfast.

And so a new day begins hours before dawn.