Sleepless in the Suburbs

Oof … rough night. The Prof has a nasty habit of saying sarcastic things that sting, and then backing off when he’s called out about it, claiming he was just joking. I thought it was just me being hypersensitive, but his aunt called him on it when we met up with them last weekend, so I know I’m not the only one. She claims it’s a family trait, and after meeting The Prof’s grandfather I can believe it.

Over the dinner table last night we ended up bickering about a DVD we rented that was due noon yesterday. We never had a chance to watch it (Sunday with the aunt and uncle, Monday night he teaches and I had Latin, Tuesday he taught and I went to the gym). I was surprised it hadn’t been returned, and asked about it. I was told it was a waste to have rented it and not viewed it, so he decided to keep it. I asked when he expected we were going to watch it, since it was already too late last night to watch it, Thursday night he was teaching and I had to clean the apartment, and his aunt and uncle were arriving Friday to spend the weekend. This inspired him to mount a major bitch session about how we never had time to spend together any more.

If there is one major incompatability between The Prof and I, it’s how we handle frustrating situations. I don’t much see the point in railing against Fate if there’s nothing to be done about a situation. You just handle what you’re stuck with as best you can, until it gets better. The Professor, however, enjoys a good rant. He’ll beat a dead horse until it wishes it were alive again, just so that it could move out of range. He says it makes him feel better, but it sure as hell makes me feel worse. Rightly or wrongly, it feels like he’s assigning blame in my direction.

Anyhow, I ended up snapping at him, he ended up snapping at me, and the rest of the evening was awkward. We talked it out a bit (of course, just after I went to bed, keeping me from going to sleep). Just once I want to talk these things out during his sleep period. He then went to the gym, watched the DVD without me (I think), and came to bed about 2:00.

Now, 2:00 in the morning I should be fast asleep. And I was, right up until he came into the room. He landed like a couple of 100 lb. bags of cement onto the bed though, and then threw an arm around me, so I’m pretty sure he wanted me to wake up. Waking up was the last thing I wanted to do, but since we ended up taking pot-shots at each other all evening I figured it was best if I found out what was going on. I asked him what was up. He said, in that quasi-sarcastic voice that he really ought to patent, “The moon, I suppose.” OK, never mind. I decided at that point that sleep was probably the best option.

Then he started tapping his finger in my ear. This was too much. “OK, I’m awake!” I blurted. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll let you go to sleep,” he says. Then he rolls over and proceeds to go to sleep. I, on the other hand, lay awake for two hours, seething.

This morning he called me at work. Of course, I had The Mouth AND The Minion in my office when he called. I think he took it personally that I couldn’t talk. And I’m in a pissy enough mood not to care.