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Has anyone ever taken part in a sleep study? Will they look the other way if you have a wet dream?

If you don’t want to read about the seamy going-ons in the Delicious Juice Dot Bedroom, look away now:

Ed and I have been sleeping in separate beds for the past couple of months. It started out as a nice gesture, because we were both terribly sick at different times – one or the other of us would move to the futon or the couch and let the other thrash about the bed in peace and delirium. However, as time goes on, we’ve found ourselves getting really used to the whole “separate bed” thing: I kind of love not getting elbowed in the face, and Ed likes not hearing me snore.

For reasons that are probably incredibly stupid, I am mortified to acknowledge that I quite possibly snore. Fat old bald men snore, not delicate flowers in their busty prime. Guys with hairy shoulders and gravy stains on their undershirts snore. Middle-aged guys with beach ball bellies. Men who wear Speedos with no sense of irony. They snore. Ralph Kramden snores. Not me.

But, according to Ed, I snore. I snore loudly enough to keep him awake or wake him up, even with ear plugs in. He gets mad and huffy when my snoring wakes him up, so he wakes me up – and then I get pissed off because I was soundly asleep until he started sighing like the world’s biggest martyr. He feels like I’m snoring on purpose (however that works), and I feel like he’s maliciously waking me up because HE can’t sleep so why should I. Enter the separate bedrooms, and how we haven’t killed each other yet.

Ed is worried that my snoring goes deeper than chainsaws, though – he thinks I have sleep apnea. This is a further source of embarrassment for me, and makes me feel really terrible about myself because of the aforementioned stereotypes: clearly if I have sleep apnea, I am a gross fat old fatty fat fat who is fat. I don’t want to sleep hooked up to a machine (that’s how Skynet started), Ed doesn’t want to share a bed with me if I won’t man up and breathe properly, and everything makes me full of sad and shame and self-loathing. Basically, I’m a sleepy fucking party over here.

There’s also the small matter of my office: I want it back. I have a ridiculous new retina iMac I can’t fully enjoy because there’s man junk all over my stuff. He’s keeping me from my phone booth! It’s not fair.

I didn’t know that sleep monitoring mostly happens at home now, so I’ve made an appointment to see about getting a referral. I’m hoping whatever my deal is can be fixed without turning me into Robocop, because we don’t really have the space for us to maintain separate bedrooms. I may not miss Ed’s elbows and Salad Fingers, but I do miss cuddling. And penis. Penis is great.

Still feeling that shame, though.

this is what it looks like inside my head

The first truly bad weather we’ve experienced this entire trip has given us an excellent excuse to do absolutely nothing today. I feel a little guilty, given that we only have two full days of London left before we leave for home on Tuesday, but we’re kind of exhausted and desperately needed the rest. Tomorrow we’ll be back to our usual routine of DO ALL THE THINGS, but today .. well, couch. And bed, and football, and pizza.

I love London and everything about it, but I really miss my cats. We’re both looking forward to going home – this is the longest we’ve ever been away, and I think I drastically underestimated just how long 22 days really is. That being said, we’ve had an amazing time. We’ve done almost everything on the London List, and will likely bang out all but two (a cemetery, and Camden Town – I’m just too tired and broke) in the next couple days. We come home on Canada Day, which is fitting. I will miss London – I’ve been trying very hard not to look at these last few days as “the last time I’ll lounge at the V&A, the last time I’ll be able to find a Pret 15 feet in any direction, the last time I can reach out and touch the Tower Bridge and lick Big Ben (even if they’d really rather I didn’t)”, etc. It’s still a goal of mine to live in London someday, and since I didn’t crumple into dust on my birthday, it could happen.

But first – Paris! We had three days to explore the city, and that’s just what we did. It was Ed’s first time there, with my being a seasoned Paris vet with almost 9 full hours under my belt. We did traditional tourist things, because of the aforementioned first time – the Eiffel Tower (which almost killed Ed because heatstroke), the Louvre (which almost killed everyone in our vicinity because crowd rage), the Notre Dame, and a day of random wandering during which we accidentally found the Persian sex district. We made great use of the bus tour tickets I bought, and braved the Metro multiple times to get around. It was a busy trip within a trip, but we made the most of our time there. It’s interesting, though – even with more time to soak in all (well, more) of what Paris has to offer, I find that my initial thoughts on the city still hold true: Paris is just not for me. I’m super glad I got to experience it not once but twice, and with Ed this time (who, ironically, feels exactly the same way about the city as I do), but to me, it’s no London. Which I love. Have I mentioned that?

I’ve been taking pictures the whole time we’ve been here (except for today, because I haven’t gone outside), but I don’t know where to put them. I didn’t renew my Pro Flickr account, and I don’t know where kids these days are putting their photos .. any ideas?

So, more coming later. Right now there is pizza to eat, and Canada to cheer on in the World Cup. GO SPORTS!