"What are you doing?" I mumbled at 4 a.m. as Jeremy sat straight up in bed and eyed the painting on the wall. You have no idea how often that question is uttered in the night in our bedroom, by the way. Only this time, it was my parents' guest bedroom.

As usual, Jeremy ignored my questioning, and continued to eye both the painting and the framed poem that hung neatly on the bedroom walls.

"I'm going to take these down," he said matter-of-factly.

Well, OK then, I thought. To myself. Because I don't dare question his motives while he's on a mission. In his sleep.

So I pulled the covers back up and curled back up on the pillow while he carefully removed the pictures from the wall above the bed. Just as carefully as he removed them, he placed them neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed.

As quickly as the scenario had begun, it was over. And he was back on his pillow looking at me.

The man is a freak. Don't tell him I said that.

Although I might have told him that myself, or maybe it was my blatant laughing, because something prompted him to COME BACK TO EARTH and ask what he did.

"You just gave me something to blog about," I said, and continued to tell him about his housekeeping.

"You can't blog about that," was his reply.


He underestimates my blogging prowess. Besides, he was the one who recently told me my bog had lost its wit.

"But I had a dream," he explained weakly. "They were too heavy for their supports. I had to take them down!"

"Oh," I said, nodding, stifling my laugh. "So, safety first?"

"I'm just going to start beating you." He was defeated. I had won.

Besides, if he starts beating me, that's just more to blog about.