2004-12-12
The Biting Bed
Our bed is trying to kill me. I swear to GOD.
It's a nice bed as outrageously-priced Thomasville beds go. It's all woody and slatty and stuff and looks very spiffy, and has been the scene of many a frisky moment and hours of snoring and drooling over the past 4 years. BUT. It is trying to kill me.
The headboard is quite handsome, artfully arched slatted wood topped by a lovely flat wood finished piece which sticks out dramatically on either side. I am Headboard, hear me ROAR, it seems to say.
Unfortunately, for some aesthetic, artistic, architecturally-parallel blah blah blah reason they made the footboard the exact same, only shorter. The same mini-version of the headboard, including the aesthetic, artistic, SHARP wood piece sticking WAY THE HELL OUT on either side. Each side sticks out about 14", which is 13" more than my feeble brain thinks it does, clearly, because I run smack into that thing every single time I walk by it, usually moving at 45 "I have to pee right NOW" miles per hour. Every. Single. Time. I stumble out of bed, using the edge of the mattress as my guide, and hit my leg at the exact same place (left leg). When getting INTO bed I approach it briskly -- because I always walk briskly when impending sleep is involved -- and even though I KNOW it is sticking way the fuck out there, I slam right into it anyway (right leg).
*BAM*
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK YOU FUCKING FOOTBOARD.
I am, however, an equal opportunity total spazoid klutz, because BOTH legs sport parallel bruises at exactly the spot where my skirt breaks, so everyone thinks HB the wonder husband is beating me with a bat. Or that I'm a klutz. On my right leg -- the leg that gets nailed during my brisk approach TO the bed, I have a permanent etching of delicate little varicose veins -- The Perma Bruise.
**** Start seque.
Part of the reason I have The Perma Bruise (approaching the bed) is because I think I'm a cat or something and insist on doing everthing in the dark. I play this "I am blind" thing all the time, convincing myself that I'm all Audry Hepburn Wait Until Dark and can find my way around our house without the aid of light. I even do that pat pat pat with my hands and kinda look off into the distance like I'm blind. I'm pretty serious about this. I do this in the morning, too -- I make coffee -- in the dark. This usually results in a floor and counter covered with coffee beans, and really really strong coffee. What is my PROBLEM?
*** end seque
This smacking my fucking leg into the fucking footboard thing is exacerbated* by the fact that both of our animals have to go out at least once a night -- at different times -- and have to be let back in -- at different times. Because HB the wonder husband can sleep soundly inside the jet engine of a 757 while warming up for Tokyo, the pet let me out/okay, back in/wait back out again/now I'm cold pleaseletmeinagainNOW routine is my responsibility. They both have to go out and come back in (again, at separate times) at least ONCE every night (that's four possible attacks by the bed), and sometimes more.
My astute mathematic abilities allow me to calculate that the probability that I will be attacked by the bed at least once a day is: high. Very high.
HB points out that he has lived with this bed for 4 years and has never hurt himself. In fact, HE says, all smug like, that he "just knows" where the edge is and he has never -- NEVER -- been attacked by the bed.
I swear he's going to come home to this someday:
Babz_with_chainsaw_standing_over_evil_footbard_making_the_"Take THAT M**therf**cker BWAAA-HA-HA-HA"_Face.jpg
Footboards. SO overrated.
*I cannot use anything that ends in "...bate" without thinking of the big MASTER word, which makes me giggle. And then hot and bothered.
xquzme at sometime today