Currently The Brothers Karamazov By Fyodor Dostoevsky see related

I swear that every word below is the truth, the solemn truth and nothing but the truth except maybe the part about my grandmother's support hose.

The Bed Burrito

You know you need a new bed when your mattress looks more like the surface of the moon than a bed.

Our old bed has been through the wringer.  Random kids have poured random fluids on it, most of it red.  Pens have been stuck into it.  Gracie the dog has eaten huge chunks of it in fits of panic when left home alone, or at least that is the excuse she musters when we bust her with pieces of foam and thread hanging out of her mouth.

Our bed is so messed up that a small child could disappear amidst the craters and lumps and hanging threads and not show up until he grew large enough to crawl out by himself.  If that ever happened, maybe to a grandchild or something, we plan just to throw Cheerios at the bed to keep the kid alive until we find him.

Paul’s parents, for our twenty-fifth anniversary in August, gave us a chunk of money to buy our first ever new mattress.  See, we started our life of married bliss sleeping in the bed that Paul had in his room growing up.  This was the period of time in which my interest in acupuncture began, since I experienced excellent health benefits from being skewered by rabid sharp springs. 

Our second bed was some piece of junk we picked up at Salvation Army.  What moron buys a mattress at Salvation Army?  I remember calling my parents to tell them that we had purchased a mattress at Salvation Army. They seemed really excited.  Looking back, it seems like it was around that time that they stopped visiting us.  Come to think of it, I don’t think they have been back since.

Our third mattress wasn’t too bad.  Of course, it is bad now, since Gracie has pretty much eaten it.  But it was not in horrible shape when we stole it from missionary friends of ours who were going off to India.  We promised to give it back when they returned from the field, but for some reason they did not want it, even though we pledged to remove the Cheerios and pick up all the pieces of foam that were scattered around and put them into a Ziploc bag.

Since the in-laws are coming in a couple of weeks, we bit the bullet and went mattress shopping:  last Saturday, Paul and I rendezvoused at The Dump, which is a store, and not the actual dump.  The Dump charges exorbitant prices for their junk, whereas at the real dump you can pick up junk for free.  We had already looked at the real dump for a mattress, but apparently they were out.  We did find some nice Christmas presents for our in-laws, though.  But, I digress.

Sarah and I were driving one car, Paul and Ben were in another, and the two guys  arrived at The Dump about fifteen minutes before we did.  I am not sure what happened during that time, but I do have a taped cell phone call from my son Ben, whispering frantically that we had to drive faster, since Daddy had acquired a salesman, and was enthusiastically jumping up and down on all the mattresses.  There is not much in the world more fun for a fifteen year old male than watching his father jump up and down on all the mattresses at The Dump, accompanied by a sleep specialist who smells blood in the water and who works on commission.

When we arrived, we found Paul waiting anxiously by one of those foam mattresses that usually sells for $1.4 million since it has already been to space and back, which gives it that amazing viscosity and other mysterious and fantastical scientific qualities.  Luckily for us, the price had been reduced to $999, and just for the day The Dump was running a special, (can you EVEN BELIEVE THIS!), which gave us another fifty percent off.

Paul commanded me to lie down on it, which I did.  Lying down on a space age foam mattress, on which probably two or three thousand other people had already lain, in the middle of The Dump, surrounded by other people dumb enough to shop at The Dump, is certainly a life-altering experience.  After lying on the mattress for 1.3 seconds, I was convinced and we bought the big fat space age foam mattress.

The kids could no longer stand the mortification of bed-shopping with their parents, and so they took a car and left.  Paul and I backed up the van to the loading dock and waited eagerly for our huge mattress to be crammed in and carried home.

Paul’s name was called, and he eagerly jumped out to sign the papers and to help the loading man cram the huge mattress into the back of the van.  I was reading a book, and was not paying much attention.  I heard the back hatch slam,  and Paul slid in next to me in the driver’s seat.  His face was white.  I turned around and saw, on the floor of the van, a box that looked suspiciously like the one in which our $15 Christmas tree from Walmart came in.

“What the heck?”  I said, staring incredulously at the box.  Paul stared, too.  He gulped.  “Maybe it is just the bed topper?  Like a big mattress pad?” 

He got out and, gesturing to the Christmas tree box, asked the loading dock guy if that was all.  Loading Man said that it was all, but he sniggered when he said it.  Paul climbed back in.  He started the car and we drove away from the loading dock, watching other lucky shoppers loading their big fat puffy bulging mattresses into their vans.  Some people even brought big U-Haul vans to carry their huge mattresses. Paul turned right at the light, and our fine Christmas tree box rolled over with a dismal thud.

“We have to agree to show no fear in front of the kids, right?”  I asked.

“Yump,” he agreed, staring glumly through the windshield.

“When they ask us if this was what we wanted, we say “of course,” right?”  I needed to make sure we were going to present a united front at home.

“Yump.”

“All sales are final at The Dump, right?”

“Yump.” he answered.

We drove in silence.  Occasionally, one or the other of us would sneak a glance at the box.

“Is this one of those memory foam mattresses?” I inquired.

“Yump.”

“What if, in the middle of the night, all of a sudden it remembers it started life as a burrito in a Christmas tree box?”

Paul thought about this.  “Well, we have to make sure that we are facing the right way, or our feet are going to be wrapped around our heads at two in the morning, and we are going to find ourselves closer to our behinds than we have even been before.”

“Yump,”  I agreed.

Reaching home, we manhandled the box onto a dolly, and wheeled it into the house.  The kids met us in the hallway.

“Where is the bed” asked Ben, peering behind us.

Sarah came bouncing down the stairs at that very moment.  “Where is the bed?” she asked cheerily.  Then both of them smelled fear and became still and silent.

Paul was dragging the Christmas tree up the steps to the bedroom, the dolly clunking dully on each step.  The kids, in anticipation of the world's largest and plushest $1.4 million mattress, had already taken the disintegrating mattress off the old box spring, so there was no excuse to delay the inevitable.  We opened the box, and all looked in to see a tightly wrapped white cylinder.

We pulled the white cylinder out of the box, and stood around examining it.  It looked like a large tent bag.  We began to roll the bag down the burrito, which began slowly expanding, like when my grandmother used to roll her knee-high support hose down at the end of a long day on her feet.

We ended up slitting open the bag to release the burrito, which began unrolling onto the box spring, writhing slowly just like those tiny little pills we used to give the kids that, when held under warm water for four days, turn into a washcloth or a sponge shaped like a dolphin.  I fondly remember those days:  going into the bathroom periodically to warm up the water or to bring them dinner while they waited eagerly for the magic pill to expand.  I think Ben sat in the tub for five days waiting for the thing to finish expanding, then bursting into tears when he realized that all he was going to get for his raisiny body parts was a crummy little sponge shaped like a turtle.

After fifteen minutes or so, our box spring was fully covered by a wrinkled little pad, about one inch tall.  The smell of NASA, (or at least that is the thought with which we comforted ourselves), filled the room, forcing us out and downstairs, where we sat grimly, refusing to rebuke ourselves for blowing our anniversary gift on a stinking mattress pad.

Going through the kitchen, I noticed the ten year warranty paper for the mattress and read it.  There was no address, no phone number, nothing except an email address, and I swear I am not kidding:  spiritsleep@hotmail.com.  Now, a hotmail account is always the sign of a successful company with longevity and business acumen, wouldn’t you agree?  I was tempted to have a glass of wine at this point, but suspected that the wine fumes might interact with the NASA smell and peel off all the wallpaper in the house.

It was finally bedtime, and we all shuffled resignedly towards the bedroom. Ben was the one brave enough to crack the door and peek inside.  He smiled, and pushed the door open so all of us could see the mattress.

A huge fat crater-less mattress lay proudly in the middle of the room, its creamy-white chamois cover taut and flawless.  It is gorgeous.  It is amazing.  It is so firm and wonderful that someone could jump up and down on one side of it, and the person on the other side wouldn’t feel a thing.  I love this mattress, I have slept through the night for the first time in years, my back and its ruptured disc doesn’t hurt at all, and there is plenty of room to stretch out.

Why is there so much room to stretch out?  Well, I sleep in solitary splendor, since Paul says he can’t sleep on the mattress, because he can’t stand the NASA smell, which should dissipate in several days or years.  I am not sure making their son sleep in a sleeping bag on a cold floor was his parents’ plan when they gave us this generous gift,  but who really cares?  He is an Eagle Scout after all, and can take it.

Currently Reading Kenilworth (Penguin Classics) By Walter Scott see related

BUCKLAND PICTURES!

There was a fabulous medieval church next to our house, with an ancient graveyard. 

Lots of fun places to hang around outside!

Can you imagine taking care of this lawn!

Currently Reading Michael and Natasha: The Life And Love Of Michael ll, The Last Of The Romanov Tsars By Rosemary A. Crawford, Donald Crawford see related

Mouse.

So, I hate snakes.  Paul always tells me this about snakes:

   1.  Snakes are harmless.

   2.  Snakes are our little woodland friends.

   3.  Snakes are created by a loving God who wants to keep the mice population in our house down.

That's why I hate snakes:  they have let me down.

We live in the woods, and have many little woodland friends running around outside.  We have always had some inside, too--particularly large hairy spiders.  (Stay with me, I am getting to the mouse story.) 

Our spiders are so large that you can hear them breathe.  When they scuttle across the floor, the china in the cabinets makes tinkling noises and chandeliers sway.  CSI could lift fingerprints if our spiders walked through baby powder.  In fact, if our spiders walked through baby powder, they would kick up such a dust storm that they would probably choke to death and lie there with their eighteen inch legs in the air...but, I digress. 

(Paul doesn't believe me, though.  He tries to reason that God did not make 15 ounce spiders.  I remind him that he had to, since I see them frequently.  It is one of those arguments that people who have shared the same name for twenty-five years often enjoy.  It is kind of like scratching scabs--painfully enjoyable.)

I like spiders, though, so I mostly let them live unless I am in a bad mood and ant to whack something or my mother-in-law is coming for a visit.  There is no connection between those two events.

So there was no surprise two months ago when my darling husband Paul, sitting at his desk, let out a blood-curdling yell that would rival anything at a Civil War re-enactment.

"Holy Crap!  Did you see the size of that SPIDER?  It just ran under the office door."  His eyes goggled out as he pointed in horror in the direction of the office, trying to process the black scuttling shadow that had invaded his peripheral vision.

"I told you!"  I exulted. "I TOLD you!"  Then, I continued the "I told you" mantra in my mind, enjoying that thrill of victory that comes from self-righteousness.

Gracie, who has a miserably boring life, had run downstairs to the den upon being awakened by the aforementioned blood-curdling yell.  She was excited about the potential of something exciting happening.  This whole incident makes me realize that she needs to get a life.  I am thinking about enrolling her in an online crocheting class.

She starts sniffing around the office.  Then she starts freaking out.  This freaking out thing was preceded by a small mouse bolting right underneath her, across the room, and under the couch.

At this point, all three of us stood frozen, and started yelling, in unison, "MOUSE!  MOUSE!"  (although, technically, Gracie wasn't yelling, she was just trying to dive under the couch, legs scrabbling on the floor, butt in the air, nose snuffling away in the mysterious dustiness that is the under-the-couch world.)

Now I ask you, gentle reader, what is the purpose of yelling  "MOUSE!  MOUSE! ?"  If a cat had somehow entered the house, and happened to run across the floor, would we all experience the overwhelming urge to stand on the desks and yell "CAT, CAT?"  I think not. 

Well, to make a long story somewhat less so, the bottom line is that we had a mouse.

I will not bore you with gory details.  That mouse is experiencing the joys of the afterlife.

But the problem is that he was apparently a Mormon mouse.

Now I am a former Mormon.  My great-great-grandfather was a polygamist, and had a couple of wives who were sisters.  They used to run around in a frenzy when the cops came out to arrest my gggrandfather.  Just like our mice.

See, it seems that Paul must have dispatched the daddy mouse.  Now, all his wives and progeny are looking for him.  They start looking around ten o'clock every night.  That must be when they get off work or something, because they are as regular as clockwork.

There numbers, however, are dwindling.  One beheading, one other grisly and unmentionable death, and a double suicide using a sticky pad thing have contributed to this mortality rate.

It seems like there in only one left.  She runs right at my feet like a Kamikaze every night.  I think she likes the sight of me climbing on the desk, yelling MOUSE, MOUSE.

Hope she is not pregnant.

I am going to buy a snake at the pet store tomorrow.  I hope they are willing to take a black dog who can crochet as a trade-in. 

Currently Reading Sarum: The Novel of England By Edward Rutherfurd see related

Aww.  Isn't this so cute? 

Formerly-the-prez Clinton said "Hillary and John McCain are very close...They always laugh that if they wound up being the nominees of their party, it would be the most civilized election in American history and they're afraid they'd put the voters to sleep because they like and respect each other." 

That just makes me warm all over.  But not warm like I'm going to sleep.  Nope.

It's the other kind of warm feeling. 

This kind of warm feeling usually followed by a mad dash to the toilet, and a violent vomiting into the old porcelain bowl, which is then followed by another wave of nausea, fever and rolfing. 

Before I know it, I am kneeling before the altar of heave, holding on with both hands, having the bizarre experience of not only struggling with out-of-control gagging, but also with the surreal realization that the underside of the toilet could really use a good round of Scrubbing Bubbles, and why hasn't anyone washed the baseboards lately either?

Blecch.

Editor's note:  Is this Freudian or something:  "the nominees of their party.  Shouldn't that be "their parties?"  Hmm, something to think about mid-rolf.

Whoops, gotta run.  I just saw a picture of Obama hugging Huckabee.

Currently Reading A whisper in the dark: Twelve thrilling tales By Louisa May Alcott see related

Here's an interesting thing that I learned last week.

I have been in the PCA (Presbyterian Church in America) for a long time, probably about 17 years or so, and know how we do church discipline.  (That is not what I learned last week,  I have known that for awhile.  That is simply background information for you, the dear reader.)

Elders are called in to correct, more correction is offered, etc. etc., finally a church member can be asked to leave the community of believers, not to return unless repentance is evident.

I think this is pretty reasonable.

So, our classes meet at Midlothian Baptist Church.  This is a fabulous little independent Baptist Church which seeks to really impact their community.  They use the sign out front to inform the community ot their activities, like Friendship Day....or Visitor Day......or Trunk or Treat.

(Which brings me to my first moment of quizicality.  This is, apparently, a replacement for the more satanic and worldly "Trick or Treat," wherein kids are either given scrumptious treats or the little buggers "trick" the homeowners--which means throwing rotten eggs at their houses, or rushing in and putting salt in the sugar bowl, etc.  So, in the world of Baptists, do the church's neighbors come over for treats, and, if they don't like them, they throw trunks or something?  I get very fuzzy about this.)

Anyway, I have truly been cheered by MBC's love for their neighbors.  A real old-fashioned, southern, pancake-breakfast throwing kind of place.

So imagine my shock and dismay when I drove in last week and noticed the sign in front of the building.

In PCA churches, when the Session (which is, weirdly enough, what we call the group of elders who run the joint, who, oddly enough, are then split down into ruling and teaching elders, (who, strangely enough, we call pastors and then don't even allow to actually be members of our church, but I digress.)...where was I?  Right:  the Session.  Anyway, when the Session decides that church discipline is called for, no one, (ideally) not on the Session knows.  It is private.

But not, apparenly, at independent Baptist churches.  Nope.  They announce church discipline to the community!  And get this:  they go WAAAYYYYYYYYYY beyond excommunication.  I mean, they go to the place from which repentance, unless you are Catholic, is impossible. 

This was just like the sign out front of the church last week, except it didn't say Sterling College, because that would make no sense:

Can you imagine?  They didn't even tell what the Greens did!  Those poor people.  It makes me glad to be PCA, that's for sure.

On that cheerful note, Merry Christmas to all!