PART 2: The Origami Swan and A Whore Named Gloria

So.  Here we were with a bed we couldn't sleep on.  We actually took it down, leaned it against the bedroom wall and began using the dust mite haven again.  It was that bad.
The $500 origami swan was now wall decor, and it was clear to me that I would not return alive from a solo return mission...so I had to wait for reinforcement. 

When we last spoke, there was scratching of the heads over just HOW one would go about returning a bed that is made of foam.  Attempting to man-handle this bed is much like, well, lifting a tortilla shell with one hand and expecting it to remain flat. 
We hoisted the mattress onto the floor and began folding it up like a burrito.  Sort of.  Actually, it was more like trying to fold a fat Krispy Kreme glazed donut without breaking it.  It didn't really 'fold' persay, it sort of folded then bounced back at you like a fat kid when you toss him into a bounce house. 
Determined to make this happen, the hubby folded said taco in half and had me sit on it.  I could feel this thing rebounding under me, and knew that my weight wasn't really enough to do much.  I thought my biggest 'heavy' thoughts, attempting to will it to stay put.  It was like sitting on a teeter-totter and watching as a kid much heavier than you runs full speed at the empty seat across from you.  You know you're gonna get launched, you just don't know when. 
With no protective head gear in the house, I braced myself for the possibility of injury while the ole hubby went into the garage and returned with tape.  Securing this bad boy as best he could with about a half a roll of tape, Stage 2 of the mission began.
Getting said taped up taco into the box.
Now, remember that this is a queen sized mattress.  We are putting it into a box the size of a bar fridge.  Sure, we could have just thrown it into the enclosed trailer, much like one would wrap a body in a sheet and secure it with tape and toss it into, well, a trunk.  But, I knew we had to have the box to have the bar code scanned.  My mind wandered to the eyes of other Costco shoppers as one of us walked backward, the other forward, balancing what appeared to be a body wrapped in a mattress, taped closed, into the store.  'Clear a path, please, clear a path.  Coming through.'  Then, what would be next?  One of us stays with said dead body, on the dirty floor of the store, while the other goes to fetch the box?  All of this with two kids in tow?
Nope.  Gotta get this sucka into the box. 
Being a strong and determined person, my husband decides he is going to straddle this beast and yank the box toward him.  With some sweating, some cussing and a possible hernia, it was at least looking as if there was a possibility that eventually, in say a couple of hours, we could have this thing whipped.  There was some laying on the floor pushing with the feet, some more grunting and screaming (much like that of reverse-child birth, as this thing was going BACK in...wow, what a thought, right?), and finally, the origami foam taco from Hell was in the box.  Sort of.  It was in the box as far as it would go, so it was a giant bed rolled up and taped, standing out of the top of a box the size of a bar fridge.
It was a sight to behold.

We returned it in a terrential downpour, no questions asked.  (Yay!)

The fuel behind this scurry of sweat and tears was a call from a good friend of mine.  She had a friend who had purchased a new bed recently, and she had heard that the same beds were on sale for Veterans Day.
What's the catch?  Well, the name of the bed threw me for a bit of a loop.  I was sure she had it wrong, but she was nearly certain that this was part of the Whore Collection.  I thought of all the things she could possibly have confused with the word 'whore'.  Door collection?  Floor collection? 
Before manhandling the beast built of foam, I went to the Mattress Source to do some legwork.  Could it be that a store had a whore?  Is that even legal?
I walked in and wondered if I would be escorted out by police.  I had visions of the FBI coming out from the warehouse area and handcuffing me in a sting operation.  I was going to walk into this store and ask about whores.  Now THAT is a woman in a desperate situation. 
Something had to be done, though.  Saturday was approaching and I really, really wanted to sleep past about 6am. 
Thankfully, the salesman knew exactly what whores I was referring to.  It turns out that the Drive By Whore Collection is a name created by a local radio station specifically for this line of beds, which is made specifically for this store.  There are three whores to choose from, each one a little fluffier than the next.  Apparently I like plus-sized whores, because Gloria was my favorite, and she was the fluffiest of them all. 
I would be able to save $500 on Gloria the Whore if I could get the Great Origami Roundup accomplished by the next day.  It was a one day sale, but the salesman, surely feeling sorry for me for the look on my face when I inquired about ladies of the night, said that he would hold one for me and honor the price if I could get everything done by the next day.
So, fade back to the wrangling of the foam mattress, the trip in the rain to return the ole girl and here we were in Whoville.  I mean Whoreville.  Whatever.  Potato, Potahto.

I had to have the hubby try out the whore, in front of the salesmen, which was awkward.  They had the protective velvety pads on Gloria, but it still felt raunchy.  He agreed that she was fluffy, and told me I could choose.  It made me feel a little bit like a swinger couple hanging out in a bar, but he told me I could choose, and I chose Gloria.

Meanwhile, as we were climbing around on the 3 different whores, our children, 6 and 10, were sampling each other mattress in the joint.  You would have thought we were at 6 Flags with all the excitement and giddy giggling that filled the room.  I found them each on a different mattress, both of which had remote controls.  I thought for a minute about the warnings of using remote controls in hotel rooms, and for a second or two I had the willies thinking about the diseases my kids could be getting.  Whores, diseases, it was all starting to wig me out a bit.  But, I was desparate. 
10 and 6 were raising the heads and feet of these mattresses and basking in the glory of a massage option in each mattress.  I found it odd that a mattress would have a massage option, but 10 insisted that I come join her and experience the wonder of it all.  Honestly, it just sort of felt like an itch that radiated from the inner depths of a mattress intended for the elderly, who could not hoist themselves from the bed and needed remote assistance.  Somehow, though, these two beds were the highlight of my children's existence.
So much so that, in the midst of all their glory, they began doing math.  They studied the price tags on the mattresses. They plotted.  They planned.  By the time we left, they both had decided that they were going to save up their money to buy these fantastic remote controlled geriatric containment units.  I'm nearly certain these bad boys come with potty pads to protect the mattress, they are the Rascal of beds.  Like, somewhere out there there's a late night commercial of Edna on this mattress on top of the Grand Canyon. 
They were delighted when I agreed that, as soon as they had enough money, I would take them THAT DAY to purchase these beds.  Their little eyes glowed and danced in the fluorescent lighting.  Yep.  Just $1865 EACH and we could come back and make all of their dreams come true.  And that's for a twin. 
6 was lying on a full size at the store, basking in the glory of all the additional stuffed animals he could fit on this larger bed.  That would be $2500, though.  Better ignore those Child Labor laws and get to work!
A bit of reflection, though.  I have never seen my kids work so hard at home.  They immediately came home and got to work.  10 went through her books and clothes, finding things to take to a resale shop for some cash.  6 created some sort of masterpiece in the garage that looked like it should be delivered in an ACME box to Wile E Coyote, consisting of a remote control for a monster truck, a piece of wood that he had painted and some other miscellaneous items all affixed to it.  He was ready to put that sucker on Ebay, but I had to explain to him that not everyone would understand his form of art, and may not know what to do with such an apparent detonation device.
They have swept the floor, taken out the trash without being asked, and are picking up all the spare change that has been tossed into the playroom floor. 
6 joyfully counts his several times a day.  He is up to $2.09 in his container, which he has labeled Money For Bed in his cute little crooked handwriting.
Seeing him hoist a 30gallon trash bag out of the trash can, which required him reaching well above his head and standing on tip toes, without being asked, and insisting with his hand held out in front of him "Don't help me.  I've got this." made me think....
THIS is all it takes?  The goal of a geriatric bed?  It's amazing!  I'm pretty sure I could get them to do ANYTHING right now. 
Pooper scooper? Sure!  Wax my car?  Of course.  Scrub the baseboards on hands and knees?  Where's the bucket?
So!  All you parents out there, take your kids to the bed store and let em have at it!  Sure, they may catch head lice from the mattresses.  They may catch something that doesn't wash off from the remote controls.  But the joy on their tiny little faces when $1800 bucks for a bed seems attainable?  After referring to whores in public with a man you've never met???
Now THAT'S priceless!

Here's how I picture Gloria:

Santa's Elves, Origami Swans and Menopausal Men....Oh my!

You know what's funny?
KIDS!
Kids are funny.

You know what's NOT funny? 
An 18 year old mattress.
That's not funny at all.

Neither is a wedgie, peeing when you jump, or forgetting why you walked into a room right about the time that you walk into the room...

The last couple months have been an extravaganza of many of those things all rolled into one for me.  Not real heavily on the wedgies, but the rest of them I can pretty well check off of my bucket list.  I'm gonna go ahead and focus on the first two items on the list, though.

Frightened by the thought of just how many pounds of dead skin and dust bunnies and other creepy crawlies were in our old, delapidated mattress, we finally decided it was time to get a new one.  Actually, the process was fueled by the fact that I felt like I needed a walker in the morning when I rolled out of bed twisted up like a pretzel.  It was really, really ticking me off that, even on a weekend, I couldn't sleep past 7am because I'm not a fan of burning throughout my hips and spine from lying on what, for all intensive purposes, appeared to be a bed of torture.  I'm not a character in the 50 Shades, and I don't want to be, either!

Seemed like an innocent enough task...Go find a mattress.
We started at Costco because, well, I'm a tightwad.  I'll admit it.  A 12" memory foam mattress for $500?  Sign me up!  Of course I did my research, finding lots of positive feedback on this mattress.  I stalked it a bit and found out it sells for much more at other stores....YAY!  Bargains, that's my middle name!

When Travis finally had a day off of work, we grabbed the enclosed trailer (thinking surely we would need it) and hit the road to make our way toward sweet dreams and sleeping in on Saturday mornings!  WOOT WOOT!
We walked into that store, heads held high, and I was giddy with excitement about going to bed that night.  Man, I'm gonna sleep like a baby and never want to get up in the morning, I thought.  We wandered around looking for these mattresses, a big display somewhere, with a big snuggly bed and the little velvety mat at the head and feet that are somehow supposed to keep you from catching the funk of 1000 other people who also have dreams of sleeping comfortably...
Nope.  Couldn't find it.
Finally, we found a 1' square display of said bed.  I looked at it.  I studied it.  I sat it on the ground and walked in circles like a cat before it lays down, trying to figure out if I could curl up into a ball small enough to try this teensy weensy display unit.  I could fit one butt cheek on it...would THAT be enough?  Probably not.
The next surprise was that the mattresses, 12" thick mind you, came in a box.  Not a big mattress shaped box..a box about 2'x2'x4'.  WTH?  How did my spa-like sleep experience await me in a box the size of a bar fridge?  I felt like the Cat in the Hat (who knows A LOT about that, by the way) as I pondered this.  Could I , would I, in a box?  Could I , would I, with a fox?  I do not like a bed in a box. 
Well, Hell, we were already here now.  This box actually had wheels on it, and we pushed it up to the register.  I was becoming less enthused about my killer deal as I forked out $500 for something that looked like it should hold Bud Light and Sprite.  The sales lady assured me that we could return it if we needed to, saying "Honey, people return EVERYTHING here.  Don't worry."
As we rolled it, yes, ROLLED it to the parking lot, Travis was disappointed.  Here he had pulled the trailer all the way, thinking he was going to get to man-handle some big ole fluffy beast into it.  Instead, he wheeled his little box into the big ole trailer and looked around like, 'Seriously?  Did I shave my legs for this?'  Okay, maybe that's not EXACTLY what he said, but it was close.  (If you don't know, that's a country song.  Look it up...)
Needless to say, we got this beast home and drug it up the steps and began scratching our heads.  How could a little slice of heaven fit so tidily in a box no bigger than our 6 year old?  We opened it up to find a vaccuum sealed bag like the biggest freakin package of left overs you've ever seen after a night of infomercials and burning up a credit card on the Food Saver Super Saver Special. 
Obviously, Santa's Elves work at the mattress plant.  They had carefully folded the key to our happiness into what appeared to be an origami swan, then sucked all of the air out of it and compressed it into a handy, dandy little bag that weighed about a million pounds.
It looked an awful lot like one of those little sea creatures you find at the checkout counter that say they grow up to 3x their size when you add water.  We cut open the bag, which had sealed in the aroma of the chemicals of the foam quite nicely, I may add, and waited.  Hmmm......how long is this gonna take?  Didn't the elves know I was dreaming of this for weeks?  The moment where I laid down with a glass of red wine, and let my kids jump all around me and it doesn't spill?  The moment where I stand up on the bed and drop a bowling ball and nothing is disturbed?



As we read the instructions further, it explained that it could be hours and hours before our luxurious night's sleep was ready for, well, sleeping.  This thing was all lopsided, kitty wampus and squished until it looked like it had had a run-in with a steam roller.  It's creases from it's origami swan experience had left it looking like the notes I used to fold up in Jr High like a paper football to keep the unintended viewers from seeing the juicy details inside.  What in the world was I gonna do with a giant, $500 paper football?

When it finally fluffed up enough to begin to resemble a mattress, we all gathered around it like a family around the first color television.  We poked it a little, we paced around it, we stared.  The kids were jealous, the grown ups were excited, and I had high hopes for the sleeping on a cloud event that was about to take place.

Little did I know that about 5 minutes in, my dreams would be shattered.  I felt like I was sleeping with a 2 year old who needed to go potty as my husband flipped and flopped all over this bed.  The fitted sheet somehow kept slipping all around with the foam, and was sort of like a DJ scratching a record.  Only it was a pissy husband, not a DJ, and a $500 origami swan, not a record. 

Sadly, I'm married to a freak who cannot sleep with shifty sheets.  He also found himself in a case of the menopausal night sweats from the foam, and for the first time ever, I awoke to find him on the couch.  You know it's bad when a man goes to the couch.  I'm pretty sure I could go have a horrid affair and he would still sleep in the bed to avoid the couch....He may place barbed wire in the center line of the bed to avoid contact, but he does NOT go to the couch. 

Craptastic, I thought.  This is JUST how I saw this going....
NOT!
I do not want this bed, I said.  I do not want it if it's hot.  I do not want it if comfy it's not. 

Fast forward a few more nights, more discoveries of how NOT to get a good night's sleep, and I was mourning the loss of what could have been a beautiful relationship.  Why can't this just work?  Ugh.  The origami swan hurt both of our backs.  It left me sleeping with a man in menopause, AND he whined incessantly about the shifty sheets. 

Fabulous.  Oh well, I thought, at least the lady said we could return it, right?  Yep.  One small catch. 
Getting said origami swan back into said bar fridge box.  Hmmmmm........
This could be tricky. 

Stay tuned for Part Two, which involves some precarious maneuvers, a trip in a terrential downpour, and, um, well, whores.  I can't give it all away now, so you'll have to stay tuned.  The good news is, there's a lesson for all parents on how to get your kids to do more around the house, too. 
Let's be honest, though.  You totally ignored everything else I just said except for the whores part, didn't you?

Brain Sucking Dust Bunnies and an Octo Shot of Espresso

So, I realize it's been a while since I've blogged.
 I realize it mostly with the help of other people who ask me questions like, 'WTH?  Why haven't you
blogged?' 
I typically reply something along the lines of , 'Because I'm a huge slacker....DUH!'  But, today, said people cannot bust my chops.

This may be a quickie, as the only reason I am able to stop in for a quick hello is that I'm an idiot.  As I write, I'm on my second cup of coffee already, and it's 6:13am.  (brief sidebar: When I say 'coffee', I'm really refering to a quad shot of espresso with Pumpkin Spice creamer.  So, yes, My name is Jennifer.  I have an addiction.)

Okay, so anywho, back to me being a moron.  Last night was one of those nights where you toss and turn, fall back to sleep, toss and turn, kid wakes you up, toss and turn, husband goes to the bathroom (actually IN the bathroom, though.  Thankfully we aren't to THAT stage of our lives....YET.)
At what I presumed was approximately 4:30am, my daughter, 10, woke me with a call from the bedroom.  I stumbled in, hair standing on end, mascara under my eyes, and stopped and paused in the dark.  She sits up and reports, 'Something is in my ear.'
Okee dokee.  Something is in MY ear too.  My brain, tiny hairs, some wax.  Get there FASTER!
She then announces a declaration that begins with a brief disclaimer:  "Don't worry mom, I was awake.  I didn't imagine it."  Okee dokee.  This is getting interesting.  What, pray tell, are you doing awake at 4:30? 
She then says that she thinks something fell into her ear from the paper lanterns hanging above her bed.  "It could be a piece of dust, or a bug."  Really?  She then announces that her ear is tickley, but she isn't sure. 
Lord have mercy.  Let me make it clear that we don't live in a meth lab, a delapidated home or a van down by the river.  We aren't overrun with roaches or any such critter.  That being said, what the heck is this kid talking about?  Let's keep in mind this is the girl that, when she has a fever, sees M&M's fall from the sky.  So.....
She sits looking at me, I stand there in the dark with what had to be a super impressive look on my face....and I ask the obvious question.  'Do you hear anything in your ear? Is it moving?"
'Uh.....no.'  Well then.....
I tell her to go back to sleep and let me know if said dust bunny or possible bug attempts to make a move, steal her soul or take over her brain.  I'm happy to report that none of those occurred to the best of my knowledge.  I guess we'll see when she finally descends down the stairs.

I went back to bed and of course couldn't sleep.  Afraid to put a pillow over my head because the possibility of impending doom when said invisible ear-raider made his move, I lay there and tossed and turned.  At some point I went back to sleep, then 6 got up and used the restroom and woke me up again .  Stupid Mom-Sleep!
Dozed off again, looked at clock, 6:00.  Pillow over head this time, at the risk of having my daughter's brain taken over by a mutant dust bunny, I did go back to sleep.  I woke up, looked at the clock,and it was 6:41. CRAP!  Needed to be up at 6:30.

I make my way to the stairs and am shocked that the freak who is my daughter is not awake already.  Typically, she is awake by 6 or so...door closed, light on, reading a book.  Yes, she is a weirdo. 
I've already awakened the husband, advised him he has overslept, and am making my way toward the espresso machine...
About the time I'm pouring in the water in preparation for my cup of heaven, 10 peeks her head around the bannister and asks, "Uh, mom...is it time to get up?"
'Uh....can you read the clock?" is my reply, because I've not yet enjoyed my first cup of liquid gold.  And that's when it happens.
10 says to me, "Yeah, mom, I can.  Mine says 5:41"
SERIOUSLY?  The only clock I didn't change was the bedroom clock?  DAMMIT!

Now, then of course this becomes a game of question and answer with 10, as she is my preparation girl.  She repeatedly asked me previously if I had, indeed, changed her clock.  She was concerned that if she THOUGHT I had, but I hadn't, she would be misinformed of what time it was, and then the entire natural cycle of life would be thrown off kilter. This is the same kid who has to know what time we are going to dinner, even though she does not drive, so that she can be mentally prepared. 

When I reported said mishap to the hubby, who was waiting to hop in the shower, he had nothing but loving support to offer.  It went something like, "You're such a douche..."

It's kind of like that song from The Lion King....'Can you feel the love tonight?'
Yep.  I can.