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?