A few years ago, my parents were kind enough to give me the queen-sized mattress from their guest bedroom. I learned later that there was a high probability that I was conceived on that very mattress, so I loaded it with memory foam, “egg crate” foam, down-feather covers, and an extra fitted sheet for safe measure.
People would attempt to sit on my bed and they would sink like quicksand, all the way to China. I just wanted everyone to be clear that there would be no further DNA exchange between me and my biological parents. None at all. After a while, the heeby-jeebies wore off, and I began to enjoy my softer-than-reality-allowed bed. It was literally like sleeping on a cloud. That’s how high-up I was.
So when Z moved back to Middle Earth, he had an idea. “How about you throw out that nasty old mattress and you can have mine? I have a queen-sized bed, and I just bought it.”
What a wonderful idea! So, I mustered up all of my strength (and a gas mask) and I dragged that flimsy old baby-maker out the door.
Has anyone ever tried to move a 30-year-old mattress from one place to another? I imagine it’s a lot like trying to hold water in your arms. Impossibly heavy yet impossibly flimsy. Also, I couldn’t stop making loud “I’m trying really hard!” noises like “AAARGH!” and “COME ON!”
I’ve said it before… my neighbors hate me. I looked ridiculous. Every time I got it to stand up, the other side would fall back down, and I kept grunting things like, “Oof!” and praying that no one was filming me.
Once I managed to get the mattress over the balcony, I dragged it through my muddy (dog-poo) yard, and propped it against the dumpster. This process took an hour. I’m pretty disappointed that it only took a few seconds to explain.
“There,” I sighed, triumphantly, and awaited the arrival of my new mattress.
Three hours later, I learned that the new mattress was in fact, a full-sized bed. We stared over it, tiny against its queen-sized box spring.
“But queen-sized sheets fit on it!” Z exclaimed, baffled.
“That’s because you have a full-sized bed,” his mom, T, explained.
Shit. No way was I going to drag baby-maker back in here. Not after all the procreation and dog-poo.
Luckily, our friends came to the rescue and gave us another queen-sized mattress. But what would we do with baby-maker?
Donate it? No. There was likely dog feces on it, due to having been dragged through the yard. I wouldn’t donate it to my worst enemy. Well, maybe…
Throw it in the dumpster? No. Even a landfill doesn’t deserve this.
3. Burn it. Burning was the only way to kill this demon. Wooden stakes and silver swords weren’t going to cut it.
We chose option three.
“No one should be around that thing when it burns,” I said, “Unless they want to get pregnant.”
Let the bonfire begin.
“Moxie even noticed that I lost weight, and that I curled my hair and changed my clothes.”
Scroll back up. See where it says ‘GET ADDICTED’ ? Yeah, just click on the button underneath. Congratulations! You’re probably on the clock, but you accomplished something anyway!