There’s a glitch in the mattress

As some of you may know, I’m in the process of moving. Which means I’ve had to buy and re-buy serious amounts of bubble wrap and tape. On one of those trips to the supply store, I noticed that they sold a mattress cover.

“A mattress cover,” I thought to myself. “Like an envelope for my mattress?”

I studied the back of the package and flipped it over again. And flipped it back over again. Which led me into deep thought.

In the year of our Lord, two thousand and one — or how my mom would say it “Tu Tausand an gwon” — I purchased a mattress.

Armed with a brand new, navy blue Sears card I drove myself to the nearest monster chain of the same name and tested every single mattress in the store. I may have also tested out the pool table, the elliptical and two or three power drills too. I’m not sure. I can’t remember all the details.

Back to bedding.

A very nice man, whose name I don’t remember, pleaded that I test out every single mattress. He begged me to really get a feel for the different levels of firmness. He explained the benefits of pillow tops and stable box spring bottoms. All while I was jumping from mattress to mattress, sometimes plopping down on them, other times, sitting slowly on the edge.  He was a great salesman, eager to please kind of guy, you know?

This was a big deal for me. Choosing my very own mattress. Well. Our very own mattress.

I was starting a new relationship. And we were going to — gulp — move in together. The least I could do is contribute a mattress to lay our heads on each night. After all, I did have a credit card with a seemingly unlimited spending cap.

After about an hour of jumping, laying and sitting — oh, not to mention asking the salesman to toss and turn while I laid next to him — I made a decision while outside having a cigarette. I was going to go for it. I was going to buy the Cadillac of mattresses.

The salesman was pleased. Ecstatic, actually.

He charged the bed on my brand new card, as well as the delivery charge, some crazy insurance fee, the new linens I picked out and a power drill.

A few days later our mattress arrived with two burly men who assembled it for me. I offered to help with my power drill, but they told me to step aside, and I did.

When it was all over, the mattress stood bare, beautiful like a lion sitting proudly, with an inflated chest. It roared at me and I roared back. It was hot.

Almost a decade has passed since that day. My mattress obviously doesn’t look that way anymore. It certainly doesn’t roar at me when I flip it over or change the sheets. It is more of an older woman. A woman with the beginning stages of osteoporosis. A woman who has seen the world. The really ugly parts of the world.  A woman who yells,  “Be careful!” when you are backing up out of the driveway.

And I sleep on her every night.

She contains all of my deepest secrets, my moments of despair and ecstasy.

My mattress knows everything. Which is why I purchased the cover. To keep that crazy bitch quiet.

"Psst. Hey Mister, wanna hear a good story? Got a dollar?"

Chair woman

On the eve of New Year’s Eve it is tradition to archive important emails and papers and discard the things that are no longer useful.

How that translated into throwing away my thinking chair, I’m not sure. But out the door it went and straight to the dumpster.

Image by "dmhergert." (CC) Some rights reserved. Source: http://www.flickr.com

My thinking chair! I typed out screenplays and treatments sitting there. I researched information for articles and took naps with my dog while pretending to brainstorm. And now it’s gone. There is an empty space with a dust bunny where the chair used to be.

Oh my chair! It was the first piece of furniture I bought in this apartment. It was supposed to be a temporary filler in the living room until I was able to afford the two chairs and ottoman  I had eyed at a furniture store.  But it became more than just a filler. It became mine, because it was so ugly and uncomfortable that no one wanted to sit in it. But still, very much mine.

These are the compromises one must make when you share your living space. Although there was not much compromise.

I heard rattling in the kitchen this morning at 7:00 and smelled the goodness of a homemade omelette and fresh coffee. This type of breakfast is reserved for the weekend, never the weekday, but I thought it might have been a left over sentiment from the holidays. It wasn’t until I found myself sprawled out on the floor in the spot where my chair used to be that I realized what that breakfast really meant.

“Very funny! I could’ve broken my coccyx!” I yelled. I really didn’t hurt my rear, but I thought I would play it up to make her feel bad about pulling a prank so early in the morning.

After a few bars of that well-known song, “You’re kidding, right?” I realized that she had in fact thrown away my chair. Gone.

Somehow, deep down inside, I feel liberated from the chair. I’m a little glad it left. It was really ugly and not that comfortable. The chair has now become my greatest contribution to the cycle of death and renewal, which is really what Father Time and the Baby New Year represent.

I hope she feels the same way when I throw away her collector’s edition Brooke Shields pink hair dryer.