Thevictorian People Problems

My arm fell off, the baby disappeared, my son is on his way to the moon, and our bed is too obese for protection. The universe conspires.

Last night, my arm fell off. "But Val," you say, "you must be a world-class one-handed typer. Have we overworked you, dear, by stopping by, rain or shine, one arm or two, to see what words of wisdom or despair you wish to share with us each day? We meant you no harm. You are down one appendage, and still you carry on. So, Val, this is just to say

We have read them
the words
right here on
your blog page

words which
you painstakingly
composed
for our laughs

forgive us
they're hilarious
so neat
and so bold."

Yes, I appreciate the sentiment. I am still able to type. My arm did, indeed, clank to the cold tile floor. The left arm of my best-Christmas-gift-ever red-cushioned five-wheeled adjustable office chair. Chairy had a hard life. Gave me her best years. But now has grown decrepit. As much time as I spend with my buttocks pressed to her seat, I'd say she's about 187 in chair years. Oh, Chairy's metal skeleton still remains. It was only a plastic-flesh wound. But now I'm unbalanced. Hush. It's not polite to murmur amongst yourselves, "Now?" Oh, the poor timing. If only I had lost an arm before Christmas, I'm sure Hick would have gotten me a new office chair. Or not. He seems to have gone all out with the scratch-off tickets, jelly sticks, and The Heat.

The baby disappeared. As I combed my tresses in the bathroom this morning, yes, using a mirror, and yes, with the light on, and yes, using a pick...I saw that we were down one baby. I save babies, you know. Not grotesque plastic dolls with elephantiasis that grow mold on their good leg. Nope. I saved three babies. The ones trapped in ice cubes at my niece's baby shower. My winning baby I keep separate. But the ones that had been clutched in The Pony's hands and jammed in Hick's armpit I set on the bathroom counter. I've been meaning to move them, but they look so cheerful there by Hick's charging phone, and the gray hair pick, and the red round-bristled brush. Yesterday, I noticed that there was only one baby. Not two. I'm afraid to ask. No good can come of this. It's not like the Baby Jesus with a GPS attached at the Baby Jesus Factory. And, unlike a stolen Baby Jesus in the news several years ago, I don't think my ice baby is making the rounds of bars in Belleville, having drinks bought for him.

My son is on his way to the moon. Figuratively, I hope. Genius is off to a nerd rendezvous, where two teams of four engineery-type dudes will compete to see who can land a rocket on the moon first in Godus, some kind of computery game that's still in beta. Godus speed, Genius. May the laws of physics be ever in your favor.

Our bed is too obese for protection. Hick thought he'd be a dear and change the sheets a while back, when he had a day off, just before my seven show days. Like giving a mouse a cookie, his decision had repercussions. Hick decided to put on a set of flannel sheets. Because sleeping with a quilt over his breathered head doesn't keep him warm enough, I suppose. After he got the current sheets off, and went to remove the mattress pad, he decided to purchase a new one. Seems his toenails are like that of a raptor, and had shredded his side of the quilted cotton mattress pad. Because he's Hick, and hides his light and bedmaking shenanigans under a bushel, I did not know of his surprise mattress pad. Until I went to bed that night.

As I lay me down to sleep, no shredded cotton at Hick's feet, I heard a crunching noise. As if Hick had been eating Chex Mix in bed, and missed his mouth because it was covered by his breather. What in the name of all that is Hickly had he done? Because I needed my beauty rest, I crunched down under the flannel for a snooze. I won't go into detail here, because this is a story I might want to elaborate upon for a submission somewhere. Let it suffice to say that the new mattress pad was crunchy and slippery and sweat-inducing. It seems Hick had picked up one that had a moisture barrier. Which...um...we really have no need for. But it was $19.97, so Hick snatched it up like a box of MEAT at a Thursday night auction.

Hick went back to the store today. Weeks of trying to adjust to that mattress pad have proven it unsleepable. I had looked for a plain cotton one, to no avail. I even unzipped the plastic bag packaging to make sure. Because they're not always labeled correctly. Hick brought one home today that he said was different. It was identical to the bad pad. He returned it and endured a grilling, then brought home a different one (he said) that cost four dollars more. He and The Pony, even with my help, could not fit that thing on our bed. Hick did not consider the fact that we have a pillow-topper mattress. It is thick. The fitted corners of the mattress pad will not tuck under the edge. I'm off tomorrow to pretend my husband bought the wrong size, and see if I can return it and buy a king size instead of a queen. It wasn't slept on or anything. Not even fitted on our mattress. Not that we didn't try. Hick already threw his first purchase away, and I say good riddance to crunchy rubbish. How hard can it be to find a quilted cotton mattress pad without a moisture barrier that fits a pillow-topper mattress? I'll find out tomorrow. Genius will have to return the next one.

If he's back from the moon, that is.