A few days before, I went to the hospital for surgical prep-work. Blood tests, medicine inquiries, are you allergic to anything? (I’m guessing there won’t be cats running around the operating room, but my allergies to them have subsided, so, I guess the answer is no. Doctors love me.)
“When it’s time to go home, you’ll want to wear something not too snug. But, if you’re a boxers guy, you might want to consider briefs.” (More on that later.) “You’re going to want the support.”
I’m renaming my little friends Bartles and Jaymes. Grape flavored…
“Sweat pants okay? ‘Cause that’s my Versace…”
“Um, I sleep on an air mattress on the floor. You think that’s gonna be okay?”
The intake nurse gave me a look. “I’ll bet you only do that once before you move to the couch. There is going to be a lot off pulling and stress on a fairly deep incision in a sensitive area. You do the math…”
Okay… I guess I get to buy a bed.
I ride past a mattress shop every day. They are small, independent, the prices look reasonable, and there’s no bubble-butt blonde harassing me at 4 AM on the TV. (Downside, there’s no Mary Kay Irvin or Jessica…) I like to help the little guy, but I won’t be mentioning their name here. I got a perfectly fine twin bed for $175, delivered. It was the dude that sold it to me. He reminded me of the Liar in the old Isuzu commercials. He was condescending, helpful until he got my credit card number, then he walked up to the borderline of insulting. Just give me my fucking receipt, you dimple-faced smarm. I have mentioned the shop every time someone talks of buying a mattress. I will continue to do so. Unfortunately for the mattress place, it won’t be a positive mention.
They did deliver right on time. It wasn’t Mr Dimples, but a teenager with a pickup truck. He passed the mattress and box springs to my little nephew, the one that’s now nineteen and taller that me. We slid it into place, and suddenly my bedroom was crowded again.
Since the deep cleaning, I have resumed having visitors. Including Rain, who had not been to my house until she became homeless. We would bounce around on my air mattress, then I could flip it sideways and pull out chairs so we could sit civilized. (My room is a matchbox.) I hopped a bus to town, gathered Rain, and took her to my place. It was Saturday, and I had work the next day, with surgery at the end of the week. Got to get my licks in…
Her first response? “I can’t believe you bought a single bed.”
It was self-preservation. If I’d bought a double bed, I would never have another quiet night.
“Sorry, baby. I only have so much room here.” So we switch off; one on the chair, one on the bed. Sleepovers are a challenge. We can only sleep in one position and fit on my single bed, the Spoon. It’s fine, but body parts fall asleep too after a few hours.
Rain sat on my bed, unzipped her knee-high boots. “So, what ya wanna do?”
“Don’t stop with the boots…” I said.
She didn’t, and neither did I. A half-hour later, the mattress was cattywampus, the bug covers were on the floor, and my rug-burn from a bit of wildness in a still-to-be-unnamed place reinflamed. It was the first time I’d broken in a new bed before sleeping on it. Woohoo!
So now, I have a bed. It’s not fancy, but it sure is a hell of a lot easier to get up in the morning.
Okay, now that we have a bed, it’s time for my other get-the-heavy-lifting-out-of-the-way project.
I want a decent TV…