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Andy Dick is asking me to help him adjust his g-string.

Issue Date: Wednesday, Oct. 12, 2005

There are dreams. There are lofty dreams that propel men and women alike to great heights.

There are dreams that cause people to reach for goals that are not easily obtained by the common man.

Dreams that sometimes; yes sometimes cause the few lucky ones to find themselves standing atop of the zenith that was once just a huge pile of frustration, anger and obstacles.

And then there are dreams where Andy Dick is asking me to help him adjust his g-string / my ex mother in law has amassed an attic-full of purses from working at Mary Kay and she chases me through a maze of these purses and I can not help myself but to stop and admire a royal blue snakeskin tote (?) / I just want to take a shower but to get to said shower I must crawl along a ledge by the ceiling on my belly / I am trying to find the perfect crystal brandy sniffer* for Mister and all I can find is this horrendous cut crystal pitcher that someone has filled with Salty Dog mix / trying to keep the stainless steel floor of my kitchen clean.

So yeah. The sleep? Not happening. And I am not sure why.

For years Mister and I have been sleeping on his Sterns and Foster bed. I petitioned for a new bed since the day we moved in together. I have another king bed that is very comfortable. I love my bed, it is firm and soft at the same time. Perfect. But his bed is larger (Cal. King), so it stayed.

Mine went into storage until we moved into a bigger place last June. And then my bed moved into the guest bedroom. My parental units love to stay with us and sleep on it because they always sleep so well.

Oh how I hate his bed. It is soft and lumpy and has that pillow top fluffy shit on top.

I regularly remove the bedclothes while doing laundry and wrestle with the mattress to flip it. It is enormahuge and I always fear that I will make one wrong move and the headlines will read: ‘Suburban Housewife Smothered By Mattress’.

My neighbors will be interviewed** and they will tearfully say, “Who the hell was she now?”

Mister holds onto that mattress like it is a life raft. I think it is because a salesman got to him. A Sterns and Foster salesman. But ya’ll that shit is busted. It is like sleeping in a hammock and not even a nice one. Like one of those microthin-ass hammocks that you got for free when you bought a Frisbee or something and the kids you babysat when you were 12 used them to tether all of their stuffed animals up in the corner of their room… because if you tried to sit in one such hammock, you would look like that first dude in the opening scene of Cube.

So, yeah, the Sterns and Foster mattresses are nice and fairly costly, have a 10 year (or whatever) warranty and all that shit but if it is a broke down busted mattress… it doesn’t matter what label is on it, it is still a broke down busted mattress. Right? Right.

With the petition for the new bed (all of three years into our relationship) – I have forty signatures and everything – I am getting all sorts of twitchy around the eyes when it is nighty night time.

Ya’ll know I have issues when it comes to sleeping anyway.

I have been trying everything to sleep (not including the arsenal of sound machines, fans, pillows and lippy). Sonata? Check. Tylenol PM? Check. Fistfuls of Melatonin? Checkity Check Check Bitches.

Nothing is working.

A little light bulb went off over my noggin… DING! Second anniversary is what? Cloth? A fucking bed is cloth. Or covered in it. Or something.

I. Want. A. New. Bed.

Have ya’ll gotten the message yet? Can I get a stick to beat this dead horse some more please?

So, Mister has to get some new glasses. Hmmmkay. Lenscrafters. There is a Select Comfort store next to Lenscrafters at the mall. Lenscrafters,… hey! glasses in an hour. What shall we do for an hour? Let’s go lie down on those comfortable Select Comfort beds. If you want to set yours to ‘Cloud’ and let me set mine to just this side of ‘Not a Hammock for the Love of Pete!’ we can do that.

Hi there Chad, yes… please walk us through all of the models you have on the floor. Please show Mister why his hips and back are hurting on your fancy computer screen there that looks like a Marvin’s Magic Drawing Board.

My Sleep Number? Anywhere from 40 to 60. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Mister? 20. AKA… Hammock.

So, yeah, we got a Sleep Number bed. It was delivered on the 4th. It is lovely.

But guess who is still not sleeping? Because she is dreaming of Andy Dick and ex mother in laws and g-strings***? Me. And yeah, I don’t know what that’s all about either. I have tried going to bed early, and going to bed late. I have tried going to bed on time.

Tonight? We’re going to try booze.

*Who the hell were we in this dream? Mr. and Mrs. Fucking Howell?
**While using a GD leaf blower at 6:30 am on a Saturday.
***Dear Lord, please do not let me dream of my ex mother in law in a g-string, Amen.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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