“The perfect complement to a beautiful piece of antique furniture.”
I’m a genius. But not because I can solve a Rubik’s Cube while you are blindfolded. Although that truly is a sight to not behold. No, the reason I am self-diagnosing myself as a card-carrying member of the genius genus is that last night I executed an unprecedented maneuver of resourcefulness so brilliant even Cat was impressed: I nailed my bathrobe to the bedroom window. Why I would do such a thing? Well, while you’re at it, why not ask Michelangelo why he painted the Statue of Liberty? Why not ask Einstein why he made all those bagels? I’ll tell you why, because us geniuses don’t need reasons to do the things we do. We just do them, and before you know it we’re household names and people are naming their pet iguanas after us. That’s how it works. But if you absolutely must know the reason I nailed my bathrobe to the bedroom window – which, of course you do, because so far nothing I’ve written has been grounded in reality – it was because Wife and I have been too lazy to install a proper curtain. To be fair to myself, this wasn’t a problem until recently, when the moon decided to hit our bedroom with the high-beams. But now sleeping is nigh-impossible. So I did what any abnormal husband would do: I blotted out the moon’s fury with my bathrobe like it was a plush purple polar bear’s pelt. I wonder how long it will take for the neighbors to notice?
Got any pills? Allow me to rephrase: do you have any ibuprofen? I ask because I recently pulled a back muscle and am experiencing just enough pain to make me uncomfortable, but not enough to justify loudly whining to Wife about it (pretty much the worst kind of pain there is). The best I can do is keep popping over-the-counter pain meds and quietly tell myself that I’m a brave boy who is going to get a big ice cream when he gets home from work tonight. Granted, I eat ice cream pretty much all the time, but it’s fun to pretend, isn’t it? I suppose I should get to the most embarrassing part of this story, since you readers seem to respond most actively to tales of minor misfortune. I pulled this irksome back muscle while I was sleeping. That’s right. WHILE SLEEPING. If any of you have experienced a similar fate, you know just how pathetic one feels when discovering upon waking that their body is so weak it got injured performing the most passive activity possible. I suppose if you are a serial sleepwalker, and you routinely somnambulate your way into 24 Hour Fitness Centers to sleep-lift, that’s a different matter entirely. But for those of us deep sleepers who can’t handle the cloud-like consistency of mattresses and pillows, sleeping is a very dangerous activity indeed. Maybe I should start wearing my hockey equipment to bed. Sure, it reeks, but that’s the price you pay for peace of mind: smelliness.
Use your head. Unless you are installing hardwood flooring, in which case you should definitely use a hammer, and…knee pads? I don’t know – I’m not super handy. You should, however, most definitely use your head when it comes to resting on soft, fluffy, deliciously comfortable pillows of all shapes and sizes. And as Dictator for Life of the Pillow Enthusiasts Association, I fully endorse the following message: buy more pillows. The fact is that no one in the history of the world has ever been worse off by accumulating more pillows. Sure, they might not be any better, but the key here is that they’re not worse. That’s probably because pillows are the physical manifestation of human laziness. They’re the ultimate enablers, allowing their users to slip into a state of sultry relaxation for hours on end. What’s more, they make excellent barriers that prevent light from your phone’s glowing screen to disturb your tired and/or possibly grumpy spouse’s slumber, which means you can browse images of overweight squirrels until your eyelids grow heavy and you submit to the will of your own special name brand, medium support luxury pillow you purchased for yourself, and one for Spouse, at a certain big box store whose name contains three words starting with the letter B (hint: it’s not Beers, Burgers & Bratwursts).That reminds me: I need to start petitioning banks for a business loan. Beers, Burgers & Bratwursts isn’t going to build itself! I will also be accepting cash donations from my readers. Inquire within.
I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. As in outside the covers. And now I’m freezing. I can’t say I’m surprised: this happens every morning. I go to bed so hot you could fry an egg on my knee, and then I wake up in a meat locker. I suppose you could blame my walrus-style body type that takes forever to cool down after a vigorous day of tusk sharpening (exercising), fin slapping (writing), and belly flopping (belly flopping). However, I prefer to blame something else entirely: a force of concentrated malevolence so devious, it wears a little blue collar with a jingly bell in case it escapes. I’m talking, of course, about Cat. You might remember Cat’s insatiable penchant to sink his teeth into my ankles whenever they are exposed. This is why I live in fear, and also why I can’t let my feet cool in the night air when I go to bed. Ergo ipso Factotum, starring Matt Dillon, Cat is the reason I go to bed hot, and wake up cold. Yes. So, uh, we can close the file on that one. So…now what? I guess I could talk about something else. Reader “Rudy” suggested I do a piece on this country’s apparent obsession with Kim Kardashian. That’s funny! She doesn’t even do anything, and she’s a billionaire! Oh, man! That- Ugh, this is horrible. I can’t even think straight…probably because I didn’t get any sleep last night…because I can’t regulate my own body temperature…because we live with an ornery feline. See! I’m not just making this stuff up! This…this is my life.
I am lazy; hear me snore. My first order of business on this beautiful day is to invent time travel, build a time machine, and travel back in time to find the jerk who conjured up the Snooze Button and convince him to pursue a different line of work. That is, if I can manage to peel myself out of bed. So far, this morning, I have hit the Snooze Button on my alarm clock seven times, which means my alarm has been going off for more than an hour now. The funny thing is, Wife hasn’t so much as stirred throughout all the commotion – she’s the kind of sleeper who could take a nap in the engine room of the Titanic…while it is sinking. Meanwhile, I’m being jarred awake by my alarm, convincing myself I deserve nine more minutes of shut-eye, falling asleep and forgetting I ever woke up in the first place, and then being startled awake to repeat the process. It’s like I’m living in my own personal animated .GIF that lasts nine minutes and then loops back to the beginning. Why can’t I just wake up with the sound of the first alarm like every other normal person in a romantic comedy? These sassy young magazine editors and/or junior executives on the rise spring out of bed like jack-in-the-boxes as their nondescript digital alarms start blaring at six in the morning. They never even flirt with the thought of hitting the Snooze Button. They also always seem to live in areas of the world in which their bedrooms and bathrooms are flooded with afternoon sunlight at the crack of dawn. Meanwhile, us real people are waking up with freezing feet in the pitch dark. Jeez, I’m starting to sound like a real Scrooge. Or should I say…Snooze? I’ll stop now.