tempurpedic tantrum

as anyone who’s ever visited my house knows, that lumpy thing perched atop a beautiful wood bed is, well, my mattress. it used to be a thing of beauty: pillow top luxury that was the most expensive thing the hubby and i had ever bought together. then we moved it across country, then across the state, and finally across town. somewhere in those moves, something went horribly, horribly wrong, like a failed science experiment involving radioactivity and spiders. maybe it was the boxsprings, as the hubby believes; maybe some gremlin ate the comfort out from inside our once fabulous bed; maybe it was just old age. at any rate, it has grown to resemble a triple-humped camel when viewed from the foot of the bed, with two divots: one for each of our bodies. and the comfort level is probably up there with riding an actual camel.

they spit, you know

 

i have been aching for a tempurpedic ever since my mom got one several years ago. i started waging a subtle but fierce campaign about that time, talking about how great they were–but obviously, totally out of our price range, dear. still, a girl can dream, i told the hubby. and scheme: after an endless barrage of complaints, whining about how my back wakes me up at night–at least that’s true–and finding the ultimate(!) super(!) awesome(!)–insert cheesy mattress ad here–deal (of the century!), we made the plunge. sure, we bartered our first born for a mattress set, but they threw in free delivery (and removal of the old clunker), two free pillows, no money down, and 3 years interest free. i mean, come on…

i want you to know: this is the first time in my life that this kind of subterfuge has worked. why, oh why, did i not try this on my parents?! maybe i could have had that horse after all.

i would've looked happier