I decided that because of both Zoe's comment, and because I understand how the four of you who read this are wondering about my mental health and debating calling the people with those nice white coats that allow me to hug myself, I would like to post pictures of my bed to further illustrate this process. There she never, ever be a reason to have to post a pictorial involving your bed unless you are running some creepy sex site, or you're Martha Stewart. I think I'm on to something there.
Let's just start at the end and then go back to the beginning and work forward. That's not confusing at all.
This is what my bed looks like made. At first glance, and second, and probably third through the one millionth glance, this will look like any ordinary, easy to make bed. But take two looks and don't be fooled by its lies. And yes, it was fully necessary to include my stuffed animals. They have a union now, you know, and the things they threatened me with if I did not include them was enough to make me bend to their command. I don't want them to take over my room and try to attack me with their little knives made out of stuffing if I try to intrude.
This is where we go back to the beginning of bed making. This is my bed naked. If you have children, I highly suggest you turn their eyes away from this blog. I don't want to be blamed for corrupting them. You can click to enlarge the picture to read the writing. Squirrel Monkeys, I tried to make this easy on you by marking things. To make things even more clear, what has to be covered with the mattress cover and bottom sheet is the pillow top, foam, place that looks like a lapse in the mattress, but is only to cover the zipper, and the other crap. And to clarify the third in order, I do realize that is the place that looks like where you would put the mattress cover and the bottom sheet over to hold it in place, but it really is just decoration to cover the zipper. Yes, there's a zipper that holds my bed together. It came in pieces. If you lift there, you hit a solid zipper, meaning there's no room to actually tuck something under there, therefore forcing you to tuck under the other crap that needs covered. That wasn't too confusing, right? The only thing that doesn't need covered is the base, but I marked it anyway so things will make more sense in the next picture.
This is what it looks like covered. Again, you can see where I marked the base of the bed just for a reference point. The sheets on top are, well, marked to indicate where the top, flat part of the mattress is. So that's what all of the above looks like covered. Imagine having to cover all of that on all four sides. Do you see how much area has to be covered? Can you imagine how long that takes? And you really have to yank and pull and stretch at the covers and the sheets. They fit, but barely, which we're getting to next.
If you put the mattress cover on right, this is what it should look like. The edges of it should edge the top of the mattress.
But this is what happens if you don't get it on there exactly right. The second you move the bed to a seated position, it starts to do this, and then you move on the bed and it pops right off and bitch slaps you in the face. So basically what I'm saying is it takes forever and a Christmas just to get the mattress cover on correctly so it stays, and it's also a great arm workout doing it, because God Forbid they'd make something to fit comfortably instead of having to transform into the Incredible Hulk. Don't get me started on what it takes to get the bottom sheet over both the four pieces of bed, and the mattress cover.
This last picture shows how many covers I put on after I put both the mattress cover on, and the bottom sheet on over that. So now that you see what my bed is made of, and how I can't get in between the bed and the wall, so I have to crawl on my bed while trying to stretch those freaking mattress covers and bottom sheets on there, it should probably give you a better idea of why my bed makes me sound mentally unsound. And if it doesn't, I welcome you to come and make it for yourself...unless you're underage. I don't want to get in trouble for child labor.
Also, it was mentioned by Zoe that she missed stories about my mom and Aunt Bev. I knew I had written some posts and had them in a holding cue on my computer, so I went through them and found a post about my mom and Aunt Bev. This is from sometime over the summer, but I'm hoping it will hold you over until I get them both in the same room together again. According to my records, and by records I mean my memory which often fails, I've not posted this. If I have, just consider it repeated amusement.This blog is specifically designed to cater to stories about Aunt Bev and my mom, and only about them. Strap yourselves in, it’s going to be a high flying ride. I don’t really know what I meant by that, but you know how the Aunt Bev and Mom stories go. No one really knows what to expect.
I’ve mentioned before how I take notes in my Blackberry about little things that happen during the day that are cute enough to blog about. With so much going on in my life, it’s easy for me to forget the little things, and that’s really what this blog is about. Taking notes is especially important when around my mom and Aunt Bev, because I crack up and become afraid of so many things they do when they’re together that I couldn’t possibly remember them all. Even when I take notes, I still feel like I’ve forgotten or left out stuff.
Aunt Bev had an appointment at the eye doctor not too long ago. The town she has her appointment in is a very small town. It’s one of those quaint enough to walk up and down the streets and window shop in small craft stores and what not. Being as she had some time, she stopped in one and found a sign that said the following.
“Beautiful young people are an accident of nature. Beautiful old people are a work of art.”
She bought it. If you’ve been sticking around here for awhile, you’ll know just how perfectly this fits her. And yes, Aunt Bev is a beautiful, not old person. (Who is NOT going to die anytime soon. *Clears throat* You know you say it all the time...Aunt Bev.)
I don’t know if I’ve ever brought this up before, but Aunt Bev and I often do little, strange things that are exactly the same. She always tells me that I remind her so much of her when he was my age. She keeps telling me she’s afraid I’m going to end up like her, and I can’t think of guys the way she does. Sorry, Aunt Bev, it’s too late for that. I made my opinion on guys in around the age of fourteen, and it turns out I was right. Sorry, guys, I’ve got you all figured out.
When we go out in public together, I’m often asked if she’s my mom. This is maybe because sometimes it’s just the two of us and that’s a good assumption. When my mom and I go out together, just the two of us, people always assume we’re mother and daughter too. Just saying.
It’s gotten to the point that sometimes when we’re doing something, especially when it comes to looking at cars, and we both have the same really strange thought at the same time, I always ask her if she’s sure she didn’t have a daughter. We were on the phone the other night for two hours talking about specific things we had the same thoughts on, and then we just get carried away and all excited like girls do, and go on a rant about these things.
We’re not totally positive I’m not her kid, but she just doesn’t remember having me. We’re going to chalk it up to her suffering from amnesia twenty four years ago. She didn’t, of course...that she remembers. And mommy, we’re just kidding, we know I’m your kid. Aunt Bev and I can’t help it we have a lot in common, too. It couldn’t possibly be because I grew up around her...
As you all know, Aunt Bev has been looking for a new car. While doing this, she just so happens to test drives said cars she’s looking at. During one test drive, they drove past her now ex-husband’s new house because it was right down the road from the dealership. Hey, we live in a small town here, people. Options for anything are limited. Don’t judge.
Her husband happens to have an uber expensive Corvette. When he and Aunt Bev lived together he refused to keep it anywhere but in the garage, because it was just too special. Now, he proudly displays right out in the front of his house, in the front yard, where every single one of his neighbors and every passerby can see it. This is confusing in a way considering, yet it totally fits his personality to try to show off his status in a new neighborhood.
Because of this, Aunt Bev jokingly remarked that she should just go right on ahead and cut down the huge tree in her front yard so that she can park her new car out front and show off, too. I love the idea, Aunt Bev, and I don’t think this is extreme at all. Especially considering you could have started your own tree farm. For all of you who aren’t Aunt Bev, my mom or myself, let me explain.
Aunt Bev had asked my mom and I to come over and help her clean out her gutters, stating that she had some maple trees growing in them. When we got there we realized she had grossly overestimated, or our idea of some and hers were vastly different. She could have started her own tree farm, and also supplied maple trees to every local nursery in the area and still had some left over. This may or may not be a mild exaggeration.
Her main reasoning for wanting help was that there is a lot of shrubbery in her backyard, meaning she was going to have to have someone hold the ladder in a very particular place so that she didn’t fall into the pond. Although falling into a pond would usually make most people feel like a teenager, her pond is only about two feet deep, small, and had stones around it, so this would equal death for her, and we happen to like Aunt Bev.
About the same time we’re in her backyard thinking about this, she decides to tell us that if she drowns in the pond, she might need help getting back out. I would imagine that would be the case, unless dead bodies can now move without the help from anyone else, because if she drowned, she would be the opposite of alive.
My mom looks her right in the eyes and announces to her that if she were to fall into the pond, my mom was done. She was quitting. Ah, the support of your friends. It’s unmatched by nearly everything else. And by unmatched, I believe the neighbors may have been more helpful in getting Aunt Bev out of the pond when they finally realized she had fallen in, her little feet hanging in the air like the Wicked Witch after Dorothy's house crushed her. And no, Aunt Bev, I was not saying you are a witch. At all.
While we were cleaning out the gutters, we all had our place. My mom cleaned the gutters, Aunt Bev held the ladder and I held the bag open to dump all the trees in so they didn’t get stuck in between the trees and shrubbery below, ironically enough. While doing this, my mom didn’t always look where she was throwing her trees and would miss the bag. At one point, I ended up with trees all down my shirt. I felt very whorish for the trees. And sadly enough, that’s the best action I’ve had in...oh, I dunno, my whole life. Boob trees; they know how to make a girl feel sexy.
While my mom was up on the ladder removing the trees, she kept hitting a limb to an adjacent tree. On this limb were wind chimes. She started freaking out because she kept hearing music and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Aunt Bev and I held a good poker face for a few minutes just to keep her freaked out, until we were nice enough to point out the wind chimes. She felt better after that.
While we were there, we also decided to clean out around her pond. She has a waterfall, and above said waterfall where the water flows into it, pond scum had built up. I mean, we all know how sexy pond scum is, but when it starts to interrupt a romantic waterfall, it has to go. This was especially true considering the poor fish were in a frenzy due to the waterfall coming down in funny, odd angles because to it. It just upset the living daylights out of them and they thought the world was coming to an end. We needed to help them.
My mom and Aunt Bev crawled up the rocks to get rid of the pond scum up there, while I stayed and tried to pull the pond scum off of the rocks behind where the waterfall fell. Keeping with the theme of not watching where things were being thrown, Aunt Bev accidentally threw pond scum on me. I did the only thing I could. I thanked her for it. However, when it didn’t match my outfit, I was forced to throw it away.
Tomorrow's post is going to be in honor of my grandmother who died one year ago tomorrow. I know you're all expecting this nice, heartfelt blog about mushy stuff. You obviously didn't know my grandma. It will be a blog about things that happened at her funeral. Yeah, I know that sounds like it's going to be dull and, quite frankly, creepy. Again, you so did not know my grandma. You'll laugh...you'll think I'm nuts, but mostly you'll just laugh. We know the most inappropriate people, which is fitting because my grandma in herself knew how to throw out the most inappropriate comments. I like to think she's where I got it from. She was like Betty White. She was so cute and I miss her.
Zoe - This is me hitting you back in a totally non violent way. You had such amazing timing on your comment, as I was already on here working on the new post. I'm just going to go ahead and respond to your comment here, and then head on over to your blog to see if there is an update awaiting. I'm glad you like Squirrel Monkeys. Until someone gives me something else, I'm so using it. Knowing my friends, they'll come up with something wildly inappropriate and I won't be able to use it because it will offend at least nine different groups of people, when it was really meant to offend no one. So here's the reason I used Jason. Prior to writing that post, I was watching Ghost Adventures, and the guy who played the original Jason and went on to play him for sixteen years was on there helping them ghost hunt, so that's totally where I came up with that. To be honest, I've never seen any of the Halloween or Friday the 13th or Freddy movies. Is Freddy from Halloween, or is he just hanging out having his own Freddy movies? Or is he the one from the Elm Street movies? See, I suck at horror movie knowledge. And odd fact, my Uncle who I talk about periodically in this blog as my Uncle who isn't really my uncle, but we tell people he is anyway because he's my great uncle or something or another and I stayed with him in Arizona, is a Hollywood stuntman and coordinator, and he did the stunt coordination for the newer Halloween movies, and his kids did some of the stunts. (Run on sentence much?) I still won't watch them. I don't do gore. I honestly don't even know what they're about. I'm sorry to hear my mom and yours share traits. And honestly, I really don't know if she does or not. That's something I've tried to figure out my whole life. The thing is, though, now she's doing really odd things that she didn't before and I can tell she's legitimately unaware she's doing them. I am honestly worried about her. It may be one of my longest blogs. Just wait until I start posting more old stories. I have one that could qualify as a novella.
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