Sleigh Me

by Marinka on April 19, 2015

You know what? I love my bed. I’ve had it for years. It’s a sleigh bed, which is admittedly an odd concept. Why do we want to pretend that we are on a sleigh when resting? And why don’t we call it a sled bed, which is a lot catchier and would also appeal to children more. Not that we want them anywhere near our bed, of course. This isn’t that kind of post. But still, sleigh or sled—why are racing down a hill in a slumber? I don’t know how anyone can keep their eyes closed with all those trees looming in the vista.

And yet, I love my bed. Probably because I don’t focus on its sleighness. So the other day, I came home and wanted to crawl straight into bed. Now, the world is divided into two types of people—those who have to take off their clothes before climbing/crawling into bed and those who can do it in their street clothes. The latter group, the street clothers, are the ones that Mama hasn’t gotten to yet.

“If you lay down in bed in street clothes,” she has explained to me patiently, “it is as though everyone you see on the subway is in bed with you too.”
In case you think that mama was describing a festive scene of free love, let me reassure you: No. Mama was describing a scene of Dickensonian filth and despair, transported to the NYC subway and, by extension, my bed.

So on one hand, I had Mama and her admonition. On the other, I had my natural born laziness. It was anyone’s game.

I got into bed fully clothed and gasped.
But not because my bed was racing down a snowy hill. And not because my fellow commuters were snuggled up beside me.
I gasped because there was something unexpected in bed with me. Something hot and metal and hard and crumply.

“What the fuck is this?” I thought, and then I knew.

Untitled 2 225x300 Sleigh Me

I raised myself from the bed and walked into the kitchen where Mama was whistling a happy tune and cooking, except with no whistling.

“There was something in my bed, and it’s still there” I BabyBeared.

“Yes,” Mama said and although it was good to have confirmation that I wasn’t having a visual and sensory hallucinating episode, it raised some other questions.

“Is it what I think it is?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. I noticed, by the way, that whenever anyone asks if something is what they think it is, it always is. So really, I don’t know why people are so coy and even bother asking instead of just making a declaration. I guess it’s one of those things that passes as a “social nicety” like greeting people and not stabbing someone.

“Yes, mashed potatoes,” Mama confirmed.

If you are not from the former Soviet Union, this will sound insane to you. And if you are from the former Soviet Union, this will sound insane to you (Exhibit A: me.)

When Russians make mashed potatoes, they are terrified that they will get cold. (The mashed potatoes will get cold, not the Russians. The Russians are the ones who are terrified. Jesus. I’m reading Between You and Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen” and it’s making me absolutely insane about grammar. It’s a miracle that I’m still able to speak. A miracle that no one has been praying for, by the way, but still.)

Anyway, I have no idea why of all things the Russians have to worry about they are fixated on the temperature of the mashed potatoes, but the Superpower with intergalactic bragging rights came up with a solution to this national crisis by wrapping the pot of mashed potatoes in newspapers and putting it under a pillow in the bed and covering the whole damn thing with a blanket.

Now I know what you’re thinking—“what a grand idea! Why didn’t I think of that? A few mashed potato warming sessions and my insanity defense will be all set for that murderous rampage I’ve been planning!”

But what I was thinking was eerily similar to what I’d been thinking for the past four decades whenever I found a newspapered pot of mashed potatoes under my bedding: WHAT THE FUCK?!

Followed closely by: why are mashed potatoes the only dish treated this way? What about soup? (Soup can be reheated; mashed potatoes not so much.) Why newspaper? (What else are you going to do with the newspaper that you already read and/or the Business Section?) Why under the blanket? (To keep It warm) Why under the pillow? (To keep it comfortable) Why don’t Americans do this? (Who knows why Americans do anything.)

So here you go.

With this quick and easy fix, you no longer have to live in fear of cold mashed potatoes.

And it has the extra benefit of keeping fellow commuters out of your bed.

Really, for what more could you ask?

{ 18 comments }

8

by Marinka on February 9, 2015

I saw a friend the other afternoon for coffee and he told me that I looked happy. “Are you happy?” he asked and I waffled because I suspect that if I admit to being happy, the happiness gods will smite me. I’m not sure what I’m thinking exactly, that I will jinx the happiness, that I will be like Greek hero felled by hubris, or just that I will be proven very, very wrong, but it seems wrong to talk about being happy, especially out loud, especially to other people.

The other day I had a fleeting thought, and I didn’t even voice it and it came to haunt me. The thought was, and I’m not at all comfortable repeating it here, but maybe if I use a different font? The thought was, WOW! I haven’t been sick in forever! As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I sneezed! And wouldn’t you know it, later that night I was embracing the toilet tenderly and violently parting company with the contents of my stomach and perhaps every other organ as well. So I know all about what thinking can lead to.

And now Neil was trying to get me to admit to happiness, in direct violation of my Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination.

“You are, aren’t you?” he persisted and when I said something like, “I..I am not good at..worried..jinxing..possibly insane…unstable-”

He gasped.

“You’re at an 8, aren’t you?

I knew exactly what he meant. An 8 on the happiness scale of 10. I don’t even know why it goes up to 10, to be honest, what with all the atrocities and Republicans in the world. How could a 10 exist?

But I was at a solid 8, which for me is off the charts.
I am happy. I have a great family, supportive, interesting parents, smart, funny kids, furry cats (potential plot twist: one of the cats appears to be pregnant. Both cats are (a) indoor (b) female (c) spayed, so I’m excited about the upcoming Immaculate Conception: Feline Edition) and I’m in love with the Guy I Went to Ireland With. I know I’m in love with him because the other day I spent some time telling him how much I hate him. That’s what true love looks like, in case you’re wondering.

So, 8. Unless writing this plummets me to a 4. And if that happens, all the atrocities and Republicans will just have to stop to level things out for me.

Anyway, enough about me. What’s your number?

{ 21 comments }

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