Ooh! The weather outside my warm flannel sheets is frightful.
It was for that very reason that I hurriedly checked on my vociferous fleabags Saturday morning at 5:00 a.m., and navigated my way back to bed. I am not proficient in echolocation, so I step gingerly through the darkness with my arms outstretched like a calmer, less antagonistic Patty Duke as Helen Keller.
I found my far side of the bed without stubbing anything. I tossed back the flannel sheet/quilt open-faced sandwich, and prepared to settle back in for a toasty snooze.
"Oo mft ee eh ah aw!"
"What?" It's hard to hear words spoken directly into a breather mask, muffled by a quilt and flannel sheet over that same mask.
"OO MFT EE EH AH AW!"
"Huh?" Seriously. I am not some meek foreigner asking for directions, to be spoken to with the same words, only louder, as that makes them understand.
"You hit me in the --REDACTED--! With the quilt!"
"Oh. I wanted a soft, fluffy comforter on the bed, but you insisted on this quilt. Maybe next time you'll listen to me."
Give me a break. You'd think I had twirled a wet towel and cavorted through the men's locker room, stalking my victim, and snapping at my target with accuracy to rival that of Linus Van Pelt with his trusty blanket.
Yeah. There's a lesson to be learned here. Give in to Hillbilly Mom, or wear a cup to bed.