If Farmer H Designed A Mattress, It Would Be A Farmers Moody-Rest

Just when I was certain Farmer H was trying to kill me…he goes and accuses me of trying to kill HIM! Can you believe that audacity of that man? Like I would need to expend any effort, what with him doing such a good job of it himself. 

The whole kerfuffle started when I climbed into bed. It’s a new adventure every night. I feel like a National Geographic explorer. What will it be this time, craggy terrain with mountain peaks? Barren steppe? A humid jungle of clinging vines?

Last night, it was the jungle. My pillow stack was not too disrupted. I found the corner of Grandma’s quilt and the corner of the flannel sheet, and matched them up, and folded them back. It goes without saying (but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a loquacious sort), that the edge lay across part of Farmer H. It’s only a queen-size mattress, you know. I inserted myself into the marital bed, reached for that corner, and pulled the sheet/quilt combo over myself. 

Farmer H began caterwauling like the most proficient caterwauler that ever caterwauled. “Yoowwww!”

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“You about ripped my arm off!”

Hyperbole, thy name is Farmer H. Was there a heavy stump wrapped in Grandma’s quilt that thumped onto my chest? Was arterial blood spurting into the air, raining down on me like a gusher in a Texas oil field? I think not. The room was dark, certainly, but my other four senses were heightened. Like my BS detector. 

To hear Farmer H carry on, one would have thought I was ripping him limb from limb. And whacking him severely about the head, shoulders, and genital region with the purloined appendages. Which I most certainly did not do. My energy was needed elsewhere. 

Perhaps I’ve mentioned off-handedly (heh, heh, a little dismemberment funny) how Farmer H prefers the weighty quilt of my grandma to a gossamer comforter from the insurance salvage store where I once worked. And he prefers the toasty flannel sheets to the smooth cool cotton sheets that are so soothing to a slumberer in a 74-degree bedroom. Do you have any clue how flannel sheets and 100% cotton jammies interact with each other? LIKE VELCRO!

I could not situate myself upon the sheets. Part of the problem was that roughly two feet of sheet stretched above my head, while my feet cooled their heels as naked as the day I came into the world. I could not maneuver the sheet down. I thrashed like a Tasmanian devil caught under a throw net. Twisted myself up in those sheets like a Scotch Removable Clear Mounting Square wrapped in a strip of flypaper. Entangled myself tighter than a cocklebur in a minipony’s flowing mane. I was tireder when I woke up than when I went to bed. 

Once I had unintentionally swaddled myself into submission, I tried to count sheep leaping over a pastoral pasture fence. My imaginary sheep snagged their wool on an imaginary thorn tree, and hung suspended like so many plump white curly fruit sagging toward the ground. Not conducive to counting. 

Farmer H is not conducive to ZZZZs.