Back To The Boudoir Complaint Department

It has been three weeks since our last casino trip. THREE WEEKS! We usually go every two weeks, but Farmer H has had prior commitments. Anyhoo... Wednesday was designated as our day out for lunch, and entertainment of the expensive variety. Of course I had to go to bed early, because we were leaving at 9:15 a.m. Not a good night (day) for going to bed at 8:00 a.m. for my beauty sleep.

I was nestled in bed, visions of (NOT free sugar plums) slot machines dancing in my head, by 2:00 a.m. My wake-up call was scheduled for 7:45. It would be from Farmer H, probably making his phone sticky with donut fingers.

I was snoozing blissfully, lying on my left side, facing the fake fireplace wall. Directionally facing it, since my eyes were closed in slumber, and not actually looking at it.

WHAM! 

That's not a reference to an '80s band blaring on the clock radio. That's the impact of a Farmer H arm on my tender side-ribs. It was like a karate chop! Or like he was dreaming that he was swinging a sledgehammer to break up a concrete patio. It hurt like the dickens! I am sure I emitted a scream trapped in an OOF muffled by my final breath exploding from my lungs like toothpaste from a stomped-on tube.

Farmer H was aware that he did it. I could tell by his sarcastic grunt. Like I had no right to make any sound when he almost sliced me in half from one blow with the bluntest of implements.

My back hurt the whole day. Walking to the car, riding in the car, sitting at the casino, hobbling back into the Mansion when we returned. When I broached the subject as I turned on the seat-back heater in A-Cad, Farmer H pooh-poohed my pain.

"HM. You are so dramatic. Something is always wrong with you."

[Don't I know it!]

"It wouldn't be, if you'd quit hurting me in my sleep."

"Alls I did was barely bump you with my arm."

"No. You hit me so hard I could barely breathe. And now you act like you did NOTHING!"

"I didn't. But YOU moved the quilt."

"I didn't move the quilt! There was plenty of slack in the quilt. I just pulled it over me."

"I mean the sheet. You moved the sheet."

"Yes. I had no sheet on my side. It barely covered the edge. So I pulled it, hoping I'd have sheet to lie on all night. You always get it on your side."

"Wait a minute! Isn't it a FITTED sheet?"

"Yes, Pony. But he rolls up in it. Like an alligator killing its prey in a death spiral. He's wrapped up like a big burrito. I don't know how he does it!"

"I am NOT wrapped up like a burrito. That sheet doesn't fit right."

"It's a FITTED SHEET! The right size. The elastic is still good. I don't know how you get it all pulled to your side unless you roll up in it while you're turning."

 

"We need a new sheet. That one just does that."

 

"ALL of our sheets do that! But they don't get pulled to MY side of the bed! Only yours."

 

"Heh, heh. Whatever you say."

 

THAT is the way to end a losing argument. Farmer H has perfected that response. I think he is working on perfecting the tenderization of wife-ribs in his sleep.