Monday, February 4, 2013

When the Bed Bites the Dust

My erstwhile classmate Michelle over at It's a Small Town Life (I say "erstwhile" because she was with us off and on when her father deployed overseas as an Air Force pilot when we were growing up- she actually graduated elsewhere) recently blogged the unexpected midnight collapse of her bed, which elicited the comment, "Well, that was exhilarating," from her husband. Trust me, I expect no less from him, and I'm sure he delivered that line perfectly deadpan.

Which brought back another random memory, of the Evening My Bed Collapsed.

I was living ten miles up the road from Smalltownland in a tiny rental house belonging to my favorite teacher's niece. My friend Matt lived about a block away in an apartment, and he was frequently at my house when he wasn't working because a) I had dogs and b) there was free food most of the time.

Matt worked nights on the psychiatric ward in the Smalltownland hospital as an orderly, and he was already a little petrified of my father, who is to this day is one of the staff physicians. Matt had a key to my front door and would often go straight to my house after work to walk the dogs and crash on my sofa.

One afternoon I came home from work to find Matt racing madly through the house behind my two Smooth Fox Terriers, Ozzie and Jane. They'd run from the living room at the front of the house to my bedroom at the back, at which point Matt would fling himself on the bed and let the dogs wool him around. That was sort of cute until the worst possible thing happened: Matt, who is a large dude, flopped down on the bed and the retaining piece holding the rails to the headboard gave way. Matt, the bed, and both dogs crashed unceremoniously to the floor.

Fortunately, no one was hurt, but equally unfortunately, as I was bereft of power tools and/or friends to help me in that crisis, I had to call my father to come over and fix the bed.

If I'd given it more thought, I should probably have sent Matt home before Daddy got there with the drill, because we had a decidedly Uncle Buck moment when he powered that thing up. I'm also not quite sure if my father believed the story about how the bed got broken (which was the truth), since when he got it put back together both dogs raced into the room and began cheerfully bouncing around on the mattress.

So let this be a lesson unto you, single ladies: you might want to invest in your own power tools in case you're ever faced with anything similar. Your daddy may not really believe you, either.

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