Good: I just rolled out of bed. At 11:00 am.
Bad: I feel like I've traveled cross country folded up in a suitcase. And I had the most devastating dream that has me feeling a little heartbroken.
Glorious: I'm having a brand new bed delivered this weekend.
In the "this could only happen to me" files--Last holiday weekend I took a Clorox wipe to the film of makeup and bong residue on my body and ventured out to take advantage of the mega-furniture, spend money because America, mattress sales. Heading into the first "luxury liquidator" type establishment, I see the vultures circling and here a voice, "I've got them." And up walks a woman that in my youth I had dubbed Foushee Trollop. I saw the look in her face, she was trying to place me but wasn't quite sure where she knew me from. I saw her and knew immediately, I only had to glance down at her name tag to be sure. Years ago this woman was a pastry chef at the country club. Adorable. Short, curvy, gigantic blue eyes and shiny blonde hair. She looked so fancy and innocent in her chef's coat and floppy hat. I always imagined her house had a lot of pink in it. Then I found out-in small world style-that she had been dating an acquaintance of mine. That is until she started sucking dick for drug money. Only my friend continued to let her live with her because she was trying to "help" her. Classic lesbian co-dependence drama. Anyway, I just couldn't put the pastry chef image and the horror stories together. I couldn't bring myself to call this Strawberry Shortcake character a cum dumpster, so I settled for Foushee Trollop. And so it was written. Anyway, the dick sucking for drugs racket has caught up with dear Foushee so many years later, because here she was in front of me selling mattresses- gaunt, chipped nail polish (gross), a questionable bruise on her forearm, and an I suck dick for drug money and/or validation wedge haircut-died black with blue streaks. And there I was dressed for mattress shopping and climbing in and out of beds in front of G-d and everybody. Just for fun I wanted to yell out, "Hey Foushee, did ya wanna get a good scissor goin on this one?!" But better judgement kicked in and I left her alone. And left without making a purchase. And then of course I had to explain the whole thing to my not amused wife.
So off to a completely different end of town to the full-priced, high-end furniture store. And after walking the length of the store and being accosted by every retail sales person ever to have tried to sell something, I am met with yet another familiar face. (Is there a reason that every bed hopper from my partying past is now in mattress sales? The irony is not lost on me...) This time a guy, with no drug problem for sure, but loved a cocktail and a trashy girl. In fact, I drank with him at happy hour almost every day for three years. He drank Maker's and Coke, and went through every girl with camel toe and curled bangs in central Virginia. He took me to some of the seediest bars I'd ever been to actually. At least in this state. And now here he was, selling mattresses in a suit. Same boyish good looks-a little bit more of him than there used to be-same gentlemanly southern drawl. Only he wasn't so quick to bring himself to my attention. He made side glances, walked passed me on purpose, hovered in the background while our salesman helped me on and off bed after bed. I tried my damnedest to get him to make eye contact-like if I bore down long enough I could will him to look at me. But he was determined not to be bothered, as if my presence was an offense to his furniture salesman, Walmart tie wearing, sense of good taste. And then of course I had to explain the whole thing to my not amused wife.
Regardless, there is a fancy, cushy, no one was murdered on it, mattress in my very near future and I haven't been more excited about anything since ANNE MURRAY RETWEETED ME(!).
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