[OT] Last Night

Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner, shopping
and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the existentialist
sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted to the essential
Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found my way to bed at the
exceptionally late time of 10pm.

Having not been bothered to replace the light bulb in the bedroom for
several decades now, I didn't bother looking where I was going, the body has
developed 'muscle memory' of its own about this particular activity, and can
find its own way to bed, even if the brain has turned itself off. I used to
think this was a useful characteristic when I went out drinking to the wee
small hour sof the morning with my friends, but find its even more essential
when one has already fallen asleep at 6pm and still has another 4 hours of
explaining why one shouldn't try to poke popcorn into the dog's bottom to
someone who has the attention span of a gnat with brain damage.

So it came as a bit of a shock that there was a definite *crunching* sound
as my not insubstantial weight fell upon the mattress. This, however, didn't
deter me. Well, not much. I am used to strange things in the bed these
days - the sort that wiggle and pull my hair and want have a deep &
meaningful about the nature and meaning of poo-poo at 3am. Quite frankly, I
can sleep through anything, and a mere 'crunch' in the bed no longer bothers
me. Unless of course, the crunch has a definite roach or arachnid sort of
sound.

But this particular crunching was not of the exoskeletal sort, and I was not
alarmed - nor even alert. I turned over, more crunching. I rearranged the
pillows - more crunching. In a last ditch effort I 'foofed' the doona. In
the dark and gloom, it sounded very much like there were *things* falling on
the floor. Light things, no heavy impacts, but definite 'plopping' sorts of
sounds.

And now my shoulder & hip were feeling rather itchy.

Something was afoot. Or rather ashoulder and ahip.

I reached under the doona to have a bit of a feel about. I found balls.
(Joel was not in bed with me). Lots of balls. *Hundreds* of balls. I got
out of bed, and my foot crunched on the floor. The smell of cheesy snack
food was now quite overwhelming. I turned the hall light on to see what
terrible tragedy had befallen my bedchamber.

There were deceased, critically injured and intact-but-stale cheese & bacon
balls all through my bed. They had gotten *under* the sheets, into my pillow
cases and even throughout the doona. My bed was full of bright yellow,
sticky, oily fragments, and I had been clearly crumbed with them too. This
does explain why my son smelt vaguely of 'cheesy poufs' when I came home,
but hadn't actually eaten any. He had generously fed my clearly malnourished
and starving bed instead, bless him.

When I was young, I had not envisaged myself having to vacuum snack food
crumbs out of my bed. Clearly, my adult life is not what I had imagined it
to be. Then again, I don't think any sane person would imagine getting
*into* bed with cheesy-bacon balls (then again, some people have really
*strange* ideas on what they should sleep with!).

So, after clogging up the vacuum twice with sticky yellow ex-food, I chose
to have a shower, and put an end to my resemblance to an item due for deep
frying. The bed clothes went into the washing machine, and as I loaded them
50 minutes later into the dryer, I consoled myself with the thought that
doing laundry in the dead of night was probably good practice for when Cary
starts wetting the bed. *If* he lives that long!

Ah, the joys of parenthood!

--
Joy

"If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an
empty desk? -- Jay Brand, cognitive psychologist

"Yowie" wrote in message
...
Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner,
shopping
and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the existentialist
sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted to the essential
Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found my way to bed at the
exceptionally late time of 10pm.

Having not been bothered to replace the light bulb in the bedroom for
several decades now, I didn't bother looking where I was going, the body
has
developed 'muscle memory' of its own about this particular activity, and
can
find its own way to bed, even if the brain has turned itself off. I used
to
think this was a useful characteristic when I went out drinking to the wee
small hour sof the morning with my friends, but find its even more
essential
when one has already fallen asleep at 6pm and still has another 4 hours of
explaining why one shouldn't try to poke popcorn into the dog's bottom to
someone who has the attention span of a gnat with brain damage.

So it came as a bit of a shock that there was a definite *crunching* sound
as my not insubstantial weight fell upon the mattress. This, however,
didn't
deter me. Well, not much. I am used to strange things in the bed these
days - the sort that wiggle and pull my hair and want have a deep &
meaningful about the nature and meaning of poo-poo at 3am. Quite frankly,
I
can sleep through anything, and a mere 'crunch' in the bed no longer
bothers
me. Unless of course, the crunch has a definite roach or arachnid sort of
sound.

But this particular crunching was not of the exoskeletal sort, and I was
not
alarmed - nor even alert. I turned over, more crunching. I rearranged the
pillows - more crunching. In a last ditch effort I 'foofed' the doona. In
the dark and gloom, it sounded very much like there were *things* falling
on
the floor. Light things, no heavy impacts, but definite 'plopping' sorts
of
sounds.

And now my shoulder & hip were feeling rather itchy.

Something was afoot. Or rather ashoulder and ahip.

I reached under the doona to have a bit of a feel about. I found balls.
(Joel was not in bed with me). Lots of balls. *Hundreds* of balls. I got
out of bed, and my foot crunched on the floor. The smell of cheesy snack
food was now quite overwhelming. I turned the hall light on to see what
terrible tragedy had befallen my bedchamber.

There were deceased, critically injured and intact-but-stale cheese &
bacon
balls all through my bed. They had gotten *under* the sheets, into my
pillow
cases and even throughout the doona. My bed was full of bright yellow,
sticky, oily fragments, and I had been clearly crumbed with them too. This
does explain why my son smelt vaguely of 'cheesy poufs' when I came home,
but hadn't actually eaten any. He had generously fed my clearly
malnourished
and starving bed instead, bless him.

When I was young, I had not envisaged myself having to vacuum snack food
crumbs out of my bed. Clearly, my adult life is not what I had imagined it
to be. Then again, I don't think any sane person would imagine getting
*into* bed with cheesy-bacon balls (then again, some people have really
*strange* ideas on what they should sleep with!).

So, after clogging up the vacuum twice with sticky yellow ex-food, I chose
to have a shower, and put an end to my resemblance to an item due for deep
frying. The bed clothes went into the washing machine, and as I loaded
them
50 minutes later into the dryer, I consoled myself with the thought that
doing laundry in the dead of night was probably good practice for when
Cary
starts wetting the bed. *If* he lives that long!

Oh, Vickie, once again you have made me chuckle, giggle, and guffaw, with
your writings.... while at the same time *very* glad that I do not have
children!

I think that if *I* found 'cheesy poufs' in *my* bed, I would have just
eaten them (and hoped that said toddler that had placed them in the bed,
hadn't previously tried to feed them to the dog's butt)!

In ,
Yowie purred:
Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner,
shopping and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the
existentialist sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted
to the essential Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found
my way to bed at the exceptionally late time of 10pm.

Having not been bothered to replace the light bulb in the bedroom for
several decades now, I didn't bother looking where I was going, the
body has developed 'muscle memory' of its own about this particular
activity, and can find its own way to bed, even if the brain has
turned itself off. I used to think this was a useful characteristic
when I went out drinking to the wee small hour sof the morning with
my friends, but find its even more essential when one has already
fallen asleep at 6pm and still has another 4 hours of explaining why
one shouldn't try to poke popcorn into the dog's bottom to someone
who has the attention span of a gnat with brain damage.

So it came as a bit of a shock that there was a definite *crunching*
sound as my not insubstantial weight fell upon the mattress. This,
however, didn't deter me. Well, not much. I am used to strange things
in the bed these
days - the sort that wiggle and pull my hair and want have a deep &
meaningful about the nature and meaning of poo-poo at 3am. Quite
frankly, I can sleep through anything, and a mere 'crunch' in the bed
no longer bothers me. Unless of course, the crunch has a definite
roach or arachnid sort of sound.

But this particular crunching was not of the exoskeletal sort, and I
was not alarmed - nor even alert. I turned over, more crunching. I
rearranged the pillows - more crunching. In a last ditch effort I
'foofed' the doona. In the dark and gloom, it sounded very much like
there were *things* falling on the floor. Light things, no heavy
impacts, but definite 'plopping' sorts of sounds.

And now my shoulder & hip were feeling rather itchy.

Something was afoot. Or rather ashoulder and ahip.

I reached under the doona to have a bit of a feel about. I found
balls. (Joel was not in bed with me). Lots of balls. *Hundreds* of
balls. I got out of bed, and my foot crunched on the floor. The
smell of cheesy snack food was now quite overwhelming. I turned the
hall light on to see what terrible tragedy had befallen my bedchamber.

There were deceased, critically injured and intact-but-stale cheese &
bacon balls all through my bed. They had gotten *under* the sheets,
into my pillow cases and even throughout the doona. My bed was full
of bright yellow, sticky, oily fragments, and I had been clearly
crumbed with them too. This does explain why my son smelt vaguely of
'cheesy poufs' when I came home, but hadn't actually eaten any. He
had generously fed my clearly malnourished and starving bed instead,
bless him.

When I was young, I had not envisaged myself having to vacuum snack
food crumbs out of my bed. Clearly, my adult life is not what I had
imagined it to be. Then again, I don't think any sane person would
imagine getting
*into* bed with cheesy-bacon balls (then again, some people have
really
*strange* ideas on what they should sleep with!).

So, after clogging up the vacuum twice with sticky yellow ex-food, I
chose to have a shower, and put an end to my resemblance to an item
due for deep frying. The bed clothes went into the washing machine,
and as I loaded them 50 minutes later into the dryer, I consoled
myself with the thought that doing laundry in the dead of night was
probably good practice for when Cary starts wetting the bed. *If* he
lives that long!

Yowie wrote:
Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner,
shopping and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the
existentialist sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted
to the essential Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found
my way to bed at the exceptionally late time of 10pm.
snip

Forgive me, Vicky, but I did laugh a couple of times while reading that. I
hope you're keeping all these stories to show Cary's friends when (if) he's
a teenager. ;-)
--
Adrian (Owned by Snoopy and Bagheera)
Cats leave pawprints on your heart.
http://community.webshots.com/user/clowderuk

"Adrian A" wrote in message
om...
Yowie wrote:
Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner,
shopping and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the
existentialist sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted
to the essential Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found
my way to bed at the exceptionally late time of 10pm.
snip

Forgive me, Vicky, but I did laugh a couple of times while reading that. I
hope you're keeping all these stories to show Cary's friends when (if)
he's
a teenager. ;-)

I'm glad you laughed, thats why I wrote it. The surrealism of finding
cheesy-bacon balls in my bed just struck me as surreal - and therefore
funny.

Yowie

"Yowie" wrote in message
...
"Adrian A" wrote in message
om...
Yowie wrote:
Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner,
shopping and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the
existentialist sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted
to the essential Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found
my way to bed at the exceptionally late time of 10pm.
snip

Forgive me, Vicky, but I did laugh a couple of times while reading that.
I
hope you're keeping all these stories to show Cary's friends when (if)
he's
a teenager. ;-)

I'm glad you laughed, thats why I wrote it. The surrealism of finding
cheesy-bacon balls in my bed just struck me as surreal - and therefore
funny.


Well, quite a lot becomes surreal at 10pm after an evening with a gentleman
of Cary's tender years. But this was exceptionally funny from a safe
distance.

My mother would have had a fit if she knew I fairly regular have to vacuum
the sheets with the dustbuster at bedtime. I know I'll miss kids with sand
on their feet when they've all grown, but in my bed isn't a place I'm going
to miss it.

Jo

Yowie wrote:

Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner, shopping
and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the existentialist
sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted to the essential
Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found my way to bed at the
exceptionally late time of 10pm... [snip]

This story would make Dave Barry proud. Thanks for the giggle.

I think it would be interesting to elicit the rationale from your son
as to exactly why he felt the need to stuff your bed with cheese puffs.
If he can remember, that is!

I am used to strange things in the bed these
days - the sort that wiggle and pull my hair and want have a deep &
meaningful about the nature and meaning of poo-poo at 3am.

Joel sounds like quite the conversationalist.

When I was young, I had not envisaged myself having to vacuum snack food
crumbs out of my bed.

sigh The things we lower ourselves to...

Great story, thanks for posting!
Joyce

Please tell this confused American what a doona is.... Is it a pillow?

Head butts to you and yours, Lisa.


"Joy" wrote in message
...
Ah, the joys of parenthood!

--
Joy

"If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an
empty desk? -- Jay Brand, cognitive psychologist

"Yowie" wrote in message
...
Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner,
shopping
and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the
existentialist
sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted to the essential
Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found my way to bed at the
exceptionally late time of 10pm.

Having not been bothered to replace the light bulb in the bedroom for
several decades now, I didn't bother looking where I was going, the body
has
developed 'muscle memory' of its own about this particular activity, and
can
find its own way to bed, even if the brain has turned itself off. I used
to
think this was a useful characteristic when I went out drinking to the
wee
small hour sof the morning with my friends, but find its even more
essential
when one has already fallen asleep at 6pm and still has another 4 hours
of
explaining why one shouldn't try to poke popcorn into the dog's bottom to
someone who has the attention span of a gnat with brain damage.

So it came as a bit of a shock that there was a definite *crunching*
sound
as my not insubstantial weight fell upon the mattress. This, however,
didn't
deter me. Well, not much. I am used to strange things in the bed these
days - the sort that wiggle and pull my hair and want have a deep &
meaningful about the nature and meaning of poo-poo at 3am. Quite frankly,
I
can sleep through anything, and a mere 'crunch' in the bed no longer
bothers
me. Unless of course, the crunch has a definite roach or arachnid sort of
sound.

But this particular crunching was not of the exoskeletal sort, and I was
not
alarmed - nor even alert. I turned over, more crunching. I rearranged the
pillows - more crunching. In a last ditch effort I 'foofed' the doona. In
the dark and gloom, it sounded very much like there were *things* falling
on
the floor. Light things, no heavy impacts, but definite 'plopping' sorts
of
sounds.

And now my shoulder & hip were feeling rather itchy.

Something was afoot. Or rather ashoulder and ahip.

I reached under the doona to have a bit of a feel about. I found balls.
(Joel was not in bed with me). Lots of balls. *Hundreds* of balls. I got
out of bed, and my foot crunched on the floor. The smell of cheesy snack
food was now quite overwhelming. I turned the hall light on to see what
terrible tragedy had befallen my bedchamber.

There were deceased, critically injured and intact-but-stale cheese &
bacon
balls all through my bed. They had gotten *under* the sheets, into my
pillow
cases and even throughout the doona. My bed was full of bright yellow,
sticky, oily fragments, and I had been clearly crumbed with them too.
This
does explain why my son smelt vaguely of 'cheesy poufs' when I came home,
but hadn't actually eaten any. He had generously fed my clearly
malnourished
and starving bed instead, bless him.

When I was young, I had not envisaged myself having to vacuum snack food
crumbs out of my bed. Clearly, my adult life is not what I had imagined
it
to be. Then again, I don't think any sane person would imagine getting
*into* bed with cheesy-bacon balls (then again, some people have really
*strange* ideas on what they should sleep with!).

So, after clogging up the vacuum twice with sticky yellow ex-food, I
chose
to have a shower, and put an end to my resemblance to an item due for
deep
frying. The bed clothes went into the washing machine, and as I loaded
them
50 minutes later into the dryer, I consoled myself with the thought that
doing laundry in the dead of night was probably good practice for when
Cary
starts wetting the bed. *If* he lives that long!

On Fri, 20 Apr 2007 10:58:51 GMT, "Don & Lisa"
yodeled:

Please tell this confused American what a doona is.... Is it a pillow?

Head butts to you and yours, Lisa.



We would call it a duvet, or a light comforter.


Theresa
Stinky Pictures: http://community.webshots.com/album/125591586JWEFwh

Make Levees, Not War

Yowie wrote:

Last night, after an incredibly exciting evening of cooking dinner, shopping
and having a long and incredibly detailed discussion of the existentialist
sub-theme in Thomas the Tank compared and contrasted to the essential
Marxist nature of Bob The Builder, I finally found my way to bed at the
exceptionally late time of 10pm.

Having not been bothered to replace the light bulb in the bedroom for
several decades now, I didn't bother looking where I was going, the body has
developed 'muscle memory' of its own about this particular activity, and can
find its own way to bed, even if the brain has turned itself off. I used to
think this was a useful characteristic when I went out drinking to the wee
small hour sof the morning with my friends, but find its even more essential
when one has already fallen asleep at 6pm and still has another 4 hours of
explaining why one shouldn't try to poke popcorn into the dog's bottom to
someone who has the attention span of a gnat with brain damage.

So it came as a bit of a shock that there was a definite *crunching* sound
as my not insubstantial weight fell upon the mattress. snip
So, after clogging up the vacuum twice with sticky yellow ex-food, I chose
to have a shower, and put an end to my resemblance to an item due for deep
frying. The bed clothes went into the washing machine, and as I loaded them
50 minutes later into the dryer, I consoled myself with the thought that
doing laundry in the dead of night was probably good practice for when Cary
starts wetting the bed. *If* he lives that long!

Thanks for the laugh, Vicky. I'm sorry you got less sleep than you
expected (and needed).
Purrs and best wishes,
Polonca and Soncek