Killer Bedding

December 11, 2004 at 4:19 pm (Die Yuppie Scum, Rant Goodness)

Hiya Fiends of all sorts.

Well, it's been a helluva 24 hours. I hate dust ruffles. You see, that's where this rant starts–where it ends is at the end of a long story.

I'm still trying to figure out why there's a dust ruffle on a pedestal bed. My fiance picked out the bed, right after he closed on our 3 bedroom house just south of beautiful, bucolic (formerly anyhow; then from what the local campers tell me the Yuppies spoiled it by moving here), strange, fascinating, severely RACIST (but that's another rant) Brighton, Michigan. For some reason the sales-bitch talked him into covering perfectly beautiful walnut with a pastel, rainbow, dust ruffle. Normally this guy might have bought the dust ruffle, but used it to polish Baby, his 1995 Impala SS. I personally think he popped for it just in case his brand-new fiance (moi) might like one on the king-size bed. (He knows better now and after the last 24 hours wishes he'd gotten one in a nice Woodland Camoflauge, sans the ruffle part).

Anyhow, we keep neglecting to pull off the dust ruffle when we flip the matress and change the bed because it's under the damn box spring–a big job at best, absolutely awful in small quarters. We usually say, "screw it–next time we'll pull that ugly waste of fabric off and tear it into car-polishing rags, OK honey?"

Well, that silly thing's been there four years now and starting to show wear and tear–as in the tear right by where my feet hit the floor. I've lost my slipper in it a few times in the past week, but didn't think it was out to get me until yesterday.

The first time I caught a foot in it was about 3 pm yesterday–ran like a bitch for the phone and was tugged to an abrupt halt amid the shredding of further seams on that stupid ruffle. Cussing, I pull my foot out (slipperless as usual) and catch the phone. Not the promoter. So I go back to working again…only to decide I'm already sore and it's time for a short break.

I'm not sure the mistake was taking the break or making sure there was nothing to run for. I pick #2. Once again, an hour after the first assasination attempt, I have to dash for something again.

BAM!!! No, Emeril wasn't at the door–but my treacherous bed accessory has made another attempt on my life!! I find myself hitting the floor rather hard, landing on my left knee (my "bad" leg, which is yet another rant). I find out standing is really a problem when one leg won't hold your weight–instead of letting me use it, my left leg is now calling me names like those kids I used to babysit for in high school (I have a fairly foul mouth, but I STILL don't know what half that shit even meant). Long story short, I'm toast and I have two shows scheduled for the weekend.


I crawl back on the bed and patiently await my Knight in Shining Armor's return from the salt mine that is a Meijer store. Once he arrives, I spell out the problem–basically, that I have one functioning leg and we need to do something about it unless he wants to carry me around a school in Ann Arbor the next day. So, we head for the nearest hospital–30 miles from home.

Once we get there and I'm checked in, the triage nurse explains she's sending me to "Fast Track". Folks, Fast Track is only Fast for the doctor–the goal is to see how "fast" he can get your (and his) ass out of the hospital. I might add that there's been times these yahoos have been out the door BEFORE I have!

Well, this jackass decides that walking for a Goddess-sized woman is highly overrated, and so is not curling into a fetal, whimpering ball. I'm doing both of these all during the exam, X Rays and the subsequent time when the very-nice RN is asking if the steroid and light muscle relaxant have "done the job." I was nice–I know who the asshat (Gods, Moo, I love this one) is here. So, she talks the doc into a shot of something else–he still has a thing about actually relieving pain, so it's Valium this time, not something that'll actually work on the PAIN that's making everything from the hip on down a mass of knives with midgets jumping on them.

Three shots in my butt's two more than I can put up with, so I give up. That's when I'm presented with two pieces of paper, the medications named on them adding up to over $100 worth of pills. I am still nice. I explain that I am the one paying every red cent for the medicines named on those prescriptions–can they be changed to meds I don't need a home equity loan to buy? The nice nurse comes back; one prescription is changed, the other is the same, with reassurance that Norflex "isn't that expensive".

Bullshit–that one alone is $50 and I didn't know that until I checked with my fantastic pharmacist today. The other is for Tylenol 3 and the little bottle they gave me on the way out the door meant I'm not curled into a fetal ball and I can get to the bathroom myself, but that's about it–even my nice office chair sucks today…

…and so does that nice big gorgeous bed. The dust ruffle??? Baby's gonna look gorgeous!! We still have to pull out the part that is under the box spring but no one can see it anyhow–the beautiful finish on the pedestal is finally out where we can see it.


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