My vibrating bed has no zany 80s hijinx

I’m tired. No, really. Like, I just want to lay down on the floor at all times and sleep…or die. Whichever will do the job. I’m not picky.

I’m thirty-five and I honestly don’t blame my age. Anyone that comments with, “oh it’s your age” will get their face smacked off their head, I swear.

My husband did buy me an old people bed when I came home from the hospital, but that was a medical thing. I NEEDED a bed that vibrated and changed head and foot position. It was imperative to my healing process. What, are we just going to throw it away because I’m all better now? Not a chance, trick.

At first it reminded me of one of those beds you see in those old 80s movies. You know the ones they put the quarters in and it vibrates them right off the bed in hilarious ways, or glitches and catches fire. Those old 80s movies had me certain that beds that vibrated were pervert beds. That beds like that only existed in porn or in a hidden room in some creepy dude’s kidnap shack. Not, in my regular house in my normal bedroom.

I still have a hard time not seeing myself like Beverly D’Angelo in National Lampoon’s Vacation. Gawd, how I wish I had that sexy hair. Of course, we never end up on the floor and I have french fry grease hair most days. But it’s always there, in the back of my mind…what if the bed turns evil and tries to vibrate us to death? It would be the most relaxing death, but the worst news report.

“Couple sleeping on a vibrating 80s pervert bed got what they deserved when their sinning asses burnt up in a whacky vibrating bed fire yesterday. Authorities say that all of their neighbors hated them, and that the woman’s greasy french fry hair was the cause of the fire. No one misses them and Twitter is blowing up on the #pervertbedcouple tag”.

It’s one of the drawbacks of my awesome bed. I don’t try to explain away the pervert vibe my bed gives off to people. When it comes up I just start playing R. Kelly’s Ignition on my phone, and bounce my way out of the room.


Since it rarely comes up, I don’t get to show off my sweet bounce skills while walking to a door, but when it does I bounce myself into a pulled groin. I’m not old. I’m just woefully out of shape. That doesn’t stop me from me from celebrating the spirit of the freakin’ weekend all week long. My whole life really. It’s the freakin’ weekend in my heart all year long.


My husband being on a business trip turns my brain into useless mush

My husband has been on a business trip since Monday, and the adult in me would like to point out that I’ve been responsible. The other 90% of me needs that 10% to sit down and remember how often we listened to that Meghan Trainor song while eating candy.

that girl

I’ve cleaned, I’ve read a ton of Jane Austen, stared at old photos of my husband, and even written a little bit of husband fanfiction.

be interested in my fic

It’s gotten pitiful, but he threw me a bone. Of course, I made it weird. I always make it weird.

I'll be home

I’m starting to wonder why he likes coming home at all. I basically stalk, harass, and otherwise act like a fan. I don’t think it’s normal wife behavior to wish you could draw better so you could draw illustrations of your husband dressed up as different Jane Austen heroes, but there it is.  That’s how I love. In the creepiest, grossest way possible. Apparently he likes it.

northanger funny

He’s probably just REALLY gratefully I’m not a talented artist of any kind because if I was, there would be many portraits of him in full regency swagger, complete with cravat and smolder.