I have a new bed.
This is big. The bed is big, too. A queen. A pillow-top queen. That's fancy.
Now, I know to many this seems like little cause for a timpani solo, but I'm darn excited about the big queen in my bedroom. You see, I've been sleeping on the same twin daybed for about 15 years (except for my six-month gig of living in sin with Vietnam when it was relegated to the guest room). Why I never thought to get a big girl's bed, I'm not sure. I guess I never had an extra thousand bucks and change in the bank collecting dust. And I was used to my twin. It didn't take up much room. And there was a roll-out "trundle" bed underneath, which popped up to accomodate the occasional sleep-over friend or love interest. I was fine with my twin, really. We spoke a special language no one else could understand.
Then a friend from work stopped by my place one day and during the boudoir tour, she took in a deep breath and lamented ever so sorrowfully, "Oh, Nictate. You have to get a bigger bed! No man is going to walk in here and feel welcome. He has to be able to picture himself in it!"
Why this feng shui-esque theory had never occured to me is anyone's guess. In my defense, however, no guy had ever complained about being in bed with my twin. I'm sure they might have thought it charmingly eccentric or hot in a "It's like I'm in a high school girl's bedroom" way, but none of my past Romeos had said a peep.
Anyway, cut to several months later and I'm sleeping like a queen. It's quite an empowering and inspiring acquisition, I must say. It's a grown-up bed and I've taken the opportunity to dress it with sophisticated sheets and Oprah-endorsed bedding and jauntily arranged decorative pillows.
I think about my bed when I'm in class or at work. Not about wanting to sleep on it, but longing to stare at its lusty dark brown quilt and dusty blue toss pillows. I want to admire the heft of it, as it reclines like a giant piece of luscious chocolate in my room. I must say, owning this supersized sleeper makes me feel like one damn fine sophisticated lady. I wonder if people notice anything different about me. Maybe a new swing in my stride or a glimmer in my eye. You'd be surprised what a new lay will do for a gal.
Speaking of being in bed, what in the heck is up with Dubya nominating his never-been-a-judge White House lawyer, Harriet Miers, for the Supreme Court? Rather than gnash my teeth, I've decided to channel my outrage through poetry.
I'm troubled by this Texan chick who W's proposed.
I smell something funny and it ain't a yellow rose.
Even reaction on the Hill to Harriet was cool.
Does Bush Jr. think us all dang-blasted fools?
It seems clear having been on Dubya's payroll
Might sway her into taking a court-tilting toll.
While her resume's full, she's never sat on a bench.
Why, she's got all the makings of a back-pocket wench.
Still, there's no Supreme surprise in this cronyistic lob.
After all, back in 2000, the Court handed Bush his job.
So, Harriet? No kidding? Can't you see the absurdity?
Hell, the lady can't even apply her eyeliner judiciously.
A foreshadowing of the gentrification of Blogger.com: the hilarious and brilliant Ms. Julia Sweeney of SNL (and now one-woman show) fame has moved into a nice little blogalow on our street. I must stop by later with some muffins of admiration.