On weekend mornings, SOS and I often rough-house on POB’s and my bed — we wrestle, tussle, the usual. (At other times, even POB and I can fit in a little tussle, but I digress).
The bed held up as best it could, for 12 years. So, last night when SOS jumped on the bed to reach me for a kiss good-night, we heard a ◊craaaack◊ followed by a creeeeeak!!!!! followed by a THUUUUNK of a falling “decorative” wood brace in the headboard.
After assuring SOS that it was not his fault, I set about trying to repair the bed before it sloped into total collapse. Mind you, this is no IKEA-born-to-break-in-three-months bed; this is — or should have been — a stand-up-to-kids, Odysseus-built-around-a-tree-trunk type of bed, notwithstanding its modern aesthetic.
After getting the mattress off, I saw that the hinges and the connectors were bent. Ok, so this is not a bed deserving of any analogy to that in the Homeric epic.
POB just thought we should dismantle the whole thing, set it aside and put the mattress on the floor. “I am too old to sleep on some kind of a FUTON!!” I exclaim, shocking even me. “We are sleeping on a proper bed because we are going to fix it. All I need is a hammer and screw driver!!”
POB dutifully brought a hammer and screw driver. She is always doing sweet things like that, like the time she gave me enough rope to hang myself.
It is a heavy bed, as in more than our combined body weight. We took turns heaving the pieces into the correct position while the other tried to hammer the pieces into the correct grooves. Let’s just say I would be in traction if I hadn’t been working on my abs.
At one point, when POB was doing the heavy lifting job, I tried to get at the mangled joint. That required that I slither between her legs — just below the knees — with a hammer, all the while sweating and panting from all of the lifting I had just been doing.
“What are you doing?” POB screeeeeched in horror, as she was now in charge of holding up a really heavy bed frame.
As if I needed to say this, but I did: “Sweetie, this is not a novel attempt at seduction. Right now I don’t care where I am relative to your anatomy. I care that I am close to the mangled joint that I need to fix!!” At that point, I realized I needed a pliers. “Don’t move,” I told POB.
Since this is rated G (General Audiences), I will not repeat her response.
After I hit my fingers with the hammer and squeezed part of my finger in the pliers, I made the damage to the bed parts (they were then officially “parts” not a “bed frame”) even worse. But the decisive factor is, well, I suck at home improvement. Another lesbian myth blown sky-high.
The long and short of it is that we slept futon-style with the mattress on the floor. And the bed frame company is sending someone up from its SoHo store to fix the mangled mess on Thursday. If a gay man show up and puts the frame back together without anyone’s help, then I will give up my lesbian boot camp standard issue: hammer, pliers, screw driver and variable speed drill (both with various size bits).
But I am keeping the toaster oven.