Gill emailed me with a question:”What the Hell is up with Crazy D?” How to answer…was she referring to his current plot to retrieve another of his beds from Toronto (of the three he has been through in the past six months)? Was she referring to his inability to tell time and his constant missing of appointments? Or was she referring to his cryptic notes on FB and the wild and wonderful pictures he posts of our family weirdness? The point is that it matters not. All three scenarios are valid and part of his (and hence my) current life.
The bed situation is the most confusing. Imagine the old shell game, only with beds instead of jelly beans under the shell. When he first moved home, there was a perfectly lovely double-sized bed in his room. The room had a beautiful antique mahogany dresser, new lamps, stylish grey silky drapes that co-ordinated with the quilt on the bed. A couple of pictures and a wreath made of nuts and seeds from our time in California. Some of the eucalyptus smell was still there. So you see, a cozy, comfy, well-appointed place. Enter Crazy D.
Now I am the first to recognize that, when a relationship is done, it’s done and the best thing to do is Get the Hell Out of Dodge …FAST. But a little thought put into the question of ‘who gets the bed?’ and ‘who gets the dog?’ would never go amiss. Except that Crazy D, in his haste, just wanted out.
I admit, this far into the farce, that I have likely lost the plot, but as best I can reconstruct it, the bed from his room here went to the ex in Toronto. The bed they had together (at Crazy D’s insistence, an expensive super duper back support model) came here. The bed (another expensive one) that was in his apartment (with the headboard that was a piece of art) that he was subletting remained there. He decided the new tenants were responsible enough to take care of it. They were.
Enter the bedbugs to his room here. Exit, stage left, in a cloud of fumigation dust, his bed, strapped to the top of his SUV heading for the dump.
Next stop: Ikea for a shitty mattress and frame (Sorry, Ikea, nothing personal). He installed this new bed in his room and immediately left for his Continental Divide bike race. When he returned, he had to find new tenants for his Toronto apartment. He found some. He didn’t, to be honest, like the cut of their jib. Didn’t trust them with his best bed and belongs-in-a-museum quality frame. What to do? Bring it here, of course.
“But aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked foolishly.
“Well, for starters, the fact that you just bought a bed for your room here. And bought an expensive mattress cover for it. And spent a day getting it here and setting it up. That’s a lot of wasted time, effort and money. Where will it go?”
“To my sublet apartment in Toronto, of course. I don’t care if the new tenants trash it. It’s only an Ikea bed. (Again, apologies to Ikea.) I’ll rent a truck, take this bed down in it and bring the other one back here. My friend R has agreed to help lift the heavy bed.”
So once again, Crazy D’s bed was torn apart, and I drove him to the truck rental place. They had assured him by phone that the truck would be available and ready at the depot at the extreme south end of the city. We arrived to discover that the previous renters had bashed the windshield and the only truck available was at the opposite, north end location. Off we went. Just as a precaution, Crazy D asked me to wait a few minutes to make sure everything was fine. He came out a few minutes later, fuming, announcing that he had forgotten to bring his driver’s license. Returning to the truck rental place for the third time, he was then two hours behind schedule. By the time all was said and done, he returned home with the new bed after I had retired for the evening. He and a friend set it up and I didn’t see the results until the next morning.
I peeked in when he opened the door to show me. The bed WAS the room. It is a king-sized bed, fit truly for a king–King Crazy D– with its magnificent teak headboard, a modern version of an old-fashioned sleigh bed. There is no room for anything else in the room.
“My,” I commented, struggling for words. “That IS quite a bed.”
“Yeah, it is, huh? I’ve been thinking, Mom…”
Uh, oh. Whenever one of my children uses that phrase, it’s going nowhere good.
“I think maybe it’s time to consider finishing the basement. That way, L’il Sis could have her sweat shop there, I could have my bike repair shop, and there would be room for my office as well.” Then, throwing me a bone, he added, “Just think…you could have the front room (currently Lil Sis’ sweat shop) as your office. Everyone wins!”
“Well, the bed certainly won…”