The Circus Cannon

January 18, 2007

Does anyone know where I can get my hands on a cannon that’s suitable for launching 140 pound adult males? If so, just shoot me a quick email outlining the details. Thanks.

Maybe those first few lines gave it away, I really don’t know. But just in case they didn’t, let me bring you up to speed—Jared’s on my schnit list. If you’re curious about the events that led to this spousal classification, then read on my friends. Read on.

Until we settle into a place of our own, we’re living in a house that’s completely furnished. It’s a total bonus, considering the fact that the bulk of our own furniture has either come from Ikea, Target, yard sales, or generally sketchy circumstances. For example, we once bought a couch and a love seat, brand new, for five hundred dollars. We bought them from Dallas Furniture Warehouse—you know, the kind of store that had the same faded GRAND OPENING sign hanging in the front window for three and a half years.

After we paid for the furniture, we were like, “Hey. You gave us an awesome deal on this furniture. How can you sell stuff for this cheap and still make money?” The salesman stalled in answering our question as his eyes fearfully widened. Then he slowly looked over each shoulder—you know—just to make sure there weren’t any cops listening, and he was like, “I can’t tell you how we get our stuff, but if you want a deal on some coffee tables, come back next Tuesday at nine-thirty…PM.”

We went home and promptly cancelled that credit card.

Maybe the furniture was stolen, maybe not. But either way, the couch kind of sucked. It was totally squeaky, and the arm fell off of it when we moved four blocks a few years ago. We left the set in Texas with our friends Matt and Shayli—lucky dogs. And right now, if they’re reading, I’d like to let them know that we claim absolutely no responsibility for any accidents that occur as a result of using that crappily made furniture. If the couch has fleas, smells like onions, or falls to pieces when your ninety pound Grandma sits down, then take it up with John and Carl and the Dallas Furniture Warehouse, not us.

The bottom line is this…with the exception of our bed, every piece of furniture that we own stinks. So living in a nicely furnished place is riveting, captivating, exciting, and just plain awesometronic. The only problem we’ve come across so far is the bed. We’ve been reduced from our queen sized pillow top to a full-size mattress that was produced in—oh, I don’t know—1904?

It’s small, it’s cramped, and it has a divot in the middle that tends to bring the Grand Canyon to mind. And seriously folks, I don’t care if you’re thinner than a damn piece of angel hair spaghetti, a full size bed is not suitable for two grown adults—especially a full sized bed with a divot.

You see, the divot in this mattress is only large enough for one of us to land in, leaving the displaced spouse with two options: 1) Sleep on top of the spouse in the divot; or 2) Fall asleep while balancing on the uphill portion—or edge—of the bed.

Jared is a total divot hog. Last night—and every night that we’ve been here for that matter—he’s settled into the divot, staunchly refused to move, and gotten very, very angry any time I’d accidentally roll into his coveted dent. And last night, around 3:30, I rolled into his divot for the very last time. You see, I lost my balance from my perch on the edge of the bed, rolled into his sunken space, and in one sleepy motion Jared pushed me off the bed, into the air, and onto the floor.

Yes, I fell out of bed. Well no—I was pushed out of bed, and dang y’all, 150 pounds hitting wall-to-wall carpet is louder than loud.

So, this new turn of events leaves me—the displaced spouse—with two options: 1) Sleep on the couch; or 2) Get rid of Jared and officially make the divot my territory.

So seriously, does anyone know where I can get my hands on a circus cannon?