Napping on a feather bed

Ours is a household constantly at odds.  Brad delights in a meal completely manufactured by Mosiman means.  The girls and I adore the convenience of paper plates that can handle the weight of pre-packaged foods laden with preservatives.   Brad revels in laundry drying outdoors on the line while we are content to leave completed clothes stored in the dryer for days.  During the bitterly cold Western New York winters, Brad harkens back to heartier pioneer days and sets the thermostat at a frosty 58 degrees so blanket use is at a premium, driving them quickly to a thread-bare state.  Brad refuses to throw them away despite gaping holes.  It appears to snow indoors throughout the year as the dogs dig comforter stuffing out and scatter it attractively about the house.  Hanging outside, these beaten-down blankets look like they've reached the end of the line from a Mosiman-imposed death sentence.

Yesterday, I was curled under one of these magical blankets taking a Saturday nap when Brad came in the room to torment me.  After he had the dogs perform a series of back-flips and tricks on the bed, my husband's attention became fixated on an object hidden within the recesses of my blanket.  "Did you lose a squeaker toy," he asked Chlo, beginning an enthusiastic search of the comforter.  Brad's arm disappeared into one of the many holes in the blanket that was once, sort of covering me during my nap.  "It seems to have lost it's squeak," he told Chlo as first my feet, then leg became exposed to the cold afternoon air of June.  My husband's nose wrinkled slightly as he paused in his search for Chlo's lost toy, "Did you do something," he asked me.  "No," came my muffled and disgusted reply from where my head was buried in my goose-down pillow.  Despite the odor, Brad continued his ceaseless search for the squeak-less toy.  Chlo was, at this point, all a-twitter.  I couldn't wait for my husband to get the heck out of my bedroom.

Shoulder-deep, Brad's hand successfully clamped down on his goal.  My entire body was shivering from exposure as he removed the object victoriously from the comforter.  Brad and Chlo were both shocked by the big reveal.  The toy, lost deep within the depths of the blanket that had been tucked under was, in fact, a dead bird.  Brad, whose grandfather is 1/8th Blackfoot Indian (making Brad...what? 1/16th?), involuntarily began the intricate steps of a death dance ritual to ensure this animal's safe journey to the afterworld.  As he danced around my room in complete disgust and revulsion, Brad found himself trapped like a....like a...like a bird that had gotten into a hole in a ratty ol' blanket hanging outside on a line to dry.  As he fought his way out the door with a fist full of feathers, Brad began the next series of his ritualistic dance, flapping his hands and letting out a small series of screams before projecting the bird heavenward.

As my nap cycle had not yet reached completion, I took this moment of silence to tug the blanket back up to grab a few more zs.  Please don't judge me too harshly, I didn't tuck it up under my chin.  I harkened back to Star Wars:  The Empire Strikes Back when Hans Solo kills his Tauntaun and stuffs a freezing Luke inside its body cavity for survival.  After he gets over his heebie-jeebies, I'm sure Brad will simply liken this comforter to the feather beds from days of old.  The best I can hope for at this point, is for a misguided raccoon or opossum to wander in and become lost in the labyrinth of my laundry if I ever want to get a new blanket.  Until then, "tweet" dreams!