I love blogging. There is no better way to complain. It’s therapeutic.
This is the second time in six months that I found this when I went up after breakfast to make the bed:
This is the foot of the bed. On my husband’s side.
Despite the evidence, I am not married to this guy:
This is one of the monsters from “Where The Wild Things Are” by Maurice Sendak. I love this guy. He has no name in the book. In the children’s opera, Sendak called him Moishe, after a relative. In the movie, I understand they changed his name to Carol. Just goes to show that you don’t have to have a weird name to be scary. (I have proof in the shape of my former boss.)
But my husband is not Moishe/Carol.
Last time I looked he had only slightly abnormal feet.
What does he DO at night that results in shredded sheets?
I am sleeping right beside him. I am an excellent sleeper. But you’d think I’d wake up when the flamenco music starts.
We have a king size bed. Sheets are expensive.
When I brought my husband up to look at the bed, he said, “Do you think you can fix it?”
I’m not sure…
He may have been thinking: