The Boyer Frat House

Back when we updated our bedroom, one of our splurge purchases was a bed frame. It was a "splurge" because I picked one out at the used furniture place, delivered it home in the back of Jim's truck, and we assembled it ourselves. One minor important detail that was not noticeable while on the "showroom" floor, was it's short cross-beam that ran the length of the bed.

Why would a cross-beam be so important Kel, you might ask? Well, with a King-sized bed, the box frame is actually two twin bed box frames and that cross-beam holds both of them up.

Oh, so why bring up it being short? It's length is important because it essentially holds the bed up. We learned early on that if the fan was on too high and the wind was just right, that short cross-beam would slip out of position and the bed ended up half on the floor, half still intact. Fun times.

The last time our bed "broke" was because one of our children came running in and did the 30-pound pile drive on it. Thirty pounds really isn't a big deal, but when you're dealing with a short cross-beam, it is all of a sudden. So, minutes before bedtime, our bed half falls down and wouldn't you know it, the man who is capable of falling asleep on an airboat WHILE IT IS RUNNING (no really, he did), fell asleep on the half up, half down bed.

I tried to sleep on it. I really did. But this self-proclaimed Princess and the Pea just was not capable of sleeping on a crooked bed. So, I packed up ALL of my pillows and set up camp in Katherine's bed.

The next morning I approached the I-can-sleep-anywhere man and asked him why he didn't fix the bed before falling asleep. (It takes strong arms, stomach muscles and a strong back to lift the mattress and box springs to fix it and I'm officially out of commission in the heavy-lifting department).

His response...

"I was tired."

Can you believe that? For one, he's capable of answering a question in three measly words, that most women would turn into a dissertation, and two, it really was that simple in his world.

Well, I stifled the disgust and jealousy and calmly replied, "James Boyer, this is no frat house, and I'd rather not have it be treated as such."

This is when I sometimes say things that I'm not quite sure of how they will be received. Because sometimes my frankness comes across as a bit, "witchy" and other times, he thinks it's hilarious. Like the time soon after we were married, he was berating me about finances and spending $2.11 each day on lunch at Subway. I had had enough and I angrily called him a Communist Tyrant. It easily could have gone either way: spur him on into a good argument, or as it ended up, he burst out in laughter and wore his new title with much pride.

So as the frat house comment easily flowed from my mouth, the anticipation of waiting for his reaction was short-lived because he again: burst out into laughter. He has very fond memories of the filthy, college-male dominated giant keg he called home for years. Me, not so much. He was by far the cleanest one that lived there, but it did have an odor and all the men admitted that each year it was just easier to paint the walls rather than clean them.

It wasn't much longer into the day that I walked back toward the bedroom and found this on our door, with a daddy and two giggling kids hiding under the covers of the repaired bed:
Very cute. I had a good laugh along with the kiddos who were oblivious to its meaning, but the wiser owl of the two started asking questions and when she realized it said no Mommys were allowed, she decided to fix it, on her own, with no assistance. The next day, the sign looked like this:
There might not be any free-flowing booze around here, but we are most certainly drunk on love.