Laughing all the way

July 2, 2014

By Pat Detmer

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CSI: Newcastle

I’ve said it here before: If The Sainted One ever tried to build a house, he would bleed to death from unintentional stabs and slices.

He is the Official Family Chef, but has knives that can’t cut through gelatin without effort because I won’t let him have anything sharper. There’s a secret spot in the garage where I’ve hidden a  Japanese hand hoe that will chop the most stubborn greenery into submission, and although I could use help in the garden battling the weeds, I love him too much to let him near it.

Even the simple act of checking out a bed frame …

I have this thing about the master bed frame. It’s adjustable, and every so often it will loosen, widen, and allow the box springs and mattress to drop. Admittedly, if I could measure that drop it would likely be about 15 microns or so, but it’s so startling when it happens that I am absolutely sure the whole bed will fall to the floor and continue down into the family room.

When this occurs, I conscript The Sainted One — who could sleep through a 7.5 earthquake — into helping me pull off the mattress and box springs and check it out. Every time I gaze at the exposed frame with its multiple sturdy crossbeams, I try to burn that visual into my memory, because what I see before me is proof positive that it’s physically impossible for everything to fall to the floor. But besides having no patience, I also have no memory, so every once in a while we have this little bed frame adventure together, and we never, ever tire of it.

We stripped the bed and flipped the top mattress up against the armoire. It used to stand at attention, but after years of use, the mattress has lost its spine, so I had to back up against it and throw my arms out to keep it from falling on my husband and the bed frame he was inspecting. After some hammering (I do allow him the occasional use of the ball peen variety) and pushing on the frame, he grunted and ran from the room.

Trembling under the weight of the mattress, I called to see if he was alright. He said he was, but as soon as I let the mattress fall, I could see that he wasn’t. I’ve done enough weekend guilty-pleasure watching of “Forensic Files” to be able to read blood spatter:  impact pattern on the wall, drip trail into the bathroom.

No blood transfusions or stitches were necessary, but I’m considering a proviso for his upcoming 75th birthday party: Gifts OK. No sharp objects, please!


You can reach Pat Detmer — who will likely forget all of the above and make The Sainted One take the bed apart again in the near future — at


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