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Who's crazy now?

     You think you're crazy? You should see me! I'm standing beside my bed at ten o'clock at night—

     Oh, sorry. I was going to tell you more about my desert stay. Well, I'll do that next week but this week I have to tell you about how crazy I am. 'Case you didn't know.

     So I'm standing at the side of my bed, facing the closet on the other side of said bed, where those decorative pillows we're obligated by all fashion sense to pile up over our standard sleep-on-them pillows are lying in wait in case someone wanders into our bedroom during the day.

     Hasn't happened since last Christmas, but you never know. It would be kind of embarrassing if someone wandered in and your queen-size bed had only two standard white pillows on it, but they'd be oh-so-impressed if they saw the delightful assortment of plush pillows in just the right shapes and sizes and colors that you've heaped at the head of your bed. For no particular reason, I might add. You don't sleep on them.

     So it only follows that in order to sleep, every night you have to remove all of those pillows—except the two standard ones. And that's what I do—pile on the pillows in the morning and take them off at night, just like you. But I don't know anyone else who makes a game—sort of like basketball—of taking the extra pillows off. Not that I've asked. . .

     There's a nice comfy chair between my bed and the closet and that's the "basket." It has a pillow, too—but just a small one. Back at my bedside I remove the pillows, one by one. First one to go is the pink one shaped almost like a hot dog. I pick it up, place it in proper position in my hands, lean slightly forward—and toss it over the bed to the chair. Gently, because it tends to bounce off the chair if I throw it too hard. I don't get points unless it settles and stays on the chair.

     Next comes the pillow in the sham—the one matching the bedspread. This one needs a slightly stronger toss to get it to the chair because it's lighter than the pink hot dog. If I'm lucky it lands somewhere near or on the pink one and stays there. I hold my breath, willing it to stay put.

     Last and trickiest is the second sham pillow. It has to land on top of the other three and not bounce off them. This requires skill: proper positioning of the pillow with just the right exertion in the throw. The little pillow on the chair makes it extra tough because it takes up needed space and the chair is now crowded with pillows—not receptive to more ridiculous pillows piling up on it. I lean forward, give a hopeful toss—I'm two for two so far and I'd cross my fingers but they're occupied—and watch as the third pillow lands, teeters precariously atop the first sham pillow, which is astride the pink hot dog, and either miraculously stays, or more likely, topples off the second pillow to the floor, bringing the other pillows with it.

     When I go three for three I holler, "Yay!" and look around for my admiring crowd, of which there is none. Two for three brings a disappointed, "Shoot!" and one for three makes me glad I'm all alone with no one to witness my shabby pillow tossing skills.

     So who's crazy now? Although. . . you might like to try it some night. It's kind'a fun.


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