It's been so stupid cold in Kansas lately. So cold it would make a gang of street-tough penguins roll a polar bear for its coat.
My wife and I are bundling, layering (I vow to no longer make fun of long underwear), and snuggling.
The other night I disrobed and jumped into bed. Pulled those blankies up tight to my chin. My wife soon followed and, in the process, yanked the blankets from beneath my chin.
"Dang, honey, cut it out! I'm freezing," I screamed like a slasher movie victim.
"I know," she said, "it's the worst. But, you know what's even worse?"
I thought about it. Couldn't come up with an answer. "No, what could possibly be worse?"
"When you come to bed late, and I'm almost asleep, you flap the covers," she said.
Well, first of all, I don't flap. Flapping is what the aforementioned penguins do. Or my mom when she's angry at a store clerk. Me? I don't flap. Second, of course, the only other reason for a good, hearty blanket-flapping is the Ernest Borgnine-validated "Dutch Oven." I'm not gonna explain it here, look it up. (Hey George Foreman has his grill, Ernie used his device to torture Ethel Merman, the reason his marriage to her ended in 32 days). Finally, sheesh, how bad could a sheet flapping be? Hyperbole much? I mean, really.
"C'mon," I said, "even if I do flap, it can't be that horrible."
"Oh, really?" She picked up the blankets and started flapping them.
It truly was terrible.
"Gah! Okay, okay, stop! I give up! Cut it out!"
She said, "It's awful, right? It's like someone turned a fan on beneath the sheets."
Sigh. As usual, she was right. It felt like a harsh breath blasted from Mother Winter's lips.
People, don't let this happen to you. I've got an eye on my future flapphishness. Winter is hell.
Speaking of hellish winters, you probably might want to stay clear of the Dandy Drop Inn (essayed in my historical documentation, Dread and Breakfast), where there's a mean storm a'brewin'. Checking in's easy. Checking out only happens in the six feet under sorta way. (Cash or check only, please).