Last night, as I hopped into bed to read a silly Jennifer Crusie novel — as opposed to all of the serious Jennifer Crusie novels out there — it came to pass that my bedside lamp died — an adorably ugly, old, round and squat construction that was spray painted a gaudy gold a few years ago and topped with an equally squat and lint-collecting square shade.
I couldn’t be bothered to hike all the way downstairs to grab a new light bulb to see if that was the problem, so I said a quick eulogy, shed an apt alligator tear and set out to fix my lightlessness.
Aha! I cried. The unused lamp on my makeshift desk that helps to hold in my Jenga-style inbox!
With eerily uncharacteristic efficiency, I corrected this fake-sun-free injustice.
I’m such a genius problem solver.
I neglected, however, to inform my blond boydog Biko of this development before dramatically changing the balance of lamply power in the room.
Needless to say, he was displeased.
Standing on the corner of my bed, Biko watched the entire operation unfold. He narrowed his gaze at the offendingly dark fixture. He peered through squinty suspicious eyes at the new, overly large source of bedtime light. Eyebrows were furrowed; a nose pointed upward, haughtily.
Once I’d plugged in the newcomer, Biko sat and stared. He looked up at the new lamp, too large for its space. He looked down at Old Reliable, gaze mournful. He looked up again and then back down. Not once did the concern leave his expressive brows.
After all, you never really know. It COULD murder us in our sleep.
But don’t worry. If that happens, Jenny‘s offered to write a moving eulogy. What. A. Relief.