By Dick Wolfsie
Guest Columnist

About this time last year, Mary Ellen and I spent our anniversary downtown at a charming little bed and breakfast. It was our way of celebrating 43 years since we fell in love. To commemorate this, I fell out of bed.

Dick Wolfsie

I did not expect it to happen again, but it has occurred several times in the last year or so — once with me almost ending up in the ER after hitting my noggin. This confirmed Mary Ellen’s longtime assertion that I should have my head examined. After my most recent crash landing, we knew something had to be done.

Mary Ellen purchased an inflatable bed bumper rail from a company called hiccapop. When the box arrived, I thought hiccapop was one of those fancy energy drinks my wife buys. By the way, I know the “h” in hiccapop should be upper case, but no words in their instructions are capitalized. Not one. They think that is clever. I don’t. I think it’s pretentious.

The hiccapop bed rail is a 5-foot-long cylindrical pillow. When you blow it up, it looks like a long white log. You stick it under your fitted sheet on the side of the bed to prevent your potential plummet to the floor. The accompanying instructions make it clear that this is really intended for toddlers who have made the transition from a crib to a real bed, a transition I made during the Truman administration.

One woman writes on Amazon: The hiccapop keeps my son safe. I no longer have to worry about the little guy falling out of bed. It’s a relief to know my 6-year-old is protected.

Note to readers: Reread that review and substitute the word husband for son, then substitute old man for little guy. Then, replace the number six with the number 77. See how humiliating this whole predicament is for me?

Nettie, our housekeeper, came this week. She told Mary Ellen she wasn’t going to clean in the bedroom because it looked like I was napping.

“Oh, that’s not my husband. That’s his hiccapop.”

“Well, whoever he is, I can’t vacuum until he gets out of bed.”

The hiccapop business is very consumer-oriented.

“If you ever need parts, we will send them to you free of charge,” the company declares in its instructions. Question: Have you ever needed to replace parts in a pillow?

They provide a warranty for the pillow “…even if your dog chews it accidentally.” I have no clue what that means. Barney, our old beagle, once chewed up Mary Ellen’s brand new shoes.

“Why don’t you scold him?” Mary Ellen asked me.

“Because it wasn’t his fault. He ate them accidentally.”

Finally, concerned about having their other baby hiccapop product ideas ripped off, the company issued this warning in their accompanying brochure: “To you beef-witted design pirates, do NOT copy our stuff, or we will sue you.”

I have never heard that expression, but there’s nothing more threatening than a well-placed meat metaphor.

By the way, the product really works. I have not rolled off the side of the bed since we installed the bumper, but I may have to return it and get a new one. I’m still a restless sleeper with a lot of nervous energy. Because of that, I chewed into my hiccapop one night while sleeping and it deflated.

Mary Ellen forgave me. I told her it was an accident.