STRANGER THAN FICTION: TORTURE IN THE HOME: THE INSIDIOUS CRIMES

I wondered why our guests never returned until I slept on our futon.

In this civilized country, we've come to believe that all humans deserve a certain level of comfort.

They deserve nutritious food to keep their bodies strong. They deserve decent clothing to protect them from the elements. They deserve shelter that keeps them warm and comfortable on bitter winter nights.

But in our house, all that goes out the window. And I never even knew it.

Yes, we've been having our fair share of Florida-Induced Company.

But we've not received much repeat FIC. One visit per party, that's it.

It was a mystery until this weekend, when The Other Half's parents returned for a second visit.

The first time they came, they insisted we sleep in our own bed. No amount of fighting was going to keep them from sleeping in the guest bedroom on . . . THE DREADED FUTON (insert maniacal laugh here).

This time, it was a different story.

"You two sleep in our room," I said.

"Great! Let me get our stuff!" my mother-in-law said, tossing her suitcases into the master bedroom.

The futon looked very comfortable to me, especially in the pictures on the front of the box it came in. There was an attractive young woman -- not overly so, it WAS a discount department store -- sitting on her futon in its sofa form, reading a book. In another frame, she was lying on a thick, comfortable futon pad, smiling at the thought of the restful night's sleep she was about to enjoy.

Granted, our futon pad didn't look quite as thick when we put the thing together, but it looked comfortable enough. Sure, our guests looked bleary eyed in the mornings, but they always insisted they'd had a great night's sleep.

So I wasn't too upset at the prospect of spending the night in our guest room on a futon. Little did I know I'd soon be deprived of the basic rights of American citizens as described earlier.

The first night of their visit, I pulled on some shorts and a T-shirt and crawled into the futon, covering myself with one light blanket. That sort of covering is completely appropriate in my own bed.

I woke up an hour later, nearly frozen and in pain. I felt like I'd been lying in a meat locker with elephants stepping on the small of my back.

See, the heat doesn't really get into our guest room so well, especially during one of those rare Northwest Florida freezes. And that futon pad isn't nearly as thick and comfortable as portrayed on the box.

I'm beginning to think they used TWO pads for the photograph instead of one, but surely an advertiser wouldn't exaggerate to sell his product, right?

Right?

The rest of my clothes were locked up in a room with my in-laws, who seem very romantically inclined despite a 27-year marriage. I wasn't knocking on that door.

See? Already I was deprived of warm shelter and adequate clothing.

There was nothing else to do but get up and forage for food. I remembered the dozen Dunkin' Donuts purchased earlier in the evening.

Mmmmmmmm, Boston cream filled.

There was one dried out, plain-ol' glazed doughnut gathering dust in the bottom of the box. I was deprived of food. And there was a long night ahead. In fact, there were a week's worth of long nights ahead.

That got me to thinking of the other forms of deprivation and outright torture that exist in my own household.

Sometimes I come home and find another person's car in my assigned parking space. Then I have to park about a quarter-mile away in what I like to call "festival parking."

Sometimes I wake up cold in my own bed. Then I look over at Mr. Half, who is wrapped up like a cocoon in the blankets we're supposed to be sharing. He's usually snoring -- another form of torture.

Sometimes my cats claw up the toilet paper. And it's the last roll.

Lord, how do I endure this living hell?

Some of the things I can't do anything about. But others I can. A woman's gotta make a stand once in awhile.

As soon as I turn off this computer, I'm going out and buying another futon pad.

~Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff writer who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.