Here at the homestead, when the thermometer breaks 80 outside we migrate our sleeping quarters to the basement.

It is easily 10 degrees cooler there.

Because this downstairs room only gets seasonal use, we hung on to our old king size waterbed, in charred pine, complete with the goofy mirrored headboard and padded rails.

We kid ourselves that the waterbed is good for back pain, but it's mostly just frugality that has kept me from propping it up against the fence with a for sale sign on it.

This week we began to make it up with fresh linens when I felt something damp under the mattress pad.

This has happened before, when we had a more expensive, tube-style waterbed upstairs.

When that one began to leak, I got upset and vowed that, unless it was in the tub, I would never again mix water with sleep.

This time I was more calm.

I told Mrs. Anthony, "It's not a problem, we'll just empty the thing and go look for a normal mattress to put in the frame."

It had been some time since we had gone mattress shopping, and in the course of my research, I learned a couple of things: mattress buying is confusing and expensive.

Five years ago, a friend of mine met Sunny Kobe Cook at McDonalds.

She told him, "Business is great!"

She must be eating filet mignon in Monte Carlo by now, we never hear from her anymore.

I could be wrong, but part of the reason for her success seems to lie in the mattress business practice of obfuscation.

If you try to compare apples to apples when shopping for the best deal, you won't find the same product lines at each store.

Small details like model names, colors, number of coils and thickness of the upper pad, etc, are altered just enough to make them seem different, and thereby more desirable.

There is no such thing as a simple mattress anymore.

The four "Big S" manufacturers have hot-rodded the industry with fancy-schmancy upgrades like Cashmere Damask Ticking and 8-way hand-tied box springs.

It may be understandable that some thought should be put into a product that we may spend nearly a third of our life using, the luckier among us even more, but once you're asleep, don't all mattresses feel the same?

Sleepwalking into the store is an exercise in sensory overload.

It's a great business model: You're already groggy because your old bed is gone, and now you have 600 choices to make in a brightly-lit room with an overly engaging, chatty salesperson.

Still, it seems smartest to go to the place that sells only what you are looking for in the first place.

Once we got into downtown Federal Way, we headed for the store with the most familiar jingle.

Our sales person, a cute, Sunny Cook disciple, hammered us with industry come-ons. "This model has silver strands woven into the fabric to help discharge static electricty," and "The life expectancy of a mattress is only 8 to 10 years, and that's if you remember to flip it every 3 to 6 months."

My eyes were beginning to glaze and she closed in for the kill.

"We can deliver this mattress and box spring set today!"

I was beginning to roll over on the sale.

"Why do I need fire-retardant fabric? We don't smoke, and besides, the mattress is going into a waterbed frame."

I thought that should count for something. We never laid down, or even sat on a bed. I dragged Mrs. Anthony out of the store by the hand.

"I've got an idea," I promised.

Back at the ranch, I dug through the camping gear and produced a previously forgotten treasure.

I plopped it into the bed frame and hooked up the air compressor. While it thrummed to life, I called the Mrs. downstairs.

"The air bed?" she winced. "But there's still pine needles and pitch on it."

Remembering that she is the proverbial Princess who cannot suffer the pea, I solved this problem too.

"We'll use the sleeping bags! And if you want, I'll set up the tent in the rec room." Sleeping on the air bed isn't so bad, really, I just wish Mrs. Anthony would join me.