The 1970s Called, And It Wants Its Bedspread Back
I have an orange chenille bedspread from the 1970s that I have loved and carried with me for years. I found it at a Value Village. It had a tag on it that claimed it was $20, but I seriously doubted that a polyester chenille bedspread in highway-worker orange was worth anywhere near that much. I loved it, but honestly, my tastes can run spectacularly far afield from what most people consider palatable, so I made the price tag magically fall off. I did. If I did not, no one else was going to buy that thing. I have an amazingly strong will. And then, I went to the cashier and said, The price tag on this item fell off! How much is it?, and she said, That will be $5, then. I also got a space-age looking, circular, turquoise chair upholstered in naugahyde that same afternoon for a whopping seven dollars.
I had officially graduated from dumpster-diving for Christmas lights and CD racks.
It is a good thing to be resourceful.
As you can see above, my beloved orange chenille bedspread is still alive and kicking. Lots of things from the 1970s are still alive and kicking. The 1970s were too exciting a time for durable synthetics to think much about the invention of anything that would biodegrade (I am, of course, ignoring hippy environmentalism, the appropriation of African and Indian fashion, and our present-day fascination with single-use items and the chemical obliteration of all things not smelling of lavender or vanilla).
The bedspread is so freaking orange that I actually toned down the colour in Photoshop to spare those of you with photosensitive epilepsy.
Now that is much better. Ah, the soothing monochrome of black and white.
Occasionally, when they are not ripping out clumps of each other's fur, licking buttholes, or stealing each other's toys, they spend a couple of minutes acting like cuddly wuddly cutey patooties. This can only ever last for that couple of minutes, though, because assholes need licking, ears need to be bitten, and someone needs to have himself kicked forcibly off the bed. I think that if we had held off fixing them until they knew what all of their parts could do, it would have been gay sex all the gay time in our apartment, which would have been fine. There would have been far fewer balls of cat hair floating around here, I am sure.
Immediately following this shot, Oskar, the black one, stuck his tongue too far inside Onion's ear. I missed taking a photo of Oskar dangling from the bedspread by his claws.
My mother used to have a white chenille bedspread with small blue and pink accents dotted all over it. When I was seven, I thought that it looked like a birthday cake and would sometimes pretend that I was one of those barbie dolls stuck inside it with icing to make it look like it was her dress. I did not pretend that because I wanted to feel like a princess, no. That never occurred to me. It was obvious to me that the doll's situation was very much about being constricted and controlled. It was more of a bondage thing, really. I was a little perverted.
I just remembered that my parents-in-law read this website sometimes. Moving along!
In other news, our cats like the Palinode's nuts.
I am a participant in NaBloPoMo.