Throw Pillows A-Go-Go

edited by TONY FYLER

bed piled high with throw pillows

Look - throw pillows. Purrrrrdy...

It is an ongoing battle in the Tucker household.

I’d like a bedroom that speaks to my romantic side, with deep plush carpeting that doesn’t smell like dog, and just the right mood lighting to always make me look 15 years younger. I want a vanity where I can sit and blow dry my hair like some middle-aged Rapunzel, then put on my 10 pounds of makeup. And, as the centerpiece of my fabulous bedroom, I want a bed that looks like a big marshmallow, complete with about 20 throw pillows.

My husband Bill isn’t really on board with this idea. On more than one occasion, the conversation has gone like this…

BILL: Can you please explain to me why all of these little pillows are on the bed?
ME: They’re for decoration. They are shams and throw pillows.
BILL: So I can’t lay on them?
ME: No, they are not for your head.
BILL: Okay, I give up, then why in hell are they on my bed?
ME: So the bed looks pretty.
BILL: That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Let’s get rid of them.
ME: We can’t. They cost a fortune, and I love them.
BILL: But you can’t do anything with them. They are completely useless.
ME: I don’t care, they make me happy. Now get your fucking hands off the throw pillows.

Currently, Bill is winning the battle, but only because the wife of one of Bill’s friends got really drunk (damn lightweight!) at last year’s Christmas party then got sick and vomited sangria and beer margaritas all over my Calvin Klein comforter, essentially trashing it. I have not yet found a replacement. To be honest, I’m not so sure Bill didn’t pay her off to do it on purpose. By the way, she never called to apologize. I have not forgiven her. She will not be at this year’s Christmas party… Just sayin’…

I know that throw pillows are useless. I know they take up space unnecessarily, but they are important to me, and to most women I know. We want a fluffy bed, a sexy bed, a bed that says “throw me down and have your way with me.” Right now my bed says, Oh, fuck it, let’s just go to sleep. I hate my bedroom. It has ugly flowered wallpaper, a bed with mismatched sheets and a lightweight ugly blanket, and it does indeed have carpeting that smells like dog.

Why is it when it comes to a couple’s marital residence, the bedroom always comes last? It’s the spot where clothes and dust cover the unused treadmill, and the top of the dresser looks like a pharmacy. None of the furniture matches, and the closets look like they are about to explode. The rest of the house can be spotless, but the bedroom often looks like it’s inhabited by a hoarder with a penchant for dirty laundry. Even when you clean it up, it still looks awful. I’m tired of “awful.”

I have a plan, and I’m not sure if Bill is going to like it. The bedroom is going to be my winter project; when I’m through, it will be the envy of all the other girls. I’m going to have that fluffy marshmallow bed and my mountain of pillows on top. There will be clean closets and plush carpeting that squishes between my toes. I’m thinking about doing it when he goes hunting… Can’t bitch if you’re not there, ya know what I’m saying?

And every night, after I have created my completely fabulous bedroom, Bill and I will turn down our impossibly thick comforter and leave it at the bottom of the bed — because, as any woman entering menopause will tell you, hot flashes are a bitch. And Bill will complain as he removes all the throw pillows because they aren’t for his head. But I will be happier, I will sleep better, and Bill will get lucky more often, so in the end it’s a win-win.

Sweet dreams.

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