Invasion of the Pod People
Walking through Home Goods, with a list, I headed to the registers. My cart contained a few low-priced items deemed essential by me to lift my spirits: plastic glassware and new mini oven mitts. Then I spied the most gorgeous spring print I have ever laid eyes on. I weaseled my cart over to it surreptitiously, careful not to draw attention lest it get snatched away before I have an opportunity to check the price.
I lift the comforter from the shelf to reveal the size. It fits my bed. There are two similar prints but there is only one of the prized version and I have my hands on it. I spin the item to check the price. It’s two-thirds the cost of my last bed spread that I am lukewarm about. I place my treasure in my cart, shaking with a mix of glee and apprehension. It’s going to be a tough sell for my spouse.
I aim for the incredibly massive area where they have copious throw pillows in every color. I know these are needless, but I imagine if I locate two or three smallish ones, the bedspread will present better. And as a goodwill gesture, I can always return them. I will use them as leverage in my negotiation. My husband makes deals for a living and has taught me well. Keeping the bed linen is my mission.
I find two but the third is too macrame for my taste. I am certain every customer is eyeing my amazing cache in my cart as I finally take my place in line to pay.
When I get home, I strip the bed of the chintzy polyester bedcovers I bought online. Snipping the grosgrain ribbon from my new package, I unfold the new one. There is piping along the entire edge in contrasting pinstripes. I could weep it’s so beautiful.
Brief backstory, each spring my mother would dress my parents’ bed in linens she kept in storage. We were of modest means but this was a ritual I waited all year to witness. It meant the dregs of winter would soon melt away and I could play outside every day. I had forgotten how much I wanted springy-looking bed clothes for my bed, too.
Placing the deco pillows in front of the matching shams is the final touch. I tuck the price tags out of sight and prepare to sell the idea of a new, unnecessary, comforter.
The phone rings minutes later. It’s the keeper of the budget. I panic at the thought of surprising him and splat the news that I’ve purchased a wonderful new spring quilt. I hold my breath and the phone a safe distance away in case he starts yelling.
“That sounds great. But does it come with matching pillows?” he says.
Wait, whaaaat? With all of my fears I never considered my husband would be invaded by the body snatchers and replaced by a pod person. I saw a film where this happened as a kid. The people looked the same but were suddenly very agreeable and docile, and from outer space. They finally got to him.
“Actually, yes. Shams and I found a couple of throws in coordinating colors.” I stammered, still shocked.
When he got home he agreed our room could use a springtime makeover. I clipped the tags off of the quilt and pillows. Then I asked my husband the secret code question only he knows:
“What’s the venue called on Seventh and First in downtown Minneapolis?”
“Uncle Sam’s.” he responds without hesitation.
Only the real JD still calls it that. So he’s not been invaded by the pod people after all. He’s just completely evolved into a really swell guy.
Happy Spring!
Colleen