Subtitle: Down Pillows are a Pottery Barn Conspiracy to Kill Us
Mike and I had store credit with Pottery Barn, because we’re good little furniture sheep and we do what the relentless stream of mail catalogs tell us to do. We were pawing through the Pottery Barn web site, looking for a way to spend our bounty. Web shopping was our only option, because I’d rather listen to Angelina Jolie tell me my husband and she are “just friends” than shop at an actual store. It was tough, because we only had about $100, which at Pottery Barn will get you a salt cellar shaped like a wheelbarrow or a candle that smells like Martha Stewart’s disappointed sighs. Nothing useful.
FULL DISCLOSURE ALERT: In all honesty, I did not realize they really HAD salt cellars shaped like wheelbarrows or I SO would have gotten those. I have an unnatural love for salt cellars. I’m not sure why… probably because I love salt and think it should be lovingly displayed in impractical and whimsical vessels pushed around the table by enslaved fairies. My friends could NEVER top that. “Sure the quiche was fantastic,” they would say at every other dinner party, “but it isn’t like she had slave fairies like Amy…”
Eventually, Mike and I found down pillows. They sounded like a luxury.
“Ooh! Down Pillows!” I squealed. “That’s a THING right? People on The TV always say things like “down pillows” and then the other people say things like “OOh!” and make happy rolling-eyes-in-ecstasy faces.”
To which Mike said something like: *silence*
So we ordered two down pillows.
When the pillows finally arrived, they seemed nice and fluffy. I flopped on the bed and pressed my head against one and pretended I was sleeping beauty’s sister with the “good personality.”
Then, we actually tried to sleep on them.
Apparently, down pillows are fairy tale pillows because they are actually made by Snow White’s Dwarfs. Every day, Pottery Barn ogres send out the Dwarfs with pillow cases to fill with pine needles, sticks, rocks and hate, and then they ship them off to idiots who grew up hearing that down pillows are amazing.
While it should be a mathamatical impossibility, my pillow had every freaking feather stem sticking directly into my face. Somehow the inside of the pillow had become sentient and rolled itself into a hedgehog-like ball, with all the quills embedded in my cheeks and the soft parts snuggled somewhere deep in the center where I would never find them.
I kept the “Goose’s Revenge” pillows, but put an old normal pillow on top of them to keep from further aerating my face.
When my mother-in-law came to visit, she dragged us to Target, where I bought some plain, firm, no-discernible-animal-parts contained, pillows.
Somewhere, a gaggle of bald geese are laughing.
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