When my mom bought her first house, it looked like a 1960's or 1970's sitcom except worse. The whole house was pale yellow, puke/lime green with formica countertops in a fading nausea, sponge paint everywhere, and shag carpeting. She spent the first fifteen years of my life remodeling the house to make it ours. The last thing to go were the carpets which were in green and orange.
My Barbies tanned on our couches that resembled white beaches. When the Polly Pockets went on treks through the forest or had a picnic outside, they hiked across grass (curtesy of our puke green carpeting). The orange carpet in my bedroom was just carpet--try as we might, my bffs and I couldn't make it anything other than lava--but kids do that anyway. My mom even had a long blanket across her bed that was peach colored. Whenever she was doing laundry and her bed was bare, save for the peach blanket, I would sit on the bed and watch tv. During the commercials, I pretended I was in a desert. I always made sure to have a beverage on her side table as being in the desert and crawling from one side of her bed to the other was tiring. Pepsi was usually my first choice, but occasionally it was milk or water. Then I'd pretend the rest of the room was a mirage, and when I'd army crawl to the water, I'd finally found the drinking hole at the edge of the desert. Just in time, because the vultures were circling.
Now that I'm an adult, there's a similar game that happens, only it's slightly more lazy. Whenever my husband or I go out of town, the one that remains spends the majority of time apart in the bed. Likewise, when I'm sick (I say me, because my husband has an immune system, and I don't), I spread out in the bed and am surrounded by all things comforting. It's like creating a desert island. "What's on the bed" is sort of an inventory taken after the napping, the sipping of beverages and the watching or reading of television takes place. Also, high temperature outside and fever inside makes me hyper-amused by objects.
My husband always marks my absence with books everywhere. He'll even fall asleep cradling a book. He's joked about my return to the nest meaning the eviction of his beloved friends, the literature. If the cops busted in on me though, they'd for all the world think I'm agoraphobic. There would be plates, pillows, technology strewn across the bed and the room. Hey! I do leave the room to go to the bath room, I'm not that gross. I usually begin the journey to the bed with my laptop and several seasons of my favorite television series. I then get thirsty and hungry so eventually I become annoyed at the amount of hand towels and hot plates and microwaved leftovers.
By the time evening has come, I'm lying against pillows, counting things on the bed. How many dvds lie around binged upon, the number of glasses of beverages (water + soda or juice + tea or some wacky combo), and if I have books and my intentions on reading them. When we got married, we both considered whether or not we should get a king bed, but we were penniless (we're still pretty much hobos) and king bed equals danger. My husband was quick to remind me that if we got a bigger bed, I would be elbowing books on his side and he'd be jousting collector editions and popcorn kernels on my side, so we decided to just get end tables instead of declaring ourselves kings of Slob City.
When we're both sick we do surround ourselves with entertainment and the stronger of the two ends up making an emergency sick run. Every time I go, the pharmacists start high fiving each other and greet me by name. There's always a sale on the 'quils or vitamins or cough drops. I stock my drawers high, although last time H was disappointed, because I had forgotten to get the decongestant. I know I'm better when I'm truly, fully disturbed by the high level of mess in the room. Before the house is condemned or Husband divorces me, I try to will myself into good health and shuffle items around like a hamster rearranging its dwelling.
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