Tag Archives: woolen

Bedding

Bedding: (n) coverings for a bed, such as sheets and blankets.Dictionary B

Scratchy or warm?

I remember that was my choice when I was a little kid in dealing with my bedding.

My parents had these old blankets that were off-white with colored stripes, which reflecting, I would swear were probably removed from the backs of horses and brought into the house and thrown on our beds.

They were woolen, itchy and sometimes smelly–though I’m sure that odor was attributed to them due to my dissatisfaction.

But since I grew up in a frigid environment (which certainly has a double meaning) I would eschew my horse blanket for half the night, and then, due to shivers and quakes, grab it and tolerate its coarse texture to eliminate freezing.

This, of course, makes the emphasis on “bedding” which we see in today’s society ever-so-much more humorous to my experience.

Unbelievable as it may seem, I have even sat in patience around a table, listening to a lengthy conversation of people discussing the “thread count” of their sheets. Ignorantly innocent, in one of these initial pow-wows I even asked what they meant by thread count.

Thirty minutes later–dazed, bewildered and sleepy–the explanation finally mercifully ceased.

I wonder what the thread count was in my horsey bed-throw? I’m sure no one in my family would have known nor cared.

The attitude in my household on the issue of bedding was similar to the approach to every matter of personal comfort:

“Shut up and be glad you have it.”

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Baize

Baize: (n) a coarse, felt-like, woolen material that is typically green, used for covering billiard and card tables and for aprons.Dictionary B

Rich people own a lot of things.

I suppose that’s a rather obvious statement. But I would like you to stop and analyze what it really means.

It’s not that rich people own things they like or that rich people acquire things so they can enjoy them and share them with others.

No, rich people often just like to own things so they can prove they possess them, flaunt them and to establish their indifference to them.

Long ago, when I had even less integrity and brain power than today, I was invited to the home of a very rich man because he took a liking to me, saying he “thought I had great potential.”

Upon arriving at his palatial mansion, I was given the full tour, which was extremely extensive, with stop-offs along the way to reiterate to me in vivid detail how much each piece of marble in the floor cost, and how the wallpaper in this particular room was ordered from Italy from a family who were direct descendants of the Medici clan.

I produced an adequate amount of “oohs” and “aahs” necessary to let him know that I was in full groveling mode.

While dinner was being prepared, he asked me if I would like to play a game of billiards. (Yes, he called it “billiards” while I knew it as “pool.” But looking at my surroundings and smelling the fresh air of opulence, I realized that “billiards” was more appropriate.)

And the billiard table was equally as over-stated, expensive and elaborate as everything else in the house. Matter of fact, he told me it had been specially ordered from Russia, where of course, the best billiard tables are from, and that it was worth $50,000.

He handed me a pool stick which was made out of some sort of wood from the rain forest of Brazil, and said, “You break.”

I placed my hand on the table, shaking and nervous. The baize covering of the table was lush and thick, like grass. But it also felt a little bit…fragile.

Terrified, I wielded back and hit the cue ball, striking the eastern coast of it, while the tip of my cue stick slid across the table, leaving a three-inch rip.

Time stood still.

I couldn’t breathe, even though I knew it was necessary to do so.

My rich benefactor walked up, looked at the table, shook his head, and said, “That’s going to cost a pretty penny.”

My mind was racing.

Did he want me to come up with that gorgeous amount of money?

I also had this crazy thought of suggesting that some Super Glue might fix it, but caught myself before blurting.

He did not charge me for my transgression, but the dinner was tense, and I was out of there much more quickly than originally proposed… since he no longer deemed that I had potential.

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