Yes… this is actually happening. Blanket wear. I earned the hell out of a post like this after all the times I’ve frozen my cheeks off smiling in the snow this winter.
Of course, complete credit for this has to go to my strangely cosmic, coincidental soul sister Carrie (ahh, the name thing totally slipped my mind until just now) out in SoCal. Are you a fan of This Free Bird on Facebook? Endless entertainment. But seriously—I don’t know if she’s home alone on a Friday night in a Panama hat and fishnet tights screaming Neil Young at the top of her lungs while pulling off a bottle of Pinot Noir, but she very well could be, because I am. That’s how weirdly tied up we are.
“It doesn’t mean that much to me to mean that much to you.”
Well spaketh, Neil-o.
There are actually Blanket Chronicles, if you follow Carrie and her whereabouts. Her blanket is a loyal companion; my blanket and I are still breaking the ice, so to speak. I foresee many great times together, however. Shy of the shady, dome-windowed vans I plan on taking her into, she’ll be in good hands. Open up thy tassles, blankey–relax. Stay awhile.
I think this is getting sort of sick. Carrie? Back me up here.
BTW, people who aren’t crying in fear, this blanket is on sale at Pendleton. It comes in a fetching shade of purple I almost consumed, but realized I do in fact cohabitate with a male. Dammit!
Sort of kicking at the dirt shyly and asking Old Man Wintskies to stick around a bit longer so Blanket and I can get better acquainted.
p.s. speaking of creepy attachments… just watch this and shut the hell up. Bowie is my sex symbol!