Unless otherwise attributed, all content, text or image, on this site is © TaunaLen 2005-2011.
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Monday, February 25, 2008

Luxury Linens--The Truth and the (Pillow) Sham

Hotel bedding is the eighth wonder of the modern world. Well, maybe the eighteenth. I don’t know. But I do know that I love the crisp white sheets, the down-filled comforter, and the perfect hotel pillows. I love that that bed was made early and has had all day to sit, in smooth, wrinkle-free perfection, until I climb between the sheets and search for the cool spot with my feet.

This weekend, we slept in a hotel bed. It was perfect from the foam mattress pad, to the 400 thread count sheets to the plush comforter, the piled-high pillows and the embroidered coverlet. And to think that I didn’t have to make that bed, didn’t have to wash the sheets, didn’t have to tuck the sheets in and smooth the pillows. I could just fall into the deep sea of blankets and pillows and sigh.

It was wonderful---for the first couple of hours.

Then my back realized this wasn’t my bed. Something about the comfy, plush mattress wasn’t quite right for my shoulder muscles, didn’t really suit the small of my back. I woke, turned, found the cool spot, and dozed again, but the sleep was just not as deep and restful as I hoped it would be. Maybe it was the strange room, maybe the fluffy pillows, but something was definitely amiss.

So, last night when I had loaded the laundry into the washing machine, and packed away the luggage, I pulled back the comforter and 350 thread count sheets on my own bed. I thanked my daughter, for having made it earlier that morning in my absence, and I slipped into it, happily. The cool spot was right where it should be, like I’d never left, and the pillows fit perfectly beneath my head and shoulders. I was home, and so happy to be---though I did fall asleep with visions of a beautifully embroidered coverlet dancing in my head. I wonder if they come in the same color as my pillow shams?

It’s wonderful to be home.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Assailed by Agenda


A new calendar sings a siren song to me. The clean lines and empty squares call to me---wooing with promises of efficiency, discipline and triumph. “You too can be organized. A schedule will simplify your life; and you will be happy.” I know the song. I have swayed to the melody many a January and February afternoon. A dulcet voice croons in my head, “Fill your days with activity, you will achieve so much more.” And though I know the tune is just a fairy-tale sung to lure me onto the rocks of disappointment, I fill in that planner, use colored pencils and stickers, categorize and arrange.

It is a work of art. And when it’s finished, I feel a rush of adrenaline, accomplishment and competence. Then after a few days, or maybe even a full week, my color-coded masterpiece is no longer the thing of beauty it once was. It has become a demanding task master, and I revolt, refusing to let it stifle my creativity. So, I crumple the page and scatter colored post-its across my desk top. I write notes about doctor appointments and bills to pay on napkins and the back of a grocery store receipt. I realize that no matter how alluring an organized calendar may seem, I will always thrive on the variety and chaos of a messy, half-structured system, where I may be confused, but at least I’m still the boss.

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