Confessions Of A Woobie Addict

Hey, It's Cheaper Than A Down Feather Habit...

First, I must explain the woobie.

There's a really funny movie called Mr. Mom, from way back in the day when a stay-at-home Dad was a novel idea. Jack Butler, played by Michael Keaton, has a kid who's constantly got a death-grip on his security blanket which the kid calls a "woobie".

[Trying to get Kenny to give up his security blanket]
Jack Butler: I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great... and they are, they are terrific! But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket, or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads, Ken. That's serious!

I never had a security blanket as a kid. No, my woobie habit developed late in life. Somehow, I bypassed the electric blanket and quilt stages of addiction, and got hardcore hooked on bedspreads.

I inherited a large woven-cotton bedspread along with the bedframe and headboard from my grandmother's house. It had covered her bed for God knows how long, and was one of those bedspreads that was really meant for decoration rather than sleeping under. It had thousands of little nubbly knots in an intricate pattern, and as such could be quite uncomfortable if you slept on it wrong-side out, as you'd wake up with your skin looking very much like a golf ball.

Nevertheless, it was warm and comfortable as a throw-cover on the couch, and since heating my apartment cost the equivalent of the GNP of a Central American country, I got used to leaving the heat off and wrapping that big heavy cotton bedspread around me for TV watching, websurfing, and eventually, sleeping in. You could wrap yourself up in that thing like a big ol' enchilada, and sleep warm and comfy without any other blankets. It wasn't the easiest thing to extricate yourself from, and I'd often wake up needing to pee and have to hop to the bathroom, unwinding as I went.

I wore the crap out of that thing. It never got washed as often as it should've, and was getting threadbare by the time I moved down to Houston from Dallas. It suffered a critical injury three years ago, when I had it wrapped around me at the computer desk, and the tail end of it got under the office chair's wheel. I stood up, and there was a loud "RIIIIPPPP!!!". You could've passed a beer keg through that rip. I tried living with it like that, but invariably my ass would end up hanging out the rip on a cold night, so that spelled the end of Woobie #1.

I suppose I could've tried sewing it up, but it was time for a replacement. It took some looking, but I eventually tracked down a similar heavyweight cotton bedspread at Bloodbath & Beyond. This one was even better, king-sized, and the woven pattern wasn't all nubbly so it was much more comfortable.

I remember when I started calling it the "woobie". I had pulled the bedspread out of the dryer and set it on the couch while I went for another load of laundry. I came back to find Betsy Cat sprawled in the middle of the warm bedspread, trying to reapply the coat of cat hair I'd just washed off the damn thing. I poked her nose, and said "You get offa my woobie, Miss Fuzzybritches!!" She ignored me, as usual, so I had to stuff her in a pillowcase for a bit.

Woobie #2 is starting to show some wear & tear. The cats have both yakked up hairballs on it a couple of times, and I've spilled gun oil and iced tea on it, and bled all over it when I cut myself doing something I shouldn't have. So, I might go find a replacement, and keep this slightly ragged version for my Emergency Backup Woobie.

So, if there are any fellow woobie addicts out there, you're not alone. Admitting your dependency is the first step to... well, not recovery, exactly. I have no intention of giving up my woobie habit. It's just comforting to come out of the cedar-closet, as it were.