I am not one to make blanket statements, but I will make one now: We have enough blankets in our house to cover the Green Bay Packers.
At last count, which entailed going to every room with a calculator (I could have used a pedometer, too), there were 17 blankets scattered about the place. And that doesn’t include the one in my car. Or the many that are hiding in closets. Or in drawers. Or even in bins I haven’t looked in yet.
I did look inside an ottoman in the family room, where there are half a dozen blankets.
Then, of course, there are the bedroom blankets, but they don’t count. Beds are supposed to have blankets. Rocking chairs aren’t.
The only places in the house that don’t have blankets are the three bathrooms. But that’s only because they would end up clogging the toilets.
And I just remembered all the beach blankets we have. Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello would be impressed.
Our house has to be the blanket capital of the United States because my wife, Sue, is a bona fide cover girl.
“I like blankets,” she explained.
It was the understatement of the century.
Sue not only buys blankets (“Is there a cover charge?” I once asked), she also makes them. And I must admit they’re beautiful.
She gives some of them to our grandchildren, who order blankets from her like they were shopping on Amazon, except the kids get them for free.
Sue hasn’t made a blanket for me, but if I keep complaining about all the ones that are taking over the house, I might be suffocated with – you guessed it – a blanket. But it won’t be one Sue made because she’s too smart to leave evidence.
I can just envision the crime scene.
Cop (to Sue): “You say your husband smothered himself with a blanket last night?”
Sue: “Yes, officer. It must have ridden up over his face while he was sleeping.”
Cop: “Why do you have extra blankets on the bed?”
Sue: “It was cold. And we like to save energy, so I got a second blanket for each of us.”
Cop: “The one on your side is nice.”
Sue (proudly): “I made it myself.”
Cop: “Did your husband ever complain about all the blankets in the house?”
Sue (hesitating): “Uh, not that I can recall.”
Cop (to first responders): “All right, let’s get this guy out of here. Cover him up.”
Sue: “Don’t use a blanket. I’ll have to wash it.”
Keith Morrison would have a field day with this on “Dateline,” which Sue and I sometimes watch, though we regularly watch the various “FBI,” “Chicago” and “Law & Order” shows, as well as movies and streaming series.
We do so while sitting in comfy chairs with our feet up and our legs covered by soft, cozy blankets.
I will concede that they serve a purpose, which is to help me fall asleep before the closing credits, though if I have popcorn, Sue will warn me not to get buttery kernels on my blanket.
At least that won’t happen with the blanket in the back seat of my car, which Sue put there in case we break down.
“It will keep us warm while we’re waiting for a tow truck,” she reasoned.
I haven’t looked in Sue’s car, but I bet there’s a blanket in there, too.
We also have a lot of pillows, but not as many as our friends Hank and Angela Richert, who must have more pillows than any couple in America.
Sue and I recently told them about all our blankets.
“You’ve got us beat,” Angela said. “I may have to start a new collection.”
Hank sighed and said, “Oh, no.”
“Don’t complain,” I told him. “And be sure to sleep with one eye open.”
Jerry Zezima writes a humor column for Tribune News Service and is the author of six books. His latest is “One for the Ageless: How to Stay Young and Immature Even If You’re Really Old.” Reach him at [email protected] or via jerryzezima.blogspot.com.
