{"id":470,"date":"2018-07-16T02:08:37","date_gmt":"2018-07-16T02:08:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/y0r.68e.myftpupload.com\/?p=470"},"modified":"2020-05-01T21:59:48","modified_gmt":"2020-05-01T21:59:48","slug":"stuck-to-the-couch-memoir-on-condom-furniture","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whatwereyouthinking.ca\/?p=470","title":{"rendered":"In Praise of Plastic – Memoir on Condom Furniture"},"content":{"rendered":"

When weather forecasters predict a hot day, I\u2019m painfully reminded of\u00a0an unusual milestone growing up: <\/span>being stuck to the furniture.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the sweltering summer months of the early 1960s, I would grab a\u00a0cold pop and sit on the plastic-encased couch, forgetting that my flesh\u00a0would adhere to the surface. Moments later I would stand up,\u00a0screaming as my skin broke the suction from the sofa like a tight seal\u00a0on a mason jar.<\/span><\/p>\n

There were benefits and drawbacks to the plastic. A spill was no\u00a0problem. It would pool and stay in the same place until you had time\u00a0to wipe it up. You could eat on it; little kids could play, puke or leak\u00a0their diapers and it was easy to clean. A small tear was\u00a0taped, and\u00a0the bonus was that pets despised it. Sure, you couldn\u2019t sit or sleep\u00a0comfortably on our plastic-covered couch. It made a crackling sound\u00a0as you lowered onto it and was so slippery you required the skills of an\u00a0Olympic figure skater to negotiate your posture while sitting. It wasn\u2019t\u00a0a place for a nap, sex or pillows: You\u2019d slide off and bang your head\u00a0against the strategically placed coffee table that always sat in front.<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother had plastic on everything, from the dining room buffet to\u00a0the kitchen table. She found so many places to use the synthetic\u00a0covering that she could have won an Oscar for best set design with\u00a0plastic. (My mother also adored the convenience of artificial flowers\u00a0and Windexed them at the same time she disinfected the sofa.\u00a0Architectural Digest, it was not.)<\/span><\/p>\n

Reams of industrial runners covered the pristine harvest-gold\u00a0broadloom that ran the length of the house. Like the magical path in\u00a0The Wizard of Oz, we couldn\u2019t stray off this shiny road. Plastic even\u00a0lived on the lamp shades. No LEDs in those days, only high-wattage\u00a0heat surging through a midcentury style lamp. You could smell the\u00a0incandescence emanating through the sheer transparent veil. Careless\u00a0smoking of any kind on this highly combustible piece of furniture\u00a0would create one of two things: prominent burn holes or a situation\u00a0calling for \u201cstop, drop and roll.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It was strange for visitors outside of the plastic-covering culture to\u00a0understand it as a normal decorating practice. The first question was\u00a0always: \u201cWhy?\u201d To which the reply was: \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Plastic was practical. There was Windex to keep it clean, and if it\u00a0cracked, you went to the hardware store at the end of the street and\u00a0got some more. Ours was immaculate. If my mother wasn\u2019t hosing it\u00a0down, she was Windexing it. It was so spotless, that when the sun\u00a0broke through the blinding white sheer curtains, the living room\u00a0sparkled like the city of Oz (and an affront to the visual senses if one\u00a0was hungover).<\/span><\/p>\n

Plastic-covered furniture \u2013 we called it condom furniture \u2013 has its\u00a0own culture. The cleaning ladies lived in our neighbourhood; they\u00a0didn\u2019t come to it. Consequently, whatever you could do to alleviate\u00a0some part of the housework and maintain a tidy and neat domicile,\u00a0you employed.<\/span><\/p>\n

Neighbours, friends and relatives all subscribed to the same taste in\u00a0design, and eventually, I came to appreciate that I was merely the one\u00a0that didn\u2019t get it. It was only later that I understood why. The plastic\u00a0was about preservation \u2013 for those who lived through the war and\u00a0Depression, it was essential to hold onto and look after your things.\u00a0The word \u2018replacement\u2019 didn\u2019t exist.<\/span><\/p>\n

But one day, this infamous transparent material on the couch was so\u00a0cracked that my parents resolved themselves to the idea that it was\u00a0time to have it removed. This declaration required weeks of\u00a0contemplation and reassessment as to how they would adapt to a\u00a0lifestyle void of its existence. Pomp and circumstance surrounded the\u00a0couch\u2019s unveiling. Once off, it looked brand new, introducing itself as\u00a0a museum piece for the first time. An objet d\u2019art called a Chesterfield.\u00a0The finely embroidered teal fabric, enveloped by the wood-carved\u00a0frame had a new life. We all stood and stared at it but none of us,\u00a0especially the kids, would dare sit on it. We had no concept of what\u00a0the rules were around an object not covered in plastic. My dad went in\u00a0and sat down, feeling it out for the first time, as we all watched in\u00a0amazement. Like a model on\u00a0Let\u2019s Make a Deal, he demonstrated how\u00a0he didn\u2019t slip and how soft the couch felt. He also mentioned our lives\u00a0would be in peril if we even thought about eating or drinking on the\u00a0couch. My mother nodded in agreement.<\/span><\/p>\n

Once the couch was liberated from its plastic prison, my dad decided\u00a0that perhaps it was time to shed it in other places. Hallelujah! It came\u00a0off the hi-fi as well as the hallway buffet, which was traumatic for my\u00a0mother. She liked to lay her homemade noodles to dry on these\u00a0surfaces. I enjoyed the hot and humid summers after that. I could sit\u00a0down and get up without third-degree burns.<\/span><\/p>\n

I always wondered what happened to that couch. Then, 50 years later,\u00a0I discovered it in a high-end boutique in a small town about an hour\u00a0away drive from where I grew up.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo way, it can\u2019t be!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I looked at the back of the frame, and there was a tiny piece of plastic\u00a0still attached \u2013 yellowed from the passing years and adhered to the\u00a0thin piping of fabric by one lone staple.<\/span><\/p>\n

A tsunami of memories flooded through me. There sat this old gal,\u00a0relatively untouched after all these decades, emanating youth in her bright teal colouring. I realized the 55-year-old couch looked better\u00a0than me.<\/span><\/p>\n

It got me wondering: If I was to have encased myself in Saran wrap,\u00a0could I have successfully preserved myself to the same degree?<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When weather forecasters predict a hot day, I\u2019m painfully reminded of\u00a0an unusual milestone growing up: being stuck to the furniture. In the sweltering summer months of the early 1960s, I would grab a\u00a0cold pop and sit on the plastic-encased couch, forgetting that my flesh\u00a0would adhere to the surface. Moments later I would stand up,\u00a0screaming as […]\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":9295,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-470","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t