Pillow Talk.

I'm having a dispute, of sorts, with the husband.
But it's nothing new. Actually, it's been going on for quite some time now.

And 'dispute' may be a strong word. It's actually more of a 'disagreement'.
One where I'm right and he's wrong.

It began the moment he held my hand for the first time that night watching The River Wild while seated on my infamous white couch. Because, let's be honest, that movie is suspenseful. And it's an unspoken rule that men are required to cuddle females should they become frightened.

The point is, this was when I realized (to my horror) that not everyone shares my love for pillows. Bed pillows, body pillows, throw pillows, chicken pillows.. You name it. (Okay, so that last one isn't actually a pillow, but they are delicious.)

In my mind, pillows are synonymous with happiness.
The husband, however, finds them unnecessary and irritating.

I'm still at a loss for words as to how this is possible?..
The more pillows I find around me, the better the world seems.

Sometimes, I take a running jump into the pile of pillows on our bed and wiggle around until I've created my own little pillow cave. Leave a small opening for the remote signal to pass through, and I could stay there for days.

But as soon as the husband comes in, he feels the need to push them all off in disgust. Huffing in disdain as if they were all tiny porcupines, intent on ruining his life.

Thus, my exclamations of excitement..

turn to demands for pillow tolerance.

To be fair, I have tried to decrease the steady influx of new pillows, by simply refashioning the one's we have should the need arise.

But I still hold that no one's ever died from having too many pillows.
Except for my close call that one time.. but it doesn't count.