When did beanbag chairs last have beans in them? Did they ever. They don’t now. Last night my 14-year-old nephew popped mine by leaping onto it from the trampoline in my basement. Just imagine. He then rolled and slammed into the closet door, giving it a nice bowed look. Sweet. Aside from the crash, I knew something was wrong when my six-year-old son came running up stairs covered with what looked like the fake snow used for shooting the indoor scenes of It’s a Wonderful Life.
Beanbag chairs are now full of tiny styrofoam pellets. Smaller than pellets, actually. They’re like little fleas. Try brushing them off. It doesn’t work. They blow through the vacuum filter, stick to walls, and creep through the house, hidden in cat fur. Spores! That’s another way to describe them. My brown beanbag was like one of those chestnut puffball pods found on the lawn on a hot fall day. Who can blame a kid for wondering what’s inside!
I knew I had to act fast to contain the spill. We used rags and fists wrapped with duct tape in reverse. We vacuumed and swept. The menace spreads still. I’ve found beanbag spores in the bathroom upstairs, under my pillow and, incredibly, in the dishwasher. They’re like Christmas tree needles without the nice smell of fond memories.
The chair has exploded. It’s bean a fun weekend.
Click on the photo to see a larger version. Note: Photo has nothing to do with this post. Do not read into language used here. “Explosion, spores, menace.” Nothing to do with our recent trip to Washington. Honest.
