I know this is a weird subject and my vehement aversion makes it even weirder. It’s random and strange and some people will read this and send me emails and say, “What? Wicker?” But this is my story and I’m sticking to it. I hate wicker. Seriously hate the stuff.
It’s okay for Easter egg baskets and such. I’ll let those pass. But if you start trying to slide some wicker furniture past me, I’m going to throw down on you. Wicker is not what’s for furniture. I get mad just thinking about wicker furniture.
Wicker. Wicked. See? Those similarities are no coincidence. I believe there are two kinds of people, like cat and dog people – wicker people and people like me.
When my wife and I were first married, we were the recipients of some free wicker furniture, compliments of relatives who clearly had experienced the same wicker curse I describe in this writing. We were poor so we took it. I had no idea what we were in for with this thatched hell on wobbly, woven legs.
I walked in one day and sat down on this wicker chair and it just chewed into me like a pit bull at Mr. Vick’s house.
Wicker doesn’t age well. It gets loose in it’s senior years and human skin is tempted to ease down into the little crevices and once the wicker lures in your epidermis, it clamps down like a gator’s wet dream. Wicker not only will pinch the fire and Jesus Jackson out of you, it loves to snatch tufts of hair too. It shags clothes as hungrily as it goes for any other nasty bits. I made the naked mistake of leaning on a wicker table in our bathroom (the wicker accomplice of the aforementioned chair) as I was getting into the shower years ago. Let’s just say I had to sweet talk that thing into giving me back some things I knew I would need later in life. I coaxed and eased and pleaded until I was free and still have little wicker teeth marks where the sun don’t shine. Yeah, wicker is mean as all Hades on a Monday morning.
You let your guard down around wicker and the next thing you know, that wicker has the keys to your car, the content of your safe deposit box and a lean on your house. I wasn’t born to hate wicker, I learned it as a defense.
I will never own a piece of wicker furniture as long as I live. If I go into a furniture store and see some wicker, I leave. If I visit friends who have wicker furniture, they instantly become dead to me. Wicker is that serious in my book. You avoid wicker like bad cheese. You want bad luck? Black cats and ladders can’t hold a stack of Stephen King novels to a single, scrawny wicker stool.
I saw a guy in a poolside restaurant once in Florida (which is, by the way, the national headquarters of wicker furniture). Why such a nice state in all other respects continues to be hoodwinked by wicker is a mystery to me. Anyway, this guy sits down on a wicker stool in the bar. I knew it was going bad the minute his butt hit the seat. His eyes tightened. His lips pursed. The pain flowed from that wicker like a jellyfish attack, the wicker tentacles racking his posterior with pain, but it was too late. He tried to jump up and run but the wicker had him in its grip. The last time I saw him, he was Quasimodo-ing his way out the door with that wicked stool attached to his backside, holding on for wicker life. I swear I could hear the theme from jaws playing on the little ceiling speakers.
I will give wicker its due. It’s a worthy adversary. I have to respect the durability of the concept. It’s like plaid or flannel or corduroy, some people hate those too, but they have their place. And like those fake turtlenecks called dickies, some people love them. I just can’t take wicker personally.
So if you love wicker, don’t write me. If your name is Wicker, my condolences. If you live in Wickerville, move. If you own a wicker store, don’t get all bent out of shape and come looking for me with a wicker bat. Just let me live in wickerless peace. I didn’t like Wicker Man or Wicker Park so I probably won’t like your defense of wicker.
This is my closing philosophy on the subject: Wicker me once, shame on you. Wicker me twice, shame on me.
