Tag it

There isn't much in life that genuinely irritates me, you know, the small things. I don't care where the dishes are stored in the cabinets, well, at least if I can find them when I have to put them away. I don't care how the furniture is arranged in the room. I don't care how many pillows are on the bed, or on the couch, or on a chair. I don't care where we decide to put rugs on the floor, or even if we need them or not.

Okay, so what's the point of this ramble you ask? I hate tags. Yup, tags. Tags that are still attached to pillows, tags that are still attached to blankets. Tags that are still attached to the rugs that are scattered about the house. Tags that are attached to just about anything.

What's the point of them? Okay, they're required by law so the stuffing inside isn't dead rat hair. I get it. But, do you still have a tag sticking out of a pillow that's on your bed? Let me guess; you bought that pillow over five years ago. Have you washed it? Did you read the instructions on the tag before you tossed it in the washer? Maybe once, but if you actually have washed it more than once you didn't read the tag the second time or any time after that.

All that tag now does is stick out the side of the pillow, or the rug, or the towel and ruin the picture perfect image you have crafted for your abode. All the pretty stacked pillows on the bed, all the patterned rugs that tie your decor choices together are ruined by a stupid, overly-long white tag with verbiage that sticks out and looks completely out of place. You know what else it does? It hits you in the neck when you lean against it; it flops across your cheek and just generally irritates the hell out of me. At every turn I just want to rip them off.

It's time we had a revolution in this country...rip it...rip it good...rip it off. You won't read the washing instructions on it anyway.