I used to have the perfect couch. It was a pale sage green and the fabric was soft and stayed cool when I napped. It even absorbed drool without leaving a mark.
Everyone who came to my home fell asleep on my couch. I didn't mind; I liked that my couch had that effect on people. I also liked the change, lighters, and other assorted surprises that were left behind in the cushions.
One day, I noticed that the couch was sagging in the middle. I am not going to blame this on my 400 pound cat nanny, I am just going to say that it is awfully coincidental that my couch started sagging at the time that I started leaving the 400 pound cat nanny in charge when I was away from home for the weekend. Soon, it was impossible to sit on it without leaning toward the center. Then, there was the time that I fell asleep with a pen in my hand and continued to write even in my sleep, in blue ink on one of the cushions. The fact that I kept writing in my sleep is not surprising. I sleep-write a lot. It's amusing. I bring it with me to my therapy appointments. So far, it has not merited medication, but one day, I know it will pay off.
It took me months to buy my new couch. I sat on every couch in every showroom in the metro area. The sales associates would not let me remove my pants to really test the comfort level of the couches. I don't wear pants at home and so this made the decision considerably more difficult.
What I really wanted was my old couch to be new again. I settled for another green couch and a chair and a half. It seemed like a good f*cking chair; a little to big for one person, but just perfect for two people who wanted to get to know each other a little more intimately. As of yet, the chair and a half is a virgin. I've been living with my new couch for months now and it is still not right. There are too many pillows. It's too plump, too firm, and I cannot get comfortable.
Jamie came over last night for wine and conversation and wine. She took off her shoes and put her feet on my couch. Her feet smelled a bit like roadkill. I retched and reached for the Febreze. She looked offended. "Mist, you put your a$$ on this couch," she said. For the record, my a$$ does not smell like roadkill and hence, her argument was pointless.
I want to do a commercial for Febreze. I want to hold the bottle up to my face and inhale it's laundry fresh scent. I will turn to the camera with a smile and say, "Febreze; because I put my a$$ on the couch."
Update: It turns out that I'm also over at Britt's place today.