The Story of a Couch

(Thanks to Alan for the idea)

The Ole Couch Being Used in the Study at the Vinyl Village

I’ve always had pretty nice homes. Never fancy or in the most exclusive neighborhoods, but I think most people who have visited my places would agree that they’ve been clean, well designed, and tastefully put together. I can honestly say that none of my college apartments even looked like college apartments. Part of that is occupational hazard, part of it is that I am a great bargain hunter, and part of it is that, when I must, I can bring together a bunch of discongruous cheap junk and make it look like it belongs together.

The Ole Couch Being Sun Bleached at My Apartment

The truth is, I don’t have much of what any “stuff snob” would consider “good stuff”. No fine antiques. No celebrated original artworks. I buy what I like, what I can afford, and what I need, and make it work. There are maybe a half dozen things in my house that I really LIKE. These are the things that I would take with me even if I’d won the lottery and were moving into a mansion full of new stuff. (ignoring the obvious family photos, books, and sentimental trinkets) There’s the chair from my great grandparents house, it’s wooden arms and legs wearing the scars of 60 years of use. There is a pair of prints by Walter Valentini, one the first “adult” things I remember buying, the other a gift from a dear friend that I had reframed to match my original one. And then, there is my sofa. It might have to be tucked into the sitting area of a guest room in that mansion, but I’d take it with me.

It’s the first piece of furniture I ever bought. I ordered it custom built to my specifications and paid for it little by little over my first summer in college. Who knows how many JC Penny credit cards, Caller ID packages, or life insurance benefits I peddled as a telemarketer that summer to pay for it? I spent more on it than I probably should have, but it had a sleeper in it, and I reasoned (correctly) that it would serve a wonderful dual purpose in my first studio apartment as both sofa and bed.

The first day I had it, my family came to my wee college apartment to help get me settled in. Dad, stepmom, littlest brother (who was 5 or 6 at the time), and stepmoms best friend. It only took a few hours to whip the small space into shape, but as stepmom’s friend stood on the back of the couch to hang a picture, littlest brother chided her “Rita! We don’t stand on furniture!” Good lookin’ out for my sofa.

That first year, I was rather particular with the sofa. The fabric was a light tan, and while it had been treated, I feared stains. If anyone ate on it, I covered it with a big ole comforter. I was visibly nervous if anyone had a drink on it. And so you can imagine my horror when a friend and her new boyfriend came for a visit, and after coming back to my place from a big BBQ lunch, he plopped his ass on my sofa only to get up and realize he had sat in BBQ sauce at the restaurant.

We wiped it up. But it didn’t come off. Only later, using a special conconction of cleaners and my friend’s toothbrush, did I get the sauce out.

But that was the first of many homes that sofa had. As I count, it has lived in four college apartments counting that first one. Five apartments once I started my career, one house, and now one condo. Plus two stints in storage, once at my grandmother’s and once in the store room of a place I worked part time. That’s a lot of moving, folks. But it has held up well. It needs a little stuffing, the fabric is showing it’s age, and most telling of it’s age is that the back is bleached almost white–the victim of UV damage as it sat for two years in front of a huge window at my last apartment.

So once I moved into my new place, I started to look for it’s replacement. Most everything I saw that wasn’t completely out of my price range looked an awful lot like my old one. So I made a couple of calls to see what it would cost to just reupholster it, and it was half the price of  buying a new one. So now I get to keep my tattered old couch, and I’m glad.  It’s a good piece. Plain, classic lines that work with whatever pillows I’ve thrown on it over the years.  And it’s full of memories…the ones I already mentioned and a lot more. I can’t count how many people have crashed on it over the years. How many bottles of wine have been enjoyed on it, how many movies have been watched.

So, it’s getting some new life breathed into it. Maybe I’ll get fifteen more years of memories out of it.

In Case You Are Reading…

Dear Neighbors at the End of the Street:

Yes, the ones with that gorgeous BMW M3 Coupe that hasn’t moved from the driveway in months. Those are the ones. First, why isn’t that car in the garage? I see you cleared out enough crap to squeeze the Porsche in but surely that BMW is worth more than the old carpet and plywood that seems to be taking up it’s spot in under a roof. At any rate, since you haven’t driven it in months, I wonder if I might borrow it for a week or two, just to blow the three inches of pollen and dust off of it?

Thanks,

Your Envious Neighbor

Dear Woman in Front of me on the way to work  Today:

Please surrender your driver’s license, car keys, and rights to walk amongst the human race as soon as possible. As we sat in traffic this morning, I might have overlooked the 30 second lag as the cars in front of you sped off and you hunted around the car for your cigarette and lighter. I know that’s what you were looking for, because once you started going a puff of smoke filled your 1984 Corolla. Also, I might have overlooked it when you accidentally dropped that hard-fought for cigarette out of the narrow slit of window you were ashing from, unbuckled your seatbelt, opened the door, and got halfway out to retrieve it–causing us to miss the green light altogether. On a good morning, I would even  have overlooked that you cruised to the interstate at 20 MPH in a 40 zone. I may not even have been terribly bothered when you STOPPED at the end of the on ramp and waited for someone to wave you into traffic rather that merging like a normal person. And I might have shrugged off that you never got over 40 mph once you were on the interstate. But the combination of all these things together, topped off with your weaving between lanes as you attempted to balance the GALLON JUG of tea you were drinking, pushed me entirely over the edge today. So if I ever see your flat hair, your huge pores, your cigarette, or your tea in my line of site again, I will gut you like a fish.

You’ve been warned,

The Guy Behind You This Morning

Dear Banking Customer Service Supervisors:

You need to rethink how you do things. Really. When I call to make a change of address (since your automated system couldn’t understand me) I really do not want to have to tell the person on the other end “NO” three times before she stops trying to talk me into whatever fraud monitoring service you are offering. I realize it’s free for thirty days, but I don’t want to have to call back to cancel it. Because then I’ll have to go through the same thing with whatever insurance product, branded card, or balance transfer crap you are offering then. No means no.

And, really? Do you save THAT much sending call centers overseas? Let me just relay my recent conversation. All I wanted to know was the interest earned on my money market account for the past 12 months. This used to be readily available online, but isn’t anymore. “Sabrina” quoted me an amount. “Is that for this year so far, or for the past twelve months?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, you are correct.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are correct sir.”

“About what? Is that year to date, or past 12 months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Um, thanks.”

Can you understand my frustration? Please do better. Thanks.

Your Disgruntled Customer

 

TMI Tuesday

It’s been quite some time since I’ve done a TMI Tuesday, but since my time is stretched thin and the blog well is a wee bit dry lately, here goes:

1. Commando: Sexy or disgusting? Do you have a “best” commando story?

It can be sexy I guess. I personally wouldn’t leave the house in such a state, but it’s comfortable to let everything breathe once in a while while I’m slumming around. The best commando story, or worst depending on your point of view, was one such time I was bumming around the house wearing nothing but a pair of raggedy shorts. After answering nature’s call, there was some skin caught as I zipped back up. Now, we aren’t talking “Something About Mary” or anything, but nonetheless it was bad enough to make me think twice about ever going commando in anything with a zipper.

2. Foreplay: Is there such a thing as too much?

Depends on the circumstances. Sometimes, that’s better than the real deal, and sometimes ya just wanna get down to bidness, know what I’m sayin’?

3. Oral sex: Good if you are getting? Good if you are giving? Equally ewwwww?

Equally good getting or giving, I’d say. Though, maybe I need a reminder…anyone, anyone?

4. Orgasm: Is one per night enough or does the first one just get your motor running?

One is enough usually. Two or three is doable so long as alcohol is not involved, but the quality diminishes after number one.

5. Morning sex: “Oh hell yes!”, “Well if I have, too.” or “Just get in the shower and go to work.”

If I must, but it’s my least favorite time of day for that. I don’t really “wake up” until I’ve been outta bed and had some coffee, so expecting the physical exertion, control, and rhythm to be there for a sexual encounter is just asking for disappointment.

Monday Morning Mish Mash

1. The house closed! FINALLY. Cutest couple with two young kids bought it and are immediately doing one thing that I wanted to so all along–tearing all of the flooring out on the main level and replacing it with hardwood. They sold all of their old furniture and have new things on order for the house…and were so complimentary of how it looked when they found it. “We felt like we were walking into a museum.” (I think thats a compliment, right?) They and their realtor brought up my master bathroom at least five times. Made me feel good that they loved it.

2. I was feeling my age this weekend. Friday night, a friend sent  me a message inviting me to a cookout and cocktail hour at some other friend’s house. I arrived and was surprised that the she was house/dogsitting for the weekend and the owners weren’t even there. Had some incredible kabobs and homemade salsa. But the part that made me feel old is that she (an early 20s grad student) and her friends had, in a big ole beach pail that had “The Fuck It Bucket” painted on the front, mixed together some concoction that they were taking shots of via turkey baster. “Let’s get basted!”. As if that weren’t bad enough, they were then chugging beers and aforementioned “Fuck It Bucket” cocktail from a SNORKLE. So the two old men (myself and a good friend visiting for the weekend) adjourned for a glass or two at a more age-appropriate venue. On the way home, we stopped by an old haunt for another drink and my friend ran smack into his ex who, to our amusement, is now dating a man who is not an inch over 5 feet tall, even if you consider his four inch high bangs.

3. Today is Day One of taking Chantix. It worked to help me kick the habit a year or so ago, but I fell off the wagon after a few months. I’m convinced this time is for good. And I’m looking forward to the technicolor dreams that drug induces. Stay tuned.

4. A few of you asked to see pics of my new place. They’ll be coming soon. The sofa I am using in my living room is the very first piece of furniture I ever bought for myself as a college student. I had it custom made, and it cost over $1000, which everyone thought was CRAZY for a poor ole student to be spending. But, nearly 15 years later, I still like the lines of it, actually still like the fabric on it, and have not seen anything I like as much when looking for its replacement. So I am having that and my living room chair recovered. (At a shockingly low price). Ill post up some photos when I get them back in a few weeks.

No, I Haven’t Fallen Off the Earth

Just a little mish mash to fill you in, might still be a week or two before I can get back to our regularly scheduled programming.

1. All the stuff is moved out of the Vinyl Village. When I called to hire the movers, I explained that everything from the house needed to be moved to two different places–a one bedroom apartment, and a townhouse. Miss Genius entered the job as a “one bedroom move.” I thought her estimate was delightfully low, but didn’t question it because I figured she had been moving stuff a lot longer than I had. So, our movers arrived a bit before noon expecting to whisk one bedrooms worth of furniture out to find a garage packed full of boxes and a house full of a lot more than one  bedroom’s worth of furniture. But, to their credit, they never complained, didn’t break, scratch, or dent a single thing and never even scowled despite the fact that their estimated four hour Saturday afternoon took eight.

2. I still own the damned house in the Vinyl Village though. It was supposed to close last Monday. Then, last Wednesday. Then, next Friday. Apparently, the folks who bought my house sold their old abode to folks getting their mortgage from the USDA (who knew they did more than certify beef?) and the USDA is backed up on underwriting and processing. I was delighted a few days ago to have the closing moved UP to this Thursday. The delay has caused unnecessary worry…but as long as the check clears, I’m good and the USDA is forgiven.

3. And speaking of gubment fuggups…let me just tell you about the time I had trying to renew the license on my car. As much as I trade cars, I have never traded so early in the year that the license plate was near renewal. So when the county the house sat in sent me a tax bill on my OLD car, I assumed I wouldn’t have to pay property taxes on the new one until next year. So I sent off my check and waited for the renewed registration. Instead, I get a letter from the DMV saying that I need to pay taxes on the NEW car. Fine. I call the county, explain the situation, and am told that I have to come in PERSONALLY to have them process a credit from one car to the next. Can’t do it online, can’t do it on the phone, can’t do it by fax. It is still beyond me why, but there it is. So I have to drive an hour away to the county seat, pay the taxes, and am then told that they will NOT send the current paid tax bill to the DMV, I am on my own. So I have to go to the DMV next. Ever been to the DMV? I am convinced that the DMV office doubles as the Green Room for the Jerry Springer show. Before I walked in, a full set of teeth could not have been found among all thirty people waiting there.

That very morning I had logged onto the DMV’s website and changed my address from the house in the vinyl village to my new residence, which is in a different county. This caused much confusion among the dim witted clerks of the DMV. They wanted me to go back to County One, get a refund, and then go to County Two (which has MUCH higher taxes) and pay them there. I explained the whole situation…that these damned taxes had been paid nigh on two months ago before I even had an offer on my house in County One, and at any rate I still owned it and so there was no reason they shouldn’t just let me pay taxes in that county. This went over her head. Her supervisor had to be called to the desk. I had to tell the whole story again. Miss Supervisor changed my address BACK to the house in County One, issued a registration, and then told me to change it again online to the new house.

4. So I’ve spent the past week getting my new place in order. Still working on that. I have an obscene amount of “stuff”. Finding a place to put it all is a challenge. I have plenty of space, but how best to organize and display it is lost on me sometimes. But its getting there!