That Sofa? G-O-N-E
Pardon the obvious lack of culture in this post friends, but the sofa departure of 2012 is worthy of an update, doncha think?
You know perfectly well what sofa I’m talking about. The sofa my better half brought home from a local flea market back in July simply because it was free and might blend in with the eclectic decor of his fabulous man cave? That sofa.
Well, it’s gone. History. Loaded onto the truck and sent packing to the Bethel auction. Even the auctioneer said, “When I tell you ‘No Sale’ on the sofa, don’t get mad at me.” Wow, this from a guy who encounters junk from people’s attics and basements on a regular basis. A comment like this from a junk expert like that lets you know the sad truth–you’ve got one fine piece of crap on your hands.
The sofa sat for about a month in our garage. After my husband announced his “find” and I walked outside to see it, a tad of marital discord descended upon the household. Not pretty. But I’m married to an optimist, a man determined and unswayed by the rantings and ravings of an enraged wife. No amount of hysteria would deter him, so he did what any self-respecting, misfit-furniture loving husband would do. He unloaded it off the truck.
And here’s how I know there is a God. It didn’t fit through the door leading to the downstairs family room/man cave. So it sat there, like a broken down parade float, for weeks. And after a day or two, things started to appear on its plush, velour cushions. The sofa became a holding area for other castoffs. And then occasionally I’d sit on it if the washer needed just a minute or two to finish its spin cycle. And then everytime you walked down into the garage you expected to see it and that earth-toned 70s print, a flower arrangement with mums and asters and dahlias and zinnias and seed pods, all in golds, whites, tans and touches of blue. The garage had never looked brighter or more welcoming. A sofa in the garage? How unique.
A strange sort of attachment syndrome had begun here. The sort you experience when a mangy stray cat suddenly meows at your back door. You feed it because you pity it and then it finds a place in your heart and then you don’t really think it looks mangy anymore and then you say, ‘What the heck? I’ll keep it.’ It was starting with that sofa and I had to put a stop to it. Also, Steve said if I didn’t get it out of here he WOULD find a way to make it fit through that door. ‘Nuff said. I was on the move.
Finally, the day had come. Time to part with its big blooms, its wood accents, its attached arm pillows. With its shiny harvest gold surface gleaming in the morning sunshine, the sofa was loaded for its last voyage. A new home. A final chapter. Another screaming wife? Who knows, but it might just kick-start a new franchise of literature and movies–Sisterhood of the Travelling Ugly Sofa. Ya never know.