I have been thinking a lot about couches lately. I’d like a new one, but I’m picky, we have a demonic cat, and the couch I really want is cost prohibitive and would require me actually decorating my house, so its out for a while. Couch purchasing is not what I’m thinking about much; I’m thinking about the life of a couch.

The couch I am sitting upon has been in the family longer than The Enigma. I have a photo of him breastfeeding on one of the stupid safari-animal (shush!) throw pillows that have probably seen more bodily fluids than most jizz moppers. It came to us in Arkansas, and has (mostly) survived two moves – to Florida and then finally here, to NoVa. It was my haven during 15 weeks of bed rest. It was my haven when I could no longer sleep in my bed.  It, more than me or the humans in the house, has recorded a lot of history within its questionably clean pillows cushions. This couch, so old and crusty (yep, I admit it) is its own time capsule… if you speak couch. It’d be great if you didn’t though. Just sayin’.

This is the couch that I thought, by the way, proved how The Husband and I were so meant to be since in my mind,  when we both walked into that furniture store and (I thought) instantly fell in love (with the couch). I was duped. He hated the couch and just wanted to get laid. I hated his old couch, though, so I suppose it all worked out. I also hated his dishes, and I’ve since replaced our dinnerware at least four times, each time rolling my eyes at how “functional” AND BUTT ASS UGLY his beige Corelle Wear was. I win.

Saturday night, as I sat on the couch with my friends, hiding my eyes from their bare flesh laughing my ass off, I couldn’t stop thinking distracting myself by pretending to care about everything my own couch has seen happen in my life (why do women keep getting naked around me? WHY?). That couch has a lot of dirt on me. A lot. In turn, it also has a lot of dirt upon itself. Most recently, it inspired a few hundred words within my book/short story/archive of bizarre thoughts about how Liv (totally not sure of that name yet) is hoping for comfort from her own couch, since she’s the queen of dysfunctional relationships (no, its not entirely a memoir, haters).

Ahhh, some day, when I’m all famous or not, I’ll look back on this and say, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Yeah, I already do that. Nevermind.

Until then, just know that your furniture is watching you, and is totally laughing its ass off at how stupid you were to not make a move on that topless chick the other night, even if she’s your friend and you’ve vowed to never really touch your friends’ boobs again, oh, and you’re married.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWryvXMYHoA&feature=related

Ahem. So, I spent the weekend with some amazing ladies from HippyMom down in Richmond. There was cheese, there was beer, martinis and a bunch of kids (and they weren’t all mine!). Tonight, The Husband’s new wife and I are going to dinner and a few bars so she can prove to me that Mondays are just as fun as weekends (simply due to her presence, of course). I’m trying to decide between the sports bar and the country bar. Decisions, decisions.

The song of the week? I’m on a Sheryl Crow kick, so tell me how this one suits ya…

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lppPiUyIyt8&feature=related

Stevie. She somehow makes it all better.