Friday, August 22, 2014

Might I Interest Sir In An Appetizer?

“Chips & salsa, perhaps?  Sampler platter?”

“Just the couch then?  Will that be with the cushions or without?”

So the little shits ate my couch.

Not the kids.  The dogs.  The damned dogs.  Ate.  The.  Couch.

And did they even have the decency to look like they had indigestion or heartburn or constipation or ANYTHING?  Nope.  In fact, when I walked in the house after work yesterday, the entire furry crew looked just pleased as punch with themselves.

The kids, however, looked scared shitless as they stood there in the living room surrounded by mounds of shredded couch cushion.  “We didn’t know what to do with it, Mom,” was the only explanation I got.

Hmmm, well we could either put it in a pot with some water and cook it for dinner, or we could pick it up and put it in a trash bag.  Call me crazy…just a thought.  But even my sarcasm failed me at the moment, and I couldn’t get those words to come out.  I’m pretty sure I spluttered something more Tourrettes-y like, “Shit-Damn-Ball-Crap-Shit-Hell-Balls,” while the kids stood there waiting for my eyeballs to pop completely out of my head.

And then, like Wonder Woman, I picked up the couch (damned heavy thing, too), flung it over my head, spun it around three times like a baton, and tossed it in the garage.  Ok, what really happened was that I dragged it, huffing and grunting as I felt sweat drip between my boobs (which, by the way, makes me grumpier than having my couch eaten by dogs) out onto the sidewalk.

It bumped down the two steps to the sidewalk, fell into the flower bed, and clumps of fluff poofed out of the place-where-my-butt-used-to-sit.  All of this was in full view of the neighbors, and all of this was done braless, because once I get home in the afternoon, that’s the dress code—no shoes, no bra, hair in clippy thing on top of my head.  So yeah, I looked insane…what with my boobs flopping all around and my couch in the middle of my flower bed.  But I had it damned handled.

My dogs were not going to get one more scrumptious bite of cushion if it was the last thing I did on this green earth.  Midway through this event, Marissa asked, “Mom, do you need your inhaler?”  So I’m assuming I looked like a crazy woman with the lung capacity of a 90-year-old lifelong smoker.

I did not need my damned inhaler.  What I needed were pets that had less of an affinity for polyester filling.

Oh and also, we already had a call in to Nebraska Furniture Mart because we purchased the replacement policy or some such crap for this couch.  So we called to let them know we had a tiny hole in the seam of the couch.  Guess what?  Now the hole is NOT so tiny.  And they, too, are going to think we are crazy, because what we previously defined as a small hole now looks like the Grand Canyon of fabric destruction.


And now I have a half-eaten couch in my garage and a treadmill in my living room.  And probably a husband who may or may not have donated my dogs to some prison pet program.  Also, welcome home from out of town, Honey.  I know you’ve been gone for a week, and you were really looking forward to coming home and maybe sitting on our comfortable couch, but about that…

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