I was going to write about karaoke this week, about how there is nothing in this world so vile, nothing I hate more, nothing that has ever made me claw at my own face in pure, concentrated rage except a badly sung rendition of "Unbreak My Heart," but I'm not sure I could write a whole column about it without going on a karaoke killing spree. I'm not going to discuss how, when I stumbled upon amateur karaoke night at Sam's Sports Bar last week and saw a bland-looking man in pressed khakis and a button-up plaid shirt singing nervously and off-key to the Dexy's Midnight Runners song "Come On Eileen," I had to literally clasp my hand over my mouth so I didn't throw up on his Dockers. Nope. Not going to talk about it. Instead, I'm going to talk about something that I love: my new couch.
For three years now, I've been sitting on a futon that is held together by duct tape. Not that I'm complaining—I mean, the duct tape works just fine. But sometimes, I'd like to plop down on the futon without worrying that I'm going to shake a support beam loose. That happened last week. I was excited about something, as I usually am, and jumped on the futon to express my glee. A metal bar, a bar that had previously been welded in place, fell to the ground with a clank. Yep, that's right. My ass can dislodge welded metal. I didn't eat dessert for a week.
The boyfriend got out the duct tape and reattached the metal bar, but I'd had enough. I wanted a couch. Preferably a big fluffy one with down pillows. "Let's go to Pottery Barn," I said, because I have no imagination and can't think of anywhere else to shop. "Let's go to Goodwill," the boyfriend said for the same reason, except that he's cheap. So we stuck with the futon until, out of the blue, we got a phone call from a friend who asked if we wanted her couch, a couch that just happened to have down pillows.
So now I have a new couch. It is a big couch, not from Pottery Barn, but it might as well be. It is off white, and so are my apartment walls. The boyfriend mysteriously went out of town a week before I had to move it, so I bribed my friend, Ryan, to do the dirty work. After the heavy lifting, after carrying it down three flights of stairs, across town and up another half-flight, after Ryan dropped the couch on his foot, after we finally got it into the apartment, I took one look at it and thought, "Now I need new walls." What does that even mean? I have no idea, but that's the thought that went through my head.
Never in my life have I bothered to interior decorate. What's the point when your futon is held together by duct tape and your primary chest of draws in the bedroom used to be your changing table when you were a baby? But suddenly, I needed to match my entire apartment to this couch. I've never felt this way before. I might as well pop out some kids and start shopping at Talbots right now.
Because the couch is off-white and my dog is sort of off-black, a pink sheet (or "tapestry," as Urban Outfitters told me when I bought it on clearance) is draped over most of it until I can buy a slipcover. I didn't even know what a slipcover was until a few weeks ago when someone at work told me. I mean, I knew about the plastic kind that old people put on their furniture in case their Depends leak, but apparently there are cloth kinds, kinds actually sold at Pottery Barn.
To move said couch, I used my father's giant red pickup truck. I'd never driven a pickup truck before. In fact, I distinctly remember a time in high school when a friend's father bought a pickup truck and I demanded to be driven around town because, as a little Yankee suburban girl, I'd never ridden in a pickup before. He wouldn't let me ride in the back, though. I really wanted to ride in the back.
So I drove this pickup truck, which is quite possibly the largest thing I've driven so far. I've manned my share of overpriced and unnecessary SUVs, but this thing was huge. And diesel. With anemic air conditioning, no radio and a button to push before you start it. When I came to Tennessee, I was shocked at the number of pickup trucks on the road. I mean, how many things does anyone really need to pick up? Aside from totally awesome couches that match the apartment walls too well and make the entire room look like I'm living inside a milk carton?
But now I understand the pickup truck obsession. My tiny Honda may get good gas mileage, but trucks are more fun. They are red (or at least, they should be), they smell funny and best of all, you can see into the windows of minivans. I would drive this truck every day, except for the facts that I can't park it anywhere and my arms hurt from lifting a couch. That's not the truck's fault, but I associate the truck with the couch, and the couch with sore muscles, so for now, I'll stick with my Honda. Or maybe I'll just curl up with my down pillows and wait for the soreness to pass. Then I'll venture out in my red whale that smells like gasoline and spend a night on the town. But I'm still not singing karaoke. Unless I get food poisoning and need to make myself puke.
