squishy couch dreams.

After work on Friday I convinced my friend Erin that instead of our usual post-work-weekend-drink-scurry-for-bourbon we should first check out an antique store between our two houses.

We both live with our boyfriends at this point, and apparently nesting is NOT the typical reaction.

However, nesting is exactly what hit me like a ton of bricks about Tuesday of last week when we got back into town after living hard and fast for the weekend and home wasn't an immaculately cleaned house with a full fridge and a maid to do my laundry. Nope, my little 1.5 month stay-over at my parent's home was certainly cushy, but home now looks slightly less cushy.

So, since just thinking about painting walls colors that I actually like just to paint them white again in nine months sounds like a whole lot of wasted effort, I've been going decor crazy in other ways. Like, pinterest.com all day, errrrrday.

In other words, I'm trying to spruce shit up.

I'd say it's going pretty well. If I'm feeling techy I'll upload some pics of my masterful work at some point, but let's bring this full circle, shall we? 

Erin and I are dicking around in my favorite antique store, it's got booths partitioned off like many do, and each vendor is trying to sell a mix of vintage and junk. Plus for every thirty days something sits in the store, it goes down in price ten percent until it's half off. I get my fix, junk gets cheap, new junk comes in all the time. Perfect. 

Erin's kind of cruising through because she's more into the idea of drinks after antiquing, since I kind of had to entice her with them in order for her to allow me to drag her along. So we're making better time through there than I probably ever have before because usually I'm OCD and I HAVE to see every item and go in EVERY booth because heaven FORBID I miss a tiny treasure and then all of the sudden, There. It. Is.

My dream couch.


I spot this couch and I cannot make myself look away. It's like there is a magnet in my ass and the couch is metal and by god the next thing I know I'm standing over it. And then I'm sitting in it. I can easily say this is the favorite couch I have ever seen or had the pleasure of sitting on in my life. I could decorate an entire room home LIFE around this sitting device. It's that perfect. Antique. Oak framework. Flawless upholstery. And then I looked down at the price tag and it was about $300 less than I was expecting to see and I started rationalizing to myself why I needed it. Which is almost always disastrous.

I normally don't get emotional over furniture, but I swear to god I felt physically ill walking out of the store without that couch. It's really not a couch you can have with a giant dogcreature milling around and drooling all over everything and accidentally clawing onto it with her giant paws. Like, at all.

So thanks to Hally the English Mastiff, the part of my heart reserved for home furnishings is officially crushed.

I thought that would be it. The couch would never be mine and I would eventually learn to move on, just like when you get dumped out of the blue and you're still in love with the other person but they are clearly indifferent to your existence. It was like the couch took one look at me and my giant dog and lack of hardwood floors and was like, "Move along, you're wasting both of our time and some other customers just walked in, so shooooo." Plus Erin was doing that shift from one foot to the other thing and shaking the ice in her empty big gulp NOT GETTING THE APPEAL OF THE COUCH and I suddenly felt really thirsty for some Jim Beam.

And then I dreamed about that goddamn asshole of a beautiful couch on Friday AND Saturday night. And all weekend, I gushed to anyone that would lend me an ear about the couch. I'd arrange and rearrange existing furniture in my mind so that I could maneuver the couch into my bedroom, safe from giant dogcreatures. Hell, for all I care, the couch can BECOME MY BED. Manfriend is getting RULL tired of hearing about this goddamn couch.

On Sunday I'm lazing around my parents' house, talking to my mom about what else but THE COUCH, and I decide she needs to come with me to visit it. After all, she's the reason I'm antique-obsessed, this is the burden she is doomed to bear- taking her 25 year old daughter to musty antique shops to visit furniture they can't really afford or reasonably find a place for in their own homes.

This is my life.

So I walk in shakily, almost too afraid to hope to see the damn thing again, my mother trailing close behind,  and it's STILL THERE. Ready for purchase. And my own mother agrees that this is a badass couch and it's a crime that it's just sitting there. She totally fucking gets it. I bet SHE dreamed about my couch last night.

I've taken to calling it "my couch."

Sad.

Tonight I'm taking dragging Manfriend to visit the couch.

I honestly don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to restrain myself from whipping out my card, plopping it on the counter, and figuring the rest out after I can breathe easy again, knowing it's mine.

Wish me luck and happy couch dreams tonight.

XO Sare