My Favorite Couch

So my grandmother passed away on July 3, 2011. More importantly, I saw the cover of this magazine that said Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were getting married, and I was seriously like WHAT THE FUCK?!

I took that magazine home and shook it towards the sky while pointing at my boyfriend. “If Brangelina can get married, SO CAN WE!” Then I burst into tears because I don’t understand why people have to die. I certainly don’t want to; I want a reset button.

I will really miss my grandmother, but I’m glad she had a long and interesting life. And I don’t think people should get married just because their children want it. You shouldn’t be a hostage to your own kids, Brangie, even if they resemble a United Colors of Bennetton ad. Especially if they do.

One item bequeathed to me upon my grandmother’s passing was a gorgeous couch — one couch to rule them all — that I’d coveted for decades. She and my grandfather had impeccable taste — modern, classic, simple, comfortable — and I’ve been lucky enough to inherit some beautiful pieces from them over the years.

There’s no problem with the couch. None at all. Except if there was a problem (which there most certainly is not), it would be that the couch is fucking white. Like ‘skiing in the Alps with Adolph Hitler and David Duke’ white. Northern Idaho white. Oh shit white.

At first I wouldn’t let anyone sit on it. I thought it was out of respect and reverence for my grandmother, but really, I was trying to preserve its holy whiteness. I envisioned red wine spills, smudged chocolate, spaghetti sauce, greasy stains, tire marks, kraken blood, and cats giving birth atop an open bag of Cheetos — basically anything that would seriously compromise the couch. But I couldn’t cover the thing in plastic and become one of those people.

So I made my first furniture rule that sounds a bit racist: WHITES ONLY.

Basically you can munch on marshmallows, eat a plate of egg whites, chug some Riesling, and do cocaine on my couch; if it’s white, it’s allowed. Unfortunately that doesn’t leave room for me to sit on it, as I am only white internally. RULES ARE RULES. I just hope to preserve the couch — and the other lovely items I inherited — in the same manner that my grandmother did. She couldn’t live indefinitely, but maybe the couch can.

RIP, Jean Anunsen Brady. I’ll think of you when Brad and Angie get married, and every day before, and every day after.


5 thoughts on “My Favorite Couch

  1. […] too many months I’ve been sitting in my grandmother’s chair, watching dust and dishes and clothes accumulate, powerless to stop them. All I’ve […]


  2. […] being on this goddamn diet. Also to vex people. And to see more Broadway shows and buy a fourth couch. It’s a yin-yang-circle-of-life-and-furniture kind of […]


  3. […] Fire, and insanely-soft Cuddl Duds will ensure an obituary ending in “with skin that fused to the couch.” I’m sure there are worse things out there, though — animal hoarding and […]


  4. […] Fire, and insanely-soft Cuddl Duds will ensure an obituary ending with “skin that fused to the  couch.” I’m sure there are worse things out there — animal hoarding and “Keeping […]


  5. […] cheese dense but forgiving. The tomatoes burst with acidic flavor, a melty pot of sweet tang and my grandmother’s […]


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