So this is just barely making Throwback Thursday, but it’s before midnight, so I’m going for it.
This is oooold news, folks, but gather around, because I’m going to share it anyway. The fabulous, riveting, bloodthirsty and shocking tale of how I acquired my coveted and long-desired tufted leather sofa.
The evening was waning. We were sitting at the bar at the Meddlesome Moth, our once-frequented spot where all the servers knew us by name, and we were registered in the computer system for our own particular booth – we were always seated there if it was available. This evening, the booth was occupied.
So there we were at the bar, sipping on craft brews and hanging out after a long day of work. It was a Wednesday.
I absently mindedly browsed Craigslist on my phone – a terrible habit I have that sometimes proves fortunate. Sometimes it’s a mere source of provocation, but on this evening, as fate would have it…
A vintage 1970’s tufted leather sofa, straight out of the law office of the seller’s father.
Excitedly I shoved the phone into Bryan’s face. “Look!” I cried, nearly leaping from my seat in excitement. Bryan, ever the calm one, commented that it looked nice. My fingers stumbled over the touch-screen keypad on my phone, hammering out a message to the seller – please, let me have it; please, I love it.
And then, a phone call in response. He seemed bewildered at the number of responses he had received, but would be happy to sell it to me since I wanted it so much. I asked – what would it take for him to hold it for me until Friday evening? We settled on a price.
I floated all the way home, teeth practically chattering with excitement. I managed to sleep. I managed to work the next day. I managed to sleep once more.
I sent an email Friday morning enquiring for the address, and received a disconcerting reply.
Interest in the couch had continued to pour in. There was a fellow – let’s call him Mac – who just wouldn’t let up. Mac’s wife had to have the couch. She would throw fits if she couldn’t have it – you know how women are. (I may be paraphrasing here a tad, but that’s the general idea of things. Okay, in all honesty, I may have dramatized it a little in my mind. But for the sake of the story, let’s generalize/villainize Mac and his wife, okay?).
Well. I was not to be out-bid by Mac and his temper-tantrum-throwing wife! She would not get her stereotypically-materialistic feminine hands upon my sofa!
I rose to the occasion and staked my claim, stood my ground, and doubled my offer. (Please, sell it to me; please, I love it.)
Two hours through a rain storm to get it.
The dear sweet seller and his wife were very upset over the whole bidding situation. They had prayed over what to do. They were so happy things worked out for me to get it. God gave me this sofa, okay? That’s the moral of this story.
Two hours home, on the outskirts of the same rain storm, praying it wouldn’t get too soaked, hoping the leather could take a little moisture.
Ten sweaty, panicked minutes shoving it through the doorway to our apartment (which all the sudden seemed ridiculously narrow and not all as wide as front doors should be made).
One moment snapping a fuzzy, terribly-lit, yet triumphant iPhone picture.
Sending this to the sellers, to let them know we had made it home safely, and the sofa was really and truly in a home where it would be well-loved.
And I do love it!
Is it my dream sofa to end all sofas, the tufted leather king of my heart?
No promises though. I mean, it’s a good thing marriage vows don’t exist for sofas, because I always reserve the right to change my mind about decor decisions. Not that I want to be a couch-floozy (there’s a good mental image; my apologies if you arrive on my site after googling that phrase) but I’m open to the possibility that Mr. Perfect-Dream-Couch may still be out there waiting for me. No worries, Bryan, this is *not* how I approach our marriage.
I mean, I’d hate to go all women-at-the-well on this whole couch situation, where Jesus comes to visit and is like, “Where’s your couch?” And I’m all like, “Couch? What couch? I don’t have a couch…” And Jesus totally calls me out on being a couch floozy, and he’s like, “Yeah, you’ve had FIVE couches, and the one you have now isn’t even your couch!” Gasp.
Don’t worry if you’re not following any more. Several semesters of Bible college will do this to you. And I’m not even sure if it’s heretical. Probably.
Update: This sofa is has been replaced. Twice. I’m such a couch floozy.