20 June 2012

3 damn, i wish i still had that shirt and those jeans.

09 FEBRUARY 2007

sofas & the city

there are things the proverbial they don't tell you about the city. such as the fact that getting rid of a sofa in the city is a hell of a hard trick.

i recently moved, and in this move i inherited this sofa. a sofa that i didn't need and that the salvation army refused to salvage. i've spent the past three weeks plotting legitimate ways to save the life of this sofa. but then, when the man from the white elephant haughtily said we don't do 4th floors, i realized something.

this sofa had to die.

certain times call for certain measures- sometimes desperate, mildly psychotic measures. killing a sofa may sound a little extreme, but i swear- this sofa wanted to die.

i had some tools. they were girlie tools, but tools nonetheless. so i dug about in the big red box for something to kill the sofa dead. this digging led to the realization that my tool priorities were all wrong. who needs two levels and three glue guns?

there were screwdrivers aplenty, and clamps and pliers galore, but the only saw was comparable to a butter knife. my enthusiasm for euthanizing the sofa was somewhat dimmed by this. but i was a girl with a mission. a girl with a sofa to kill.

for an hour, i sawed as though my life depended upon it- whittling, with all the fury i could muster, one centimeter into a one inch piece of wood. it was like trying to slice bologna with a bobby pin. thus, the plan of attack was revamped.

i paraded through the sludge to purchase a new saw, and learned the invaluable lesson that if you stand in the hand tools aisle of home depot wearing a pink scarf- the 19-year-old male workers will come out of the woodwork in droves to assist you.

but i wasn't there for a date. i was there for a saw. a saw that would let me kill this couch like a man. a saw that would allow for death with dignity, not hapless, shoddy slaughter.

ultimately, the actual killing of the couch was anticlimactic (and i do speak in haste- at present it's only mostly dead). the removal of the upholstery turned out to be the biggest bother. there were inner pockets of popcorn, pens, movie tickets, and receipts that led me to realize you can probably learn a person's entire life story simply by dismantling all their furniture.

admittedly, this experience has left me with a rather overfondness for the sound of cracking wood, which would deeply sadden my woodworking grandfather. but it's such a moment of small victory. the coming apart of something when you're so ready to see it go away. when you've spent three weeks being thwarted in its going away and finally determine to take matters into your own hands.

because when no one will salvage you from shit, you have to salvage yourself. and sometimes, sofas must die.


Linda said...

can't believe is has already been over 5 years since the death of the couch!

Les Savy Ferd said...

one dark, bitterly cold February night you are going to hear a shambling, thumping sound progressing up your back stairs. There'll come a knock, you'll answer and lightning will flash, revealing the ghastly pale, slightly soggy remains of your couch that has returned in all its undead upholstery to claim your pens, popcorn, indeed the very asses of all you hold dear.

oline said...

yeah, this whole nostalgia week may be the blogging equivalent of all you people having kids that insist on growing up as both circumstances make us feel super old.

and dOugO, that was uh-mazing. heaven help me if there's ever a couchpocalypse as my tally is 2, which is probably 2 more than most.