In just a few short days I will be the proud owner of brand-new couch. It will be my first-ever couch, in fact. I've been parking my rump on a loveseat for the past seven years so I've more than earned the extra foot of foam and fabric.
Before moving into my Tiny Wee Studio in Brooklyn, I lived in a small two bedroom on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The apartment was fine, I guess, but I had the biggest beaver of a roommate in the history of human cohabitation. She was a miserable fuck and I hated her with a fiery passion. And her name was Clare.
Clare.
THE EX once remarked that Clare was "mousy-faced." I agreed. Before long, I tacked on several more hyphenates, including but not limited to: buck-toothed and crazy-assed. They all modified one key word... bitch.
Bitch is a word that is bandied about quite loosely. It's often an unearned and unfair insult. In the case of Clare, it was astonishingly accurate. She was just a miserable person with a constant scowl on her puss and persistent persecution complex, among other things.
One time at the Food Emporium, Clare got all pissy because I stopped to answer a few questions about scrod posed by an elderly shopper. The old lady was next to me in line at the fish counter and my choice piqued her interest so I shared a few preparation and pairing ideas. Because, well, why not? I had the sense that a trip to the grocery store was one of the few opportunities this woman had to talk to other people all day. It was no skin off my nose to converse with her for two minutes and she was genuinely grateful. Clare, on the other hand, was incensed that I dared interrupt our shopping trip with such things. She turned on her heel and stormed off in a huff.
Nice, right?
Anyhoo, Clare and I moved into our apartment with nary a stick of living room furniture between us. I was armed with a few appliances, framed prints, candles and a selection of funky tchatkes but that was about it. Fearing I would forcibly decorate the apartment with my existing stash of brick-a-brack, Clare laid down the law quite loudly in the middle of Pier One Imports one day after I had the audacity to point out a cabinet as a housing option for the television.
Did I mention she was paranoid? And a right cunt?
Long story short, we bickered in Pier One, we bickered in Seaman's Furniture, we bickered in IKEA, we bickered in Jennifer Convertibles and we nearly came to blows in Bed, Bath & Beyond. I'm honestly not a confrontational person but that girl just pushed my buttons. She had no passion or reasoning behind her aesthetic choices and decisions. She disagreed with me because of the aforementioned paranoia and a maddening need to be contrary.
Stupid whore.
So, after two solid months of searching, seething and near-strangulation, she finally agreed to a light beige loveseat with a pull-out foam mattress from Pier One. I didn't love the thing but I had no more fight left in me. I put it on my Visa and it was delivered a week or two later. She paid for a console table for the television and stereo and at long last, we finally had a furnished living room.
Needless to say, Clare and I did not remain roommates when the lease was up. In fact, we didn't speak for the last four months of our lease. It was awesome.
I, and the Pier One love seat, now live in a minuscule studio in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. Because of the size, I had to be really creative when furnishing the place. I bought me one of them there loft beds, aka an adult bunk bed, to save space and prevent my apartment from looking like one big bedroom.
To me, the loft bed is a cozy sleeping berth on a make-shift "second floor" in my less-than-spacious living space. I have no trouble sleeping or, you know, doing, um,
other things, up there. To some of the women I have taken home, it is considered a wobbly death trap six feet off the floor and not at all suitable for doing, um, you know,
other things. Mind you, some have tried but more often than not, all, um, you know,
other things, have taken place on the pull-out foam mattress of the Pier One loveseat.
But, honestly, neither the loft nor the loveseat are ideal in this regard. I've ended up with the most ridiculous bruises, not to mention crippling back pain courtesy of the awkward layout and low-quality of that fucking mattress.
So, at long last, I sprung for an honest-to-goodness couch. With the help of the lovely Glamour Puss, I picked out a funky red sofabed. It's made of microfiber and has a storage compartment plus a "European click-clack mechanism" for easy conversion from sofa to bed. It's arriving on Wednesday and I'm so excited. And I must admit that I
really enjoy saying "click-clack mechanism."
I can't wait to play with the click-clack mechanism and, um, you know,
other things...
Labels: apartment dwelling, glamour puss
