Every Five Years a Fire


My couch is nasty.  The rips in the back of it are hidden because we've backed it up against a wall.  Every time anyone sits on it, their butt descends to a point roughly an inch or two from the floor and merely getting up to answer the phone requires strong thigh muscles and gymnastic acumen.   Alternatively, you can affect a version of the combat roll to get off. 

Originally, our couch was a dark forest green.  The front of the arm rests and the leg area still are.  The rest of the couch is now the color of the Sherwood Forest crayon in the Crayola box.

We bought our couch in 2001.  What happened?

What happened was our military lifestyle.  Our couch has moved five times since we bought it in 2001.  That takes a toll on our furniture.  As a retired military friend of ours said, "It's like we had a fire in our house every five years and we need to replace everything."

It's true.  The only things that seem to survive, and even thrive, in our household goods are the ugly things we WANT to break.  If my mother-in-law bought it for me, chances are I would do the Snoopy Dance if a mover dropped it.  So, why do they always drop the good stuff?  The china a family member sent from Russia when we got married?  Several cups were casualties on our first PCS. 

I live in fear that my prized buffet that hubby refinished for me will not survive.  I stand over the packers with my whip cracking while they surround it in yard upon yard of bubble wrap.  I direct the movers on holding it carefully.  I follow them out to the truck.

Movers hate me, they really do.  And if I were a mover I would hate me, too.  I'm territorial and demanding.  But I do buy them sodas and donuts, if that helps at all.

At this point, hubby and I have been forced to take a look at our household goods and inventory things.  We have several items that have been through the fire and need to be replaced.  Our microwave is on its last legs.  The papa-san has got to go.  The couch... well, we already covered the couch.  And none of our dining room chairs match anymore, because they have broken at various times during different moves.

My grandmother has the same living room couch (not to mention all her other furniture!) that she had when I was growing up.  It's an off white damask with green leaves and vines embroidered all over it.  I've seen it in several movies and TV shows when they want a set to look quintessential early sixties - complete with white shag carpet and the clock with all the pointy things sticking out of it in every direction (the one that looks like an Armor Burst).  No one's butt sinks to the floor on her couch.

Then again, her couch hasn't moved from the living room wall since 1965.  I'd like to aspire to that degree of care of my furniture, but I just don't think it's going to happen.

I have come to grips with the fact that my furniture is more disposable than that of the average American.  And that's okay.  I'm not one to argue with a chance to do some extra redecorating. 

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