Farewell to the frankencouch

I've mentioned before we don't have swanky digs. My clothes are stored in plastic dressers. Our loveseat has been named the "frankencouch" because it started coming apart at a seam some years back and I had to make some serious repairs so there weren't foam bits every time you sat down. Unfortunately, the only way to repair the ripped cushions was to take some yarn and a big darning needle to stitch it back together. This obviously did not bring some pretty results.



I wish I could say "at least it's comfortable," but sadly I cannot. I even had to make the same repairs to the full sized frankencouch that's still with my parents.

Come to think of it, the only furniture in this house isn't a hand-me-down is Dave's (none too swanky) ikea chair, and I think we can all agree that ikea barely counts as grown-up furniture.

We made a couple of trips "browsing" for furniture wherein we found ourselves getting up and plunking down on more pieces of furniture than I'd care to admit. With each plunk came the analysis of whether it was what we were looking for.

The couch had to be comfy to both of us, nice to look at, suited to a more formal room but casual at the same time, and easily cleaned up given our "zoo." That's why we really wanted leather. You wouldn't believe the amount of hair we have to vacuum off the frankencouch every week from the cats lounging on it, and the dogs, who we're both pretty sure sneak up there the moment we leave the house. Since leather doesn't trap and attract hair like fabric does, we think it'd be perfect, really.

Agreeing on "the" couch was difficult. Dave has comfort as almost his sole criteria. Despite his art background, looks were less important. He would be happy to get one of those big fluffy lazyboy chairs that look more like a stack of oversized muffintops. Those chairs and couches look like to me they're just waiting for you to take them home and open up the cheesies and the box of donuts and grab the remote. In short order you would swell to the ranks of the morbidly obese to fit the chair's ginormous proportions, and later die, still in the chair, despite numerous well-intentioned Maury Povich interventions.

I'll admit I am a bit of a clean lines kid so the plain, stylish couches attracted me, but I was usually disappointed because they were as comfortable as sitting on a stack of cardboard.

So, when we went shopping a few weeks ago we both agreed we liked one couch and it fit our criteria but I was still not 100% sure, even when there was a 50% off sale THAT DAY ONLY! Yeah, I figure if they can have that sale once, they'll have it again soon.

Tonight we returned to find yet another a 50% off sale, and the sales people (who were painfully obviously on commission and circled like hyenas) told us it was an additional 20% off the already 50% off tag, so we ordered this couch and chair, and ended up spending less than we had originally planned. In 4-6 weeks this is what we'll be sitting on:

And yet, despite my excitement for new, pretty furniture, I feel bad for frankencouch. It seems mean of me to just give it away to another home just because I don't like the way it looks and it's falling apart.

It did nothing to deserve being covered in blue stripey fabric which quickly fell apart, and now, after years of being available to plunk my butt down on it, the only thanks it gets is a trip to yet another home (I am its third owner, and it's lived in 3 places while with me, shipped across the whole province). Of course I'll donate it to a good cause or find it new digs (or let it become the animals' couch in the basement, not sure which) but I feel badly its glory days are numbered. I guess I'm just odd that way.