I’ve Still Got “It”!

nablo13daytwentyfiveSome days — and I’m not saying they’re not few and far between, but SOME DAYS, I know my husband is glad that he married me. Once in a while I can see that, “I made the right decision almost 25 years ago” look that he gets on his face. I saw it last night — THAT look. I noticed it as I was bent over the semi-constructed BRIMNES bed, beads of sweat dotting my forehead and, truth be told, my nether regions, screwdriver in hand — I know that SOUNDS incredibly sexy — trust me, it wasn’t.

There is a clear division of labor here at the hovel. He does the heavy lifting, I do, well, everything else. It’s not that my husband is incapable of putting together furniture or barbecue grills or other items that require the use of tools and the comprehension of instructions, it’s just that he moves at his own pace. So, if you want to barbecue before, say, Labor Day and you purchase a grill over the Memorial Day weekend, it’s best to take matters into your own hands.

Because my daughter, the delightful, yet demanding, Fangette, would like to actually sleep in her bed some time before the new year, I came to spend twelve hours in her freshly painted navy blue bedroom yesterday tangling with the ASPELUND wardrobe and the BRIMNES bed. Truthfully, Fang was just plum tuckered out anyway. In a rare instance of role reversal, HE actually finished the painting while I was at work on Saturday. He did a great job. I can report that he only hit the white ceiling a few times with the dark blue paint!

As anyone who has ever put together a piece of IKEA furniture can attest, there are always a couple of the steps in the time-consuming, gut-wrenching nightmare that is ALWAYS part and parcel of constructing a piece of furniture that comes with 18,000 screws, one Allen wrench, and 1,200 wooden pinions (all variously, yet similarly, sized!), which requires the assistance of a partner. I could have asked the cat, but he never seems up to the job. While he’s always available, constantly underfoot, happily bouncing in and out of the things that you are trying to put together, or pawing at that screw that you know was RIGHT THERE a minute ago!, his dearth of opposable thumbs makes him a bad choice of assistant.

Fangette was at work, schlepping popcorn to the hordes of people who get to spend their leisure time doing, well, leisurely things — things like grabbing some dinner and taking in a movie — as opposed to her parents, who were at home slaving away or watching their team’s playoff dreams go down the toilet as a result of a last-minute Dallas field goal. It’s just as well, as she’s not much help anyway.

It’s not that she’s unwilling, as much as she is unable to do something as simple as hand you the correct fastener for the job at hand. Even a crash course in reading IKEA instructions was lost on my darling daughter. Luckily, Fang was only a couple of rooms away when I needed someone — anyone — to hold some blasted thing steady while I screwed it in.

And so it was, in one of those moments, that I glimpsed THAT look pass across my husband’s face. The one that said, “I’d marry you all over again!” After all these years, it’s nice to know that, regardless of the circumstances, even with bits of paint in my hair, loads of vulgar words streaming from my potty mouth, and a disturbing amount of perspiration emanating from my every pore, that maybe, just maybe, I’ve still got “it”!

The “Painting Fairy” Saves the Day!

nablo13daytwentyIf I said to my husband, dear, old Fang, “Hey, I have an idea! Let’s paint our room and buy new furniture, including a mattress set, the week before Thanksgiving!”, he would have, and rightly so, looked at me like I’d gone off my rocker, like I’d plum lost my mind. Yet, he and our darling daughter, the I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now-but-I’ll-be-at-Starbuck’s-when-it-comes-time-for-all-the-heavy-lifting, Fangette, managed to put their heads together and, in so doing, hatched a very similar plan regarding her bedroom just the other day.

The problem, which has now become MY problem, is that they both have the attention spans of your average gnat. They also have no idea what-all goes into painting a room, let alone dragging out old furniture and replacing it with new furniture. Sure, they’ve watched me do it successfully time and time again, but they’ve never actually done it themselves. They underestimated, just a teensy bit, the time, energy, and cost associated with a project of this magnitude.

Fang, wearing, one would have to assume, his best pair of rose-colored glasses, struck what he thought was a reasonable deal with the daughter (the wife who could not believe her ears when she heard the plan, chose to remain silent). He told Fangette that if she removed the junk from her room, that he would use his last couple of vacation days to paint her room. That was Monday.

Do I even need to tell you that it’s now Wednesday and the only paint on the walls are the couple of swipes from the different colored sample pots that I acquired from the home improvement store? Will it come as a shock if I tell you that Fangette isn’t happy with either color?

In Fang’s defense, I should mention that he fell into the trap set by his offspring. He thought, as fathers often do, that he could trust his daughter to hold up her end of the bargain. I, of course, knew better. I’ve learned though, that when faced with these situations, it really is best to hold my tongue. This way, later on, when things inevitably go south, I can shake my head, suck my teeth, and seem somewhat sympathetic while muttering my “I told you so’s”.

Mothers really do know best. It’s a shame my family rarely consults me. Then again, why should they? I was not party to the deal brokering or the wild and unrealistic promises made by my partner — a man whose last foray into the wonderful world of painting lasted all of ten minutes before he began complaining about “cramping”. The expectation will be that I will spend the next few days picking up the pieces of their abandoned project. It will undoubtedly fall upon me to remove the detritus that was excavated from my daughter’s bedroom. The crap that was relocated NOT out to the garbage bin — that would’ve required putting on shoes, I guess, and, really, who can be bothered with that? — but, instead, to the very narrow, freshly painted hallway that is, itself, only in the secondary stage of redecoration — it’s painted, there are shelves, but a few things remain to be done before it can be called “finished”.

Not to worry, though, I’ll just dig out my “Painting Fairy” wings and save the day! Because, ya know, that’s how things shape up here at the hovel. I’ll be the one with paint in her hair and spackle underneath her fingernails. I’ll be the one to take her chances with the return of the plantar fasciitis that has finally subsided — but, really, climbing up and down a ladder is, surely, playing with fire where this malady is concerned.

I almost don’t even want to get started on the furniture. But, I will. Because I think that you need to know — so that you can form a full picture of what I’m up against here — that her new bed will not be the same size as her old bed. And, so, of course, we must procure a new mattress and box spring set in order to make this whole thing work.

On my list of things I’d rather not do — like, ever — mattress shopping with an adolescent is topped only by going out on safari, skydiving, and having needles stuck into my eyeballs. Frankly, the eyeball thing might be less torturous than the mattress thing.

While my kid, like teenagers the world over, loves to shop, shopping for a mattress does not have the same cachet, let’s say, as hopping from one store to another in search of such wardrobe staples as the perfect party dress or the ever elusive owl earrings. Not the same cachet AT ALL!

Minor criminals should not be locked in jail or forced to hammer out license plates, if the government is looking for a way to truly punish people for things like trespassing, destruction of personal property, or driving without insurance, I’d like to suggest that they require these folks to mattress shop with my kid or others like her — the disinterested, the surly, the petulant. I’ll bet after serving out this type of sentence they’ll think long and hard about taking a sledgehammer to their ex-wife’s car. Long and hard. I guarantee there won’t be a next time. Guarantee it.

So, yeah. My husband goes back to work tomorrow. There’s still crap piled in my hallway. I’ll have to spelunk under my daughter’s bed when I get home from work today — I hope I can put my hands on my cave exploration kit, I have a feeling I’m going to need it for that job. The walls need cleaning and taping. A mattress set still needs to be decided upon, purchased, and delivered. Arguments need to be had regarding paint colors — she seems to be going for “medieval dungeon”, I’d like something a little less depressing, but, who am I kidding?, I’m so beaten down at this point that I’d be happy to paint the stupid room black.

Somehow, in the midst of all of this lunacy, I’ll be expected to work in cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I could just make reservations or go elsewhere — invitations have been offered — but what fun would there be in that? I’m thinking that if I really want to teach them a lesson, if I truly want to give them a dose of their own medicine, I could just spring it on them Wednesday evening that they’ll be cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, yeah. That might prove interesting.

I’ll keep my “Turkey Cooking” wings handy, though. You know, just in case they need me to swoop in and save Thanksgiving, too.

What’s in a Name?

Fang and I went on a little buying spree a couple of weeks ago. We bought a sideboard for the kitchen, a china cabinet for the dining area (notice I did NOT call it a “room”), and two tables (one end, one coffee) for the living room. Most of the pieces were purchased from a place called ReStore, which is a thrift store that supports Habitat for Humanity. This place is an “upcyclers” paradise.

With the help of the kind women at a shop called Handpainted by Cookie, the pieces are currently being made ready for their move into the hovel — they’re all being repaired and repainted. For those of you who are gasping at the idea of painting furniture, I say “get over your bad selves”. They’re not Chippendale’s or Duncan Phyfe’s, ladies and gentlemen. They are also, all of them, in some way, shape, or form — much like their owners —“damaged goods”. In my mind there’s nothing wrong with slapping some paint on a thing to make it more presentable. I do it all the time to my face — a little eyeliner and blusher goes a long way, am I right, Ladies? And changing the knobs from a garish gold to an understated nickel? That’s like slipping on a pair of leopard-print flats in lieu of my well-worn Uggs.

This is not a sponsored post, but I have to give a shout-out to Cookie and Lisa over at Handpainted by Cookie. These ladies breathe new life into discarded furniture. They have the ability — and the sawdust under their fingernails to prove it — to find good homes for items that would otherwise be destined for the wood pile. I like that. When I buy something (well, okay, MANY somethings) from them, it feels a little bit like a rescue. People do it for puppies and kittens all the time and are celebrated for it. So, when I do it with furniture, why do I feel maligned? Why do I feel I have to defend my actions?

And I do feel that way. I also feel protective of my acquisitions. As a result, I’ve started to name my “rescues”. The old sewing machine table (with the original AND working treadle!) that I had painted teal? Because the color reminds me of The Little Mermaid, I’ve come to think of her as “Ariel”. I’m not sure what the other pieces will come to be called — I have to live with them a while. You know, get a sense of their characters before I assign them a name. We did that with our cat. Unlike the cat, though, I have every intention of keeping the furniture.

The cat stayed AND he got a name* — one that fits him. I’m thinking something Italian for the side table — because it has a very cool marble top. He kind of seems like maybe he’s a “Rocco”, but time will tell. He may prove to be too regal for “Rocco”. Perhaps he’ll wind up an “Augustus” or even an “Octavian”.

We name all kinds of things up in this joint. My daughter’s car? We call him “Sven” — because he’s Swedish and definitely male — cars equipped with turbo boost engines CANNOT be female. It’s a rule. You can look it up. We toyed with “Bjorn” and “Olaf”, but found the former too sleek and the latter too, well, dull. “Sven the car” is neither sleek nor dull. He’s pretty much a workhorse. “Lars” may have worked, too, as this moniker conjures the same images as “Sven”, but we just liked “Sven” better. So, it stuck.

I’m sure that “Rocco” (or whatever he comes to be called) and “Ariel” will get along nicely — complement each other even. Of course they may need a few more “friends” to round out the decor. I’d really like to find a small rocking chair — she’s got to be perfect, though. She’ll have to be a “Millie” or a “Florence” — a chair that’s seen her fair share of colicky babies or one that spent her former life on a lemonade porch — a chair with some history. I kind of envision her in a pale yellow. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be a “Daisy”.

*Our cat’s name is “Nipper” — because he bites. He’s pretty cute, though.



Trading one addiction for another!

IkeaI was a little worried that I was becoming addicted to Ikea. And, really, no one wants that. And by no one I mean my husband.

It started innocently enough. I got a loveseat there, but like any gateway drug, the loveseat led, inevitably, to more. The more in this case was a chair. A new television warranted a larger media console (sounds so much better and fancier than television stand, don’t you agree?), which required another trip to Ikea where I left with not only the media console, but also with a couple of free-standing cabinets for the kitchen.

Not unlike children’s birthday parties, redecorating projects can quickly get out of hand. One minute you’re calmly lining up all the kiddies for a nice round of pin the tail on the donkey, the next thing you know, little Shushma is nearly stabbed with the thumbtack that is, well, integral to the game (plus, you didn’t have any Fun tack). Luckily, also integral to the game is the blindfold that, as luck would have it, took the brunt of little Shusma’s near blinding. Who’d have thunk that a recently spun kid, now dizzy from the spinning and armed with a sharp object would become confused and point this same sharp object at her very own eye? Not you, that’s for sure. Naturally, panic ensues and a little party game becomes, to put it mildly, frenzied and chaotic.

Frenzied and chaotic would be excellent adjectives to describe my former decorating style. You know, if it fits, it sits; if it’s free, it’s for me. This philosophy led to many, many mismatched and ugly pieces of furniture over the years. This time, though, I am determined to be different. To take my time. To think things through. To actually make an effort at some kind of style. I’ve chosen Cottage Chic or Shabby Chic, or whatever those design-y folks are calling it these days. I like it’s ease. I like it’s comfort. I like that it’s basically built around the color white, which even I can’t screw up. Although who knew just how many shades of white there are out there? Not me. Not at the outset. Now I know. It’s slightly worrisome, but I’m going to soldier on. I like slipcovers that I can throw in the wash. Although I am, at this very moment, writing this in an effort to delay doing just that. So, what else is new? “What do you mean you didn’t get the pen off the couch cushion today?” “I was writing. Do you think blog posts just materialize? Like pizza? Which, by the way, only appears because I picked up the phone and ordered it. Sheesh!”

I will not even get into how a nearly 17-year-old girl-child got ink on my nearly brand-new white slipcovered Ektorp loveseat or how this almost caused World War III to erupt right here in Northern New Jersey. The point is that I can get it out with a little hairspray and some laundering, which I plan on doing right after I finish writing this post. So, get off my back, wouldja?

That Ikea though, what a place, huh? So clean and organized and well-lit. They kind of make you want to live in those rooms, no doubt while enjoying their equally enticing menu selections — namely, the Swedish meatballs and the cinnamon buns — don’t they? Yup. They do. And I fell prey to their evil genius. I am, after all, a mere mortal in search of affordable white wood-like furniture pieces that I can shabbify with some toile curtains, gingham pillows, and possibly a bit of interesting molding.

To this end I made a list of all of the things that I know the good Lord would want me to have from Ikea. Even Our Lord could not convince Fang to live in a catalog page. He wanted to check out other places that sell furniture. All I can say is “Screw the Lord and Thank Heavens for Fang!” because if my husband had not talked me down from the crazy Ikea branch that I had found myself perched upon, I never would have found my current obsession — a place not far from here called “Handpainted by Cookie”.

Maybe it was the paint fumes, but the minute I walked into this joint I knew I had found a kindred spirit. This woman, along with her handy and affable husband, obtains antiques that would otherwise end up in landfills or spend the rest of their days as chipped wood. They make any necessary minor repairs and provide them with beautiful paint jobs. Oh, and there’s also a dog that greets you at the door. Gotta love a place of business where pets are permitted to roam around.

The actual showroom is small, but delightfully decorated. I fell in love with and ultimately bought a white chalk-painted Art Deco dining table with a pop-up leaf and six gorgeous chairs. I have my eye on a beat up china closet that I spied in the warehouse. I know it will look fetching in a lovely shade of dove gray with white hardware. Even Fang agrees that it’ll work for us, but I am, uncharacteristically, going to wait until I get the table in and situated before I make any hasty decisions.

If it looks this good in a parking lot, can you even imagine what it will look like in my dining area???

If it looks this good in a parking lot, can you even imagine what it will look like in my dining area???

Tomorrow The Redhead and I will head over to “Handpainted by Cookie” and load up Bubba with my new purchases. While I’m there I’m hoping to convince Cookie that she should be on the look out for a French Provincial desk with cabriole legs for the woman who, in the coming months, will become her best customer. Because I need lots of shabby things. Lots.

If you’re sitting there shaking your head and thinking, like Fang, that I’ve just traded one addiction for another, you’d be right. I would, however, make the argument that this tiny slice of heaven located in an unassuming Moonachie, New Jersey warehouse is a far, far better obsession to have than Ikea.

photo credits:
<a href="dining room table ” target=”_blank”>Dining table

Things that are worth holding on to

86 mets photI could fill a very large file cabinet with things that would fall into the category of “seemed like a good idea at the time”. Let’s make that a virtual file cabinet, though, shall we? I’ve spent the last month hauling garbage bags and ugly furniture down the stairs. The last thing I need to be tripping over is a file cabinet filled with bad decisions. Decisions that, by the way, span years and run the gamut from cutting my own hair to driving drunk, from piercing my own ears to buying a white couch, from being unkind to running with the wrong crowd.

For the most part I’m happy with the decisions I’ve made regarding the more important things in my life like, for example, who I married. And that’s a big one. Don’t overestimate the importance of that one, folks. Sure, he gets on my last nerve sometimes, but he comes in handy for things like hooking up HDTV’s. Also, he’s game for tearing up outdated pleather couches armed only with a hammer and a steak knife. He doesn’t bang on about fancy meals, either. That’s a plus. As long as I keep coffee and peanut butter in the house he’s a relatively happy camper.

Insofar as we choose our mates based on qualities that we deemed were important at, in my case, 19 years old (HA!), it’s no wonder the divorce rate is so high. Either I was very smart at 19 (again, HA!) or, more likely, very lucky indeed. What first drew me to him was that he had a car and a job, which, in hindsight, seem like relatively frivolous things. What I came to realize, mostly while riding in that car, was that he laughed a lot and he did so easily, which made being around him enjoyable. He still does, it still is.

The hovel purge has been hard on him. I’ve been hard on him. Let’s just say that there hasn’t been a lot of laughing. This weekend, however, it seems that he (and we) rounded a corner. He actually stopped fighting me and began to embrace the changes that I’ve been trying very hard to make happen here. He even got into the spirit and threw out a couple bags of his own junk; junk that has been clogging up my bedroom for years. I saw him wrestling with whether or not to keep the ’86 Mets World Series official photo. He was on the verge of tossing it when I stopped him. Though I cannot imagine where a framed 8 x 10 photograph of a bunch of guys in orange and blue will fit into my décor, I didn’t have the heart to make him get rid of it.

It seems that some things, even things that are old and outdated, are worth holding on to.

Here’s to hoping for the best

glassesclinkingI never write about not being able to write, but today I feel the need to make an exception (along with my apologies for not having read what you folks are writing, which feels more terrible than not posting). I’m not blocked, exactly. I’ve got a few musings in the hopper, so to speak — just nothing that’s ready for prime time, if you know what I mean. I’ve just been busy with other things. I wish I could say they were more important things, life-changing things. Some of them are. The hovel purge continues. So, that’s good. This activity feels both important and life-changing. We shall see. Getting more organized will ultimately be a good thing. I know this. It’s just the process that’s daunting. I’m hopeful, though. Having hope is always a positive thing. Unless, of course you are the type of person who sits around hoping for bad things to happen, like the death of your enemies or nuclear destruction. Luckily, I’m not that type of person. I figure the world will wreak it’s own havoc on my enemies. I can’t muster up the necessary time and energy to worry over the nuclear thing. If it happens, it happens. I assume it will be quick. I think that’s the best that we can all hope for on that subject.

Besides being hard at work on getting my house in order, I have also been up to my usual idiocy. Mostly, I’ve been doing those absent-minded professor things for which I am (semi) famous. Not once, but twice this week, I engaged in some footwear tomfoolery. First I headed out of the house in two different shoes. I wish I could tell you that they were so similar that I became confused in the dark, but that would be a lie. First of all it was broad daylight, second of all the were two very different colors. In my defense they were both sneakers, however, one was black and one was white. Fortuitously, I caught myself just outside my front door and was able to rather easily rectify the situation. I wish I could tell you that this is the first time I’ve done this. It’s not. A couple of years ago I did the very same thing with the very same shoes, only that time I wasn’t as lucky in terms of noticing what I’d done. That time I made it all the way to Target before I realized that I was wearing two very different shoes.

I was not as eagle-eyed when it came to putting my Uggs on the wrong feet. I have performed this feat of stupidity twice over the past couple of days. Okay, I was only running to the corner store or to the laundry room, but still, who does this once, let alone twice? Further, I will have you know that I only discovered it when I began to actually trip over my own two feet.

I have, for the most part, been successfully bathing/showering myself for over forty years. Why suddenly it’s become a problem for me, I couldn’t tell you, but it appears that I may no longer be up to the task. Again, not once, but twice this week I failed at something that most people manage to accomplish on a daily basis as a matter of course. I’ve had to take up focusing and concentrating in the shower, otherwise I am liable to either not shampoo my hair at all or to not rinse my hair of the shampoo that I miraculously remembered to apply. What person of normal intelligence does this?

I wish that these minor memory glitches, which I have decided to attribute to preoccupation, rather than a peri-menopausal state or my advancing age, only reared their ugly head at home (or at the corner store, or on my way down to the laundry room), but they haven’t. No. My foray into the land of forgetfulness has followed me to work where, on several occasions, I have simply failed to either order a customer’s food or to bring them something integral to their dining needs. My sincere, profuse and heartfelt apologies were accepted by these kind and generous people, none of whom were pressed for time or unduly attached to eating ketchup on their cheeseburgers. So, outside of looking like a ditzy waitress, no harm, no foul. Thankfully no one flipped out. I don’t know what I would have done if they had. A crying jag cannot be ruled out.

As much as I want to believe that none of this is hormonal, I know that’s not true. And I know it’s not true because of the crying. I would say that I’m an average crier or, more to the point, an appropriate crier. I’ll admit that I sometimes find crying cathartic. I’ll confess that sometimes the Sleepy’s commercial gets me to feeling a little weepy — the one where they do the montage of the couple as they age and their children grow while “In My Life” plays in the background. That one. I also really miss Oprah. That show was usually good for an afternoon cry. And, obviously, I have been known to cry when faced with personal loss. I’m not made of stone. I’m just not the sort of person who bursts into tears on anything resembling a regular basis (at least since Oprah went off the air, that is).

Lately, though, I have found myself either on the verge of tears or full-out crying on several occasions. A couple of times were out of sheer frustration with my husband who, it seems, has made a resolution to become a complete and utter asshole this year. I don’t really know what is going on with him and, frankly, I’m too fed up at the moment to care. I’m sure his behavior is related to my efforts at organization. Don’t get me wrong, he wants things more organized, he just doesn’t want to do any work or spend any money to make it happen. He has also grown fond of the word “stupid” and has begun to apply it liberally to many of the changes that I’ve suggested for living space. After a while the word “stupid” (not applied to me, per se, just to my ideas) began to grate on my last nerve. I got frustrated. I cried. He apologized. He then proceeded to continue to thwart me at every turn. So, I’ve resolved to just let him go on being an asshole. I’ll work around him.

My daughter, God love her, perhaps sensing the tension in her parents’ normally placid relationship, said something the other day that literally brought me to tears. I know that my kid has a kind and generous heart, mostly because that’s what other people tell me. At home she is snarky, mouthy, and self-centered, but when she goes out into the world she demonstrates altogether other qualities. (Don’t we all?) Normally, like most any adolescent who knows that she is unconditionally loved, her behavior at home can be beastly. So, imagine my surprise, when she looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder (I was, literally, knee deep in plastic container sorting) and said, “Mom, I’m so proud of you.” I could barely choke out a “Thank you” before she noticed me crying. I’m happy to report that she got back to her old self right away, rolling her eyes and calling me “ridiculous” on her way out of the kitchen. And I did feel ridiculous. There she was, being nice — finally! — and all I could do was burst into tears. So, I guess that’s the last compliment I’ll get out of her for a while.

Anyway, this about sums up what I’ve been up to (or not up to) this week. It’s time to sign off now, as I have to attend to showering, carefully choosing my shoes, and relocating my dishes to a place that will, no doubt, be called stupid by my husband. I also must try very hard to get through the dinner shift without incident. And I have to do all of this without crying. I’m going to hope for the best.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Sleepy’s commercial referenced above:

photo credits:
glasses clinking (zazzle.com)

Alas! We’re Not Those Sort of People!


This is my version of the dangling carrot. It’s my motivation to achieve the “purge everything in the hovel” goal I  have set for myself.

We are not really orange velvet couch sort of people. That being said. I love this couch. And it’s not really orange. It’s something called “Sunshine”. Truth be told, it’s really a settee, which, I guess, is just a fancier way of saying loveseat. I can’t imagine telling someone to  “have a seat on the settee and I’ll be right with you.” (Nor can I imagine a scenario in which I’d have to “be right with” someone in my living room — but these are the things I think about when furniture shopping.) So,  I’ll just call it a loveseat because insofar as we are not orange couch sort of people, we are really NOT “Sunshine Settee” sort of people.

I’m not married to the “sunshine” option.  It also comes in purple, turquoise, and olive. Oh, and gray, which they call “elephant”. So, we’ll probably settle for the gray, which I will call “elephant”,  because, well, it just sounds better than “gray”, don’t you think? Also, anyone who knows anything about us knows that “elephant” is really more in keeping with who we are than “sunshine”. Yeah. We’re definitely more “elephant” than “sunshine” sort of people.


Of course, unless I can come up with a wicked austerity plan (one that Fang and Fangette can also agree upon), which may include not eating on a daily basis, there’s a good chance that I’ll never get it at all. Unless it goes on sale. Big sale. Because it’s over $1500. Certainly we are NOT “$1500 Elephant Settee” sort of people.  Although, if we cut out the daily meals, all three of us could, presumably, fit on the settee at the same time. Bonus!

Photo credit: couch.com