My honey is giving me an early birthday present by putting hardwoods in the living room. (Clarify - "by putting in hardwoods" I mean, paying someone to do it. I didn't want any of you to get excited thinking he had gotten handy all of a sudden. Let's be clear, I'm marrying him for his cooking expertise and his impeccable dance moves) Anyway.
If you'd seen my carpets recently, you'd be cheering along with me over this most awesome gift.
So tonight was the task of moving furniture. As we were pulling cushions off the sofa, I came to a realization. The realization that our kids are pigs. Not the cute pot belly kind, the disgusting roll around in the mud kind. The nearly-have-me-dry-heaving, kind. First off, I was a kid once, so I try to put myself in their brains. If I drop a pop tart in between the cushions, I have 1 of 2 choices. Get it out/trash it. Or leave it there. Guess which option they chose? Every. Time. Kids, the sofa isn't alive. It's not going to eat or dispose of the pop tart. Instead, it sits there, breaking apart, melting at each butt sitting until it morphs into a gooey flat mess glued to the bottom of the cushion. It's gross. You are gross. There was enough popcorn for a Harry Potter movie. And gum. And wrappers. Hundreds! (ok, maybe 6, but still. A lot) And pencils. And plastic army men. And a squishy ball. And a Barbie shoe. And a remote from a TV I don't ever remember having. The highlight of my evening was finding 34 cents in a change and a whole dollar bill. Cold hard cash. Sweet!!! But they owed me more than $1.34 for the permanent emotional damage they've done. I'm not sure I'll ever sit on one of those sofas again. Once I got over my full body heebie jeebies, it was time to move the sofas out of the room.
Now the quandary... where to put them?
My 15 year old was kind enough to come by after work and help. I kind of knew it may be disasterous once the fiance' had ripped the screens off the track of the backdoor. This was my first UH OH. Is this a good idea? - thought. He then reassured me that the sofas would be fine on the deck for the evening. "Look, honey. Not a cloud in the sky." That was my second UH OH. Is this a good idea? - thought. But I went with it, as I often do in fully trusting D knows what he's talking about. Then I revert back to the chainsaw in the livingroom at Christmas and I ask myself why I continue to just go with it...but I digress.
The sofas were moved, the room was cleared and we were done for the evening. As I was getting ready for bed 30 minutes later, I thought I heard a noise. "Nahhh, can't be." I stood quietly and listened as the downpour commenced on the roof of the house. I picked up my phone and called the bright idea'ed one who was still downstairs (who actually YELLS down the stairs anymore?)
Me: Um, honey. It's raining.
Him: No effin' way. (except he didn't say "eff")
Me: Yes, way.
Him: ::::Inaudible scramble to the door:::: WTF!!
Before you get upset, we actually tarped them thinking "Just in case". And that was fully his idea to do so, because I think his subconcious knows not to fully trust his conscious because they've lived together for 42 1/2 years. So the sofas were fine.
As I crawled in bed and listened to the rain and thought about the CSI Mebane remains under the cushions, I kind of secretly hoped a huge wind would swoop the tarp off the sofas so we'd have to buy new ones. Then the logical side of me remembered if we bought new sofas, then our kids wouldn't be able to be kids. There would be restrictions like "Not eating in the living room" and "Only sit for 15 minute intervals and switch sides". And "Only wear new clothes while sitting on the sofas". So I guess it's best they stay in tact until our kids grow up enough to actually think, "Oops. I dropped a pop tart, I better get it."