pure, delicious, unadulterated malice

I have finally embraced the fact that I hate one of my loveseats. Not just accepted; embraced. I HATE this loveseat.

It was fine as a landing pad for bookbags, shopping bags, spare pillows, and mail when Marianne and I roomed together in our huge apartment at Hurwich Farms. It was even necessary, on occasion, to sit in (though not very often).

Surprisingly it's the couch that, of the two, looks the better. It has a sedate gingham pattern in slate blue -- ugly, but not an eyesore. It has respectable curves and lines, and looks like it could easily belong in a small suite in an assisted living facility. It appears to be comfortable, modest, and useful.

It's not any of those. The couch that M and I prefer is hideous, covered in scratchy upholstery over which the worst flowers of the 70s committed a grotesque mass suicide. It's orange and brown on a cream background, its lines and curves are accented by awful fakey wood, and it looks like it could easily belong in a garbage dump. It appears to be uncomfortable, garish, and better left for dead. However, it is quite comfortable and when one hides it under linen sheets it's not as offensive.

This living room ain't big enough for the two of them. I refused to admit this until moving day, when lo, the two together in one room made for a tight squeeze. Being stressed, I resolved to worry about it another day. (Never do this, Sarah; never do this.) So I kept ignoring it, a feat made easier by the prevalence of sixty hour work weeks.

Now that I'm done at Ann Taylor, I spent my Saturday cleaning the hell out of my kitchen. (Just about literally.) The kitchen is bitchin' and I'm itchin' to do the living room. But alack, NOTHING CAN BE DONE with the hated gingham loveseat smugly taking up more than its fair share of the room.

What I really resent about this loveseat is that I can't move it out alone. I'm not Mrs. Incredible. I'm not even Miss Incredible. I'm just a tall angry woman living alone who resents the fact that she cannot heave this accursed loveseat out the nearest window without help.

Colette is out of town for the day or I would have knocked on her door with a grinning request for assistance sometime this morning. I think I'll request her help when she gets home.

Bite me, loveseat.