Getting ready for poem a day in November! Okay, so there’s no such thing as ready. There is only calm before storm, or calm within storm. Still, I’m looking forward to this coming month even more than I usually look forward to the Wednesday prompts. I realized this morning that I’ve been trying to force myself into a novel writing frenzy, while also planning to do PAD. Then I noticed that only one of these things actually made me feel good feelings, happy light feelings of the sort I’ve found in short supply in 2017 (you too?). You’d think at my age it wouldn’t take so long or be so painful to figure out what I actually like! But there it is, and a day early, which is a bonus. So while I may not be great, I can occasionally achieve pretty good, and there’s only one way to get better, right? Let’s do this.
It’s not like when somebody microwaves fish at the office or when you open that plastic-ware that’s been in the fridge for five months. This is a smell that sneaks up on you, more like when there’s just a touch of mold in the blankets you left overnight in the washing machine before shoving them in the dryer anyway. It’s subtle, but once you smell it, you can’t un-smell it, and if you’re anything like me, it will drive you bonkers until you do something about it.
While I have a strong sense of smell (my husband might say overdeveloped), it took me long years to learn to smell lies. I’m a trusting soul in a sometimes-terrible world. I used to believe that things were my fault because I was told they were. It fit my distorted self-image fairly well to take the blame, but there were times when even I smelled the proverbial rat, when I knew that I’d done nothing wrong, and the confusion set in because shame told me it was all me, but my nose said wait. Something isn’t quite right here. I smell a lie. And I’m getting better with practice.
Now to the country at large. I taught my children that advertising was a way to manipulate them into buying things they didn’t need. That television in general existed to deliver those ads. Yes, there’s amazing art there, and I’m a huge fan of shows like Game of Thrones and Doctor Who so of course I watch anyway, but I do try for ad-free, knowing that “they” are already charging me for that. So manipulation by TV is nothing new to my olfactory senses. The news, like all television, has always sensationalized to some extent. But I think we can all agree that some of it stinks a lot more than it once did.
In this country, we live with 24/7 news – access to instant angst – and we pay for the pleasure. We pay for the ads, we pay for the streaming, we pay in the loss of health that living with constant stress inevitably brings, and we pay for the vodka or cake (or vodka and cake) that we use to cope with that stress at times. We also pay in the loss of whatever olfactory sense we may have for truth vs lies. Anyone old enough to remember the invention of the word “spin” may get this. While we have some incredible journalists, the people controlling the flow of information are corporations whose sworn goals are profits, not truth. Censorship is back room stuff, behind the scenes. People on “both sides” are fed this fast-food diet of fear, terror really, and blame of otherness, and some odd sense of superiority because we, we’re all told, are the only ones getting the Real Truth.
But let’s face it, sometimes we have to dig through layers of innuendo and flash to get to it, that Real Truth. And sometimes it’s not there at all unless we change the channel. Sometimes the “news” is run by hate groups, sometimes just greed, always targeted with analytics to get to you and your type. We argue over which is real (how easy it is to just yell “fake news” in a crowded theater) and create false equivalencies whenever it suits our world view. Whatever flavor of “truth” we want, we tune in, soak it up, and spit it out on Twitter as absolute fact. Only, many of us can smell the smelly lies as soon as we see them, and wonder why everyone can’t.
It’s perhaps ironic then that because of the lies, because of years and years of them, we’ve been faced with a lot of hard truths in 2017. We are not united states, or even united neighborhoods. Hate is coursing through our (sometimes former) friends and through our discourse. And it’s catching. I’ve caught it and held it, fed it with fear and fury and the helplessness of being forced to watch the people and things I love under attack by forces I can’t begin to control. But I still believe in the power of truth, and the people trying to tell it. It’s out there and we can sniff it out. That means calling out our own “side” sometimes, and standing up for others that do the same when the well-defended vitriol bounces back their way.
Look, I have a point of view about what’s going on. I know how I feel. I stand where I stand, and yes sometimes I let emotions rule over logic, or at least what’s presented as logic. I do not want my country to isolate itself, to turn its back even further on the people I was told we were here to look after. I want my melting pot back, and the belief – not yet true – that we are all equal under the law and in our hearts. But the truth is hate has always been here, and injustice rules the day, quite literally. And at this point, it’s my job, and quite frankly yours too, to point out the lies when you can stand the blow-back, to second-guess what seems too perfect a fit to our pre-conceived ideas of how things are before we post or publish them*, and to always use your nose.
Also, get some rest, take a walk outside, pet an animal, hug someone. There’s truth in that for sure.
* Like I did before adding a false claim above about a news network I detest. Yep, looked that sucker up and Snopes said nah, that’s not how it happened. Delete. Breathe. Keep sniffing.This problem is going to last for a very long time.
When I was a child, I used to love making paper snowflakes. You know, where you fold the paper all up and cut out notches, and then when you unfold – voila! I taught my kids, I wonder if they even remember in their sad everything-sucked kind of memories, but yes we made things. We painted on rocks and baked cookies and made snowflakes, and each one was its own little world and perfect. I love snowflakes.
And apparently I am one, too. I’m the person whose despair delights those MAGA winners on Twitter. I’m the tender-hearted fool who literally does think the well-being of others is worth more than a new car or fancy house of my own. I mean, I do have a fairly new car, it’s a 2013 Fit, but it runs like new and I will drive it into the dust like I did with my last car. I make pretty decent money for someone who was out of the workforce for 9 years. And I do have a decent (albeit un-fancy) house. Still, it’s a roof over our heads, and we can afford dog food for our two grown dogs and the new puppy. (Yes yes, we foster-failed on this last puppy, a combination of our broken hearts and the fact that we can. How lucky are we, that we can afford another rescue dog?) But what the hell more do I need that’s more important than helping people who weren’t born with a fraction of my privilege? Why does believing people should all have basic rights and a level playing field make me a loser?
Eh, don’t bother answering that – I don’t care. I’m sick of the name calling and the ugliness and the “winning” that seems to only consist of enjoying watching others fall. How long can it sustain itself, I wonder? How long does a (disturbed, yes, messed-up, get that child help!) child need to pull the wings off of flies or scorch ants with a magnifying glass? How many sandcastles does the bully need to knock over before he just decides he wants a sandwich and maybe a little telly time? I’m so bored already. The once-fresh snow of this political climate change has turned to black piles on the side of the road, full of exhaust, an eye-sore.
But whatever. I’m proud of my sensitivity, although it’s been used against me and can get a bit over the top at times. I mean, crying at animated movies bad. Yeah, I’m a snowflake, but I think you are too. And you know, this flake wants us all to win. My winning will only be sullied by the losing of others. I won’t be cheering when they drag the liars and the cheats out of their towers. I mean, I’ll be relieved as hell, and drinking champagne, but I won’t attend the hangings (this is just a METAPHOR, no need to alert the CIA). There’s no joy in any of this conflict for me. Some days it’s all I can do to focus on survival. But when I can, I’m going to keep trying to help people in the small ways, to spread a little kindness (that’s right, without even asking what side you’re on). I think that’s part of resistance, to stare down the ugliness and not become one with it. I believe we can do better, and I’m still willing to try. You can help too – let’s get our flaky on.
They say all dogs go to heaven. Me, I think they bring heaven to us. Either way, Snoopy is leaving us behind, and we are shattered.
Snoopy has lived a few lives, city stray at the pound, a little house near the beach, apartments, a house with an electric dog fence, and finally, our forest-edge fenced-yard paradise for dogs. Through it all he’s been the Snoopervisor, the one looking after us, when he wasn’t busy eating furniture or finding the chocolate stash or loaf of bread someone thought they could leave on the counter for just a minute.
He was John’s when I met him, and I like to tell John that he’s the reason I went on that third date. I looked at him and knew that anyone who had a dog this magnificent had to be worth knowing. Thanks, Snoopy, you were right.
In the nine years that I’ve known him, Snoopy has put up with a lot, including Misha, the brindle maniac hound, who arrived in our lives as an 8-week old wild thing, turning everything upside-down. She pulled his shoulder out when we leashed them together, him 100lbs and her less than 10. Still, he stayed steady.
He put up with our foster puppies too, which can be utter madness, tiptoeing when he really had to go outside but didn’t want their attention. He put up with the kids, rolling on him, trying to pick him up, using him as a pillow whenever possible. And he put up with us, our moods, our ups and downs, our long walks and our hurried ones. And when he had enough of any of it, he would just “ROO” his mighty roo, and the room would be his, all traffic stopped. What a mighty Roo.
He’s been loved by so many people, and he’s made all our lives richer. There’s really no words for that, it just is.
So this is how I want to remember him. A solid 100lb soul with humor and personality to spare. A protector who kept us safe, and always made sure we all knew when someone had the audacity to walk their dog past our house. A heavy chin on your lap when you just really needed a heavy chin on your lap. A music lover who never missed a good jam session. A dog so magnificent that I not only wanted that next date, but to join his family. And oh, I’m so glad I did. I’m so grateful for all the time we’ve had. Fourteen years is a long life for a big dog, but it doesn’t seem even close to long enough.
We love you Noopy. Run free wherever good dogs run, no pain, no age, just slobber and handfuls of salmon and chocolate cake. We will always be yours, and always grateful to know you.
Snoopy left us at noon today – Friday 5/26/17, peacefully, in our home, thanks to Lap of Love (https://www.lapoflove.com/). After not eating for days, he managed some McDonalds burger and a touch of chocolate this morning. He was ready. <3
Hey there… I can’t believe it’s been SIX months… How have you been?
Yeah, me too. It’s okay, I understand, we can just sit and not talk for a bit if you like.
Here, check out these sweet puppies while we sit here.
We’re fostering these two little bottle-fed Dachshunds, orphaned at birth. They’re not yet 4 weeks old. We’re tired, but that’s okay, we were tired anyway. They’re doing great. We’re all coping the best we can, you know? For us, helping the puppies is also helping ourselves.
Oh hey, I have some good, rather astonishing news. My daughter came back into my life after nearly four years. She’s 16 now. She was 12 when, well, when I lost her. It’s been… amazing getting to know her again. I hold back though of course, we both do. Self-protection is a healthy thing, and we’re trying to work forward slowly. I took her to the Women’s March with my step-daughter. Life-changing, really.
What a year, huh? You never know what’s going to happen next.
I think though, it’s really important that we remember some things we do know. There is hope. This world is full of good deeds and redemption and puppies and people who will literally give you the shirt off their back should you need a shirt on yours. Kindness is still a thing, maybe THE THING. We still have each other, well many of us do I guess. I had to burn some bridges, maybe you did too. I miss the easier times when I could just pretend everyone thought the same way about human rights that I do. I wish I could unsee the hateful things I’ve seen, and pretend when I see these people that I never saw those things they wrote.
I think respect is hard for people, I don’t know why really. There isn’t really a benefit of doubt anymore. No benefit at all. So much certainty, so much disrespect. In November a friend posted something like, hey empaths, shields UP! It was wonderful and needed advice. But I don’t have shields figured out yet. I can’t understand how people can’t understand what other people go through. I can’t grip it in my loose and wandering brain. But still, there are moments when you just have to draw a line. And so I drew lines. But I’ll never be the cool one walking away from the explosion without looking back. I’ll always look back. Mindfulness is a practice, and I’m solidly out of practice.
Still, I wish these people who I called friend well, in spite of all the declarations I read about how we’re enemies now. I’m nobody’s enemy, I just can’t take the hate. It vibrates at a painful frequency, I think many of us can feel it now in the air. Or, well, at least on Twitter and Facebook. It smells bad, and it stains our fingers and tongues. I want no part of it. No, I’m not naive, it’s just a choice I get to make every moment of every day. And every moment that I’m capable, I choose kindness and love. That’s exhausting sometimes to be honest. It’s hard to stay in your own movie when the horror films start rolling.
And so yes, puppies help. So does laughing, and thankfully we can always find humor these days. Maybe it’s dark humor, but hey I’ve always liked that anyway. Also, fresh air is good, and feeding the birds, and taking walks out in nature, batteries not included. And moving your body. I forget to do that when I’m glued to the couch, poring over things I simply can’t control. Getting off the couch at all is getting something done some days, and don’t let anyone tell you different. In fact, making it to the couch counts too. Breathing, that’s the place to start. In and out. Repeat with me, there’s more good than bad. We just notice the bad because it’s loud and smelly. We aren’t helpless, but I think we have to help more when we can. Even if it’s just holding the door for someone, or smiling at a beleaguered customer service worker.
Okay, so yeah, this was a nice visit, but I’m a bit tired now. I think I could use a nap or a shower.
It was good to catch up. Let’s try to do it more often, shall we? We really do need each other in these times. I’ll be thinking of you. Look me up, I’ll be here when I can.
These are strange times. As anyone who’s read this blog before probably knows, I’ve battled depression a time or two in my life. Enough to recognize the signs, and America, it’s time to tell you that you are showing all the signs. Don’t panic though, that’s the last thing you need. It will be okay. Try to remember from all the times before that depression tells you lies.
I think the best thing to do is take a little time off from reading the news, watching the news, talking about the news, and I mean, it should be obvious, but do NOT read the comments sections of political posts on social media! Turn it all off for a while and let things go.
Maybe instead, you could take a walk outside, pet a dog, talk to the birds, enjoy one of your amazing national parks, or possibly just take a long long nap. Let yourself realize it’s okay to feel this way, but also try to remember it won’t always be like this. There will be better days again, and the world will keep on turning.
I want you to know, America, that you are so very loved. And you are enough, just as you are right now. I know everyone wants to fight about that, and we can always make improvements obviously. But please just try to remember you are enough right now, and that life is a journey. I believe in you, and I care. We will get through this together, and we will be stronger for it. We know this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last, so conserve your energy and take it easy, and just breathe.
With much love from your adoring friend, and a big fan,
Ugh I say. I mean, sure, of course. But let’s not forget that they’re also the way things shatter.
My husband and I were driving this weekend to the beach, for a quick and supposedly relaxing getaway at a friend’s place. We don’t get a lot of time together with our schedules and money is more than tight, so we try to squeeze things in when we can. We were grateful to have this chance.
The trip had already been shortened by a day due to our flooring install being pushed back and then taking longer than expected. Anybody that’s ever paid for work on a house knows that’s pretty much what to expect. Still, my work life had been a bit stressful, and then with the floors, I was feeling pushed around and annoyed, and really ready to get outta Dodge.
We were only about twenty miles out of town, just settling into that we’re going to be here a while lull. And then – dun dun dun – a motorcyclist zipped in front of us far too quickly from the passing lane, narrowly missing us, and slowed down even more quickly. Just as he pulled all the way over to the shoulder, a terribly loud WHACK brought me back to front and center. Something had hit the windshield right at my head level, and the cracks appeared immediately on the glass. They were only an inch or two long at first, but we knew they would the type that grew. I was grateful to the scientists who made this glass so much safer than it could have been. Grateful, but also skeptical.
Truthfully, I was filled with slow dread as I watched the cracks reach like very slow fingers for the dashboard. My mind, being already in a fairly dark place, started to wander into questions like “How far down can these cracks go before the whole windshield implodes on top of us?” and “So what would dying by a thousand cuts really look like?” and “Why haven’t I written that damn will yet?” You know, the usual…
I watched with continuing dread as the two largest cracks moved on a collision course with one another. That’s it, I thought, as soon as they hit each other, we’re done for. The entire window will shatter into blades, and with my blood thinners, I’m a goner before John even knows what hit me. It was just a waiting game at that point. Sure, I knew somewhere in the still-smart outer core of my brain that that isn’t how windshields work. Of course the window’s integrity would hold. Of course it would. Except, what if it didn’t? The very soft and silly inner core of my brain made some convincing arguments, and the outer core, knowing when it was beat, went to pout in the corner.
Staring death in the face, I started to focus on the reflections of the sun on the VERY sharp edges in the cracks. If I moved my head around just a little bit, I could make almost the entire edge shine, so sharp and deadly, and kind of pretty too. I mean, death is pretty sometimes, in some sort of cinematic way. Ah, the light was getting in all right, and all I could think about was how much I’m like that too, all damaged and cracked, and I could shatter too couldn’t I? Any time at all. Yes, it was all very pretty, but it was serious too. The edges of the cracks were all shiny and deathy in equal parts. And there it all was, the metaphor looming, no, growing right up in my face, menacing and real.
Broken things hurt. Shiny edges can cut. Of course being cracked means you can shatter, but it hasn’t happened yet. Not quite yet. Waiting around for things to shatter is not the funnest way to travel maybe, but hey, having a destination sure as hell beats standing still. For one thing, there’s the view.
Anyway, the cracks were going to grow now no matter what we did, so we just kept heading for the beach. The paths finally crossed on the glass after an hour or so. I imagined (again and again and… yes again) the center cutout piece just popping into my lap quietly. I would pick it up and hold it in my hands, staring at those shiny edges almost calmly, just before the whole window crashed in on me. Yes, again, I knew it was safety glass, but still, a perfect dagger-sized piece was just pointing right at me. How could I not poke at that in my head? It’s what I do.
Of course, we made it to the beach just fine, and I let it go for a while, swimming in the ocean and forgetting, until it was time to go home. Driving made the cracks grow faster, and this time I was sure that the second time the paths crossed would be it. The end. “They’re almost at a right angle this time,” I thought, “no way even safety glass can resist that!” I contorted my head the whole way home, watching the beads of sunlight ride up and down the edges, seeing myself in the light and wondering at the likeness. Wondering at how cracked I can be, and yet so shiny too.
For Michelle, and the others we’ve lost
I’ve been there, standing, breathing in that one terrible thought that really, everyone would be better off if I just left this planet. It wasn’t at all a selfish thought about a selfish act. Yes, I wanted the pain to stop, but I did believe they’d be better off without me. All of them.
Early this week, a friend took her own life. She had a lot of things that might have brought her there, to that place on the edge. She had chronic pain and other things going on that were hard to overcome. But she was always the one asking me on Messenger how I was, asking if I needed help, making sure I was okay. She reached out more than I did, because I’m afraid to let anyone in, and because she was just that kind of person. I kept her, like I keep everyone, at arms length. And so we weren’t close, in spite of her trying, but we were connected, and she recognized the kindred there. And so did I. She was a writer, and she loved art, fractals, weird and amazing stuff. She loved dogs. We talked about bands, and cancer, and surgery, and husbands who are bass players. But we didn’t talk enough. I’m left now, hating on myself for the distance I kept, wishing I’d been there for her, like all of her friends are. We’re all wishing we’d done something. Anything.
We are not better off. We are grieving, and lost. We’re trying to find our way now, you can see it on her Facebook page, where hundreds of people are posting messages and memories*. You can see it in the blank looks we get on our faces, glazed eyes in the middle of a workday, or in the shower, or just driving when some particular song comes on. Nobody is better off. This sucks, it SUCKS. Hard.
We are NOT better off.
I promise you, nobody will be better off without you, even if you feel hated or abandoned. It’s a LIE that sometimes people tell themselves when desperation hits. I know how it sounds whispered like a cool dark cloud in your head, almost a relief. I know the lie, and how sometimes you can believe it. I don’t know if my friend told herself that lie. I can’t speak for her, and neither can she anymore. But I promise you, hundreds of people are hurting, and nobody is better off.
* My note to Michelle:
I missed it, the chance to reach out, to tell you how great you are, to say another thank you, to ask you how you’re doing. I thought I’d have time to get to know you better, and I missed it. The last time you wrote, just a month ago, I answered with a quick cool, thanks. I didn’t ask you how you were doing, I’m sure I was in a rush. And I missed it. And now I miss you, and your quirky but disarming sideways smile and soft hair, and the tiny little check-ins you did with me on messenger, which I totally took for granted, just like the art and the weird things, and the beautiful things, and the funny t-shirts, and hanging by the fire pit and all of the other things. I’m glad I got to know you. You made the world better, lady.
Sometimes I wonder about my strong urge to “save” people, to help them, about why I feel it, and what I’m supposed to actually do about it. Sometimes it just feels like a curse or a symptom. I remember as a teenager taking a course to become a lifeguard. They taught us how to carry someone to shore or a dock. We started practicing with a nice calm person who sometimes even helped us save them. Then we moved up to someone who just went limp. It was hard to carry that dead weight, but in the water and with momentum, it was still doable. Then we moved up to the worst case, the struggling victim – someone so panicky that they seemed hell-bent on drowning.
The goal was not only to get them to shore, but to stay alive in the process. Active near-drowning victims seem almost eager to take you with them. In your mind, you know it’s just panic, but the heart can’t always tell, and certainly the water will fill up your lungs whether you take their frenzy personally or not. It’s easy, they warned us, to sink, to drown, under that kind of strain. We were told we may someday have to decide to get clear, to save ourselves. To let go. It was a very tough lesson, and I’m so glad to say that I never did have to pull anyone from the water for real.
Anyway, through the years, I went on to try saving people in all sorts of useless and honestly destructive ways. All my best intentions did not ever manage to save one person, and hurt more than they helped on more than one occasion. Of course, this doesn’t change who I am at my core. I want to help people, just like I’ve always wanted to help people.
These days though, I know I can’t save anyone. I can help, maybe, I want to try. I really just want to teach a kinder way of living in this world. I’ve learned so much, I want to teach people who are suffering in the ways I have. I’m all good intention still. But I’m not really up for the task of dragging anybody kicking and screaming into the calm. I know if I try I will probably go under like I have before. I fear more than most anything becoming what it is that I most want to stop, ferociously trying to drown in ugliness even when the shore is in clear view.
Living as I do in North Carolina USA in 2016, it’s hard not to notice the tremendous amount of hatred being tossed around like it’s just a harmless baseball. This is on all “sides” of any argument. It’s become commonplace. People respond to opinions with death wishes, and explain that “they deserve it.” Really, people deserve to DIE? Now, I would say I don’t care what side you’re on, but I do. I simply won’t pretend to embrace the laws created here to discriminate and disenfranchise. But if you disagree with me, I still think you have value. How could it be otherwise? That’s the thing about kindness, you can’t just decide who deserves it. If you really mean it, you’d better really mean it. At least I’ve come this far.
I wish I knew how to heal this place, and these angry angry people. I wish I could just gently pull them to shore and let them stand in the sunshine. But so far the only way I’ve managed to save myself is by letting go. It’s not that I don’t have strong opinions. I really do. It’s not hard to figure out what they are I hope. But I can’t change anyone, and arguing is just adding more ugly to a very ugly stew. I find myself avoiding social media, ignoring friends who want to fight, hiding it all from my view. I post pictures of dogs and quotes from the Dalai Lama. I click Hide and Unfollow, and move quickly to something else. Maybe I’ll get strong enough someday to get back in the water and try harder to make a difference. For now though, maybe this whole next year, I’m just going to try to stay dripping on the shore, waiting for the sunshine.
So it’s been 2 months since I said we were selling our house, and guess what? We sold our house, with 4 offers in 2 days of showings. We bought a weird, character-rich house not too far away, much smaller, much older, much more us. And like us, it’s definitely a fixer-upper! Still, we love it, and don’t feel like we’ve lost anything we weren’t ready to lose all along. Yes, that includes a little bit more sanity. It’s okay though, we’re both ready to do this whole big new thing.
We gave up about 500 square feet of living space, and are still coming to terms with letting go of all the extra stuff. We both enjoy the lightness that comes with letting it go. But the tugs of memory are still there, attached to things that have been so much more than just things. The table where our kids did homework, learned (hopefully) table manners, played table-pong. I could write pages about the things that table has seen. But, alas, we have no dining space in the new house, so off it went. With each thing gone, I soak in the memories, roll around in them, and let them stick. The thing doesn’t own the past, I do. The thing doesn’t own me, I do.
And so last week I listed the old leather sofa for sale. The ad is below. Writing it was really kind of awesome – cathartic, you know? And I’m releasing the sofa, and all the things, out into the wild. Just like everything else, letting go is hard and amazing.
I think the Disney fairy tale has ruined our expectations of life. The plot is always just this One Big Problem, then it’s solved by some prince or other, and then, um, The End. Happily ever after, whatever the heck that means. Life isn’t just One Big Problem though, it’s full of problems and solutions and wonder and pain and growth. Some days you have to claw your way into just being OK. Getting older teaches us what we should have always known, that we can and will move on through whatever is happening at the moment. We are resilient because that is what life is for, I think.
So I’m selling my stuff, and keeping my memories, good and bad, and making new memories, good and bad. We’ll get new stuff, and it will age and tear and learn to adjust to us as things usually do. The wheel is still turning, and I’m going to enjoy the ride as long as it lasts, as long as the new sofa lasts, and maybe the one after that too.
Leather sofa seeks new adventures
This sofa has had an amazing life so far and is ready for a new adventure with you.
This soft, supple, brown leather sofa has been loved by children and dogs and assorted adults for going on ten years now. It has served as the base of operations for hundreds of hours of Netflix and naps, and overnight sleeps. It is so comfortable that the dogs and the children have fought semi-epic battles over it. Friends at parties have buddied up to fit four, once even five, happily on its ample cushions.
It has a few battle scars, and certainly a little bit of dog hair in spite of our efforts to keep it pristine. It resembles us in that way, there’s always a stray dog hair somewhere. We call it character.
There is a small tear hidden in its folds on the right armrest, and another on the cushion next to that. There are some additional scratches on the cushions – I blame the dogs, but even so, it’s really my own fault for being afraid to trim their nails more. And letting them on the couch at all – as if I had a choice. If there are any additional tears, I do not know about them.
This couch has never smoked a cigarette, nor has anyone nearby. I do believe someone “vaped” on it a time or two, but once caught, he was sent packing.
Why are we selling this love of our lives? We have downsized into a much smaller home and changed color schemes to brighten the place up. Much like us, our new house is going gray. Believe me, if I had a pool room or basement hangout, this couch would never leave my life.
We drive tiny cars and can’t deliver, and probably can’t carry it to your vehicle without help (we had young’uns carry it in to the new place for us). It’s about 38” deep, 88-90” long.
I’d like to ask $1000 for it, but realistically, how about $150? Hurry before I change my mind about the gray…
P.S. The sofa isn’t for sale just yet, the new one will take a while to arrive and begin its new adventures!