So here I am, sitting on my couch, watching Ellen.
Which reminds me of the time my couch came to life. Let me explain. I was watching some show, probably the Bachelor or Smallville or Dog Whisperer. It was a show with some furniture in it. It cut to a commercial, and I moved to reach my drink, and my couch squeaked. It might have been because I shifted my body around on the cushions, but this is what went down instead:
“Oh, I’m sorry Lady Couch, did that hurt?” I petted her cushions a little.
I stood up so that she could tell me, and not have me sitting on her face. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”
“If you don’t like me sitting on you like that, why don’t you just say something instead of being so passive aggressive about it?”
Lady Couch sighed.
“I heard that.”
No answer. And then: “I didn’t sigh because of you. Stop being so self-involved.”
“Excuse me?” My couch was talking to me, finally.
“You have nothing to do with it. Sit on me, don’t sit on me, I don’t care, okay?”
“Man, that’s quite the attitude for a couch.”
“What, I can’t have feelings? Or maybe you have enough for the both of us.”
“Kinda mean, too.”
“Just shut up. Do we have to watch this?”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“Those chairs make me jealous.”
“What chairs? The chairs on TV?”
“You’re kidding. Why are you jealous of the chairs on TV? You could be on TV if you want.”
“No, I couldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fat.”
“Oh, come on, you’re not fat! You just…have a lot of stuffing.”
“Are you rolling your eyes at me?”
“My eyes are invisible to you. You can’t see me doing it.”
“I can imagine what it looks like. I was your age once.”
“How old do you think I am? And by the way, I am fat. All those chairs on TV are so skinny and dyed pretty colors, and their legs are spindly and they’re dressed in fancy fabrics. They’re in all the tabloids.”
“No they’re not. In all the tabloids, that is.”
“Not people tabloids, stupid. Furniture tabloids. And catalogs and stuff.”
“Excuse me, you asked what my problem was.”
“I didn’t think you’d go on a huge rant about celebrity furniture and then call me stupid. And, anyway, you’re not a chair. You’re a couch. Couches on TV look just like you.”
“I’m dirty. They’re not.”
I sighed. “Is that the whole point of this? You want me to vacuum you?”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. You can sit back down now. I won’t bite you.”
“Were you going to bite me?”
“I thought about it. But I’m not going to now. Come on, sit down. I promise I won’t.”
Obviously, I did not sit back down. I threw a pillow at Lady Couch, and she screamed in a dramatic kind of way, and then just sulked. She hasn’t talked to me since.
But I did turn off the TV. And then I called my friend and begged her to hang out with me, because I can’t just talk to couches all day, you know. That’s just not healthy.
You know what, though? Lady Couch doesn’t have a blog, and I do. So keep it up, Lady Couch. Every nasty thing you say to me is going on the internet, and you can’t do anything about it.