I’ve never really been a homely person. My interests for interior styling never really transcended beyond ‘I need a bed, couch, tv and dishwasher‘ as the bare essentials to feel at home (because fuuuuuuck I hate doing dishes).
The fact that there’s pillows, plants and thingamabobs in my house can be blamed solely on the men I’ve dated that called my house a barren bachelor pad (what is it, opposite day or summin’?). Painful. But accurate.
Part of that is because I have two left hands (there’s been two ceiling lamps perched up in my dressoir for months now – seeing as I can’t actually get them on…you know….the ceiling. Not to mention the half-finished lamp installment over my dining table). Another part of it is laziness. But the biggest part of it is genuine and utter disinterest.
I don’t require my surroundings to be pretty, pleasant or cozy for me to feel at home. Most of the time I hardly even notice the decor around me. So it’s never been something that’s had my attention.
But lately – my couch had become a sore spot in my otherwise unattentive mind.
Three years ago it was purchased as a post-break-up replacement (and built by one of my ‘home improvement Tinder dates’. Because secret: Tinder is PERFECT for getting guys to build you furniture in hopes of building up a date or two).
And in those three years it has served me well. Couch was there for me in my laziest happiest, kitten-y-est and horniest times. It pulled me through hours (and hours and hours and hours) of Netflix. Served as a bed to many a guest. Was a scratching post for about 12 kittens and saw….many…many…unmentionable things.
But there was also hardship. Because kittens…are nasty. And mean. So there was some wetness and a lot of fuzzy scratched bits. Plus, there was that incident with the jar full of feta cheese…booze and oil. Lots of it. Because if you topple a jar of oily feta and let it soak for a night…that shit ain’t coming out.
Which all contributed to the fact that couch had that just-partied-a-bit-too-hard look. You know, when you come in at three a.m. a bit too drunk, a bit dishevelled but still pretending like you’re fine? That was couch.
So when I was at a friends house last week (for the best woodfire singed rosemary marinated and utterly orgasmic salty salmon EVER) and she introduced me to the concept of couch covers – I was sold.
And just like that – starting from today – I have a brand spanking new-looking living room. With a couch sans questionable stains and alot more PAAZAAZZZZ than the dull grey it was.
Yet all I seemingly end up thinking is how ironic that is. How all that couch needed was something to mask all its marks, stains and past hurts to be new to the world and become perfectly accepted and appreciated. I wonder if Ali Xpress also sells those for the soul. Wouldn’t that be nice?
That’s way too much deep thinking about something as simple as couch covers tho. So I’ll just go plop down on that like-new couch and get to work on a new set of mysterious stains. Just kidding. It’s gonna stay squeaky clean this time.