Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Small Chair Speaks
On Saturday evenings, we let the furniture speak.
Harry and I usually leave the house to allow them privacy. We go out to a movie and then for Viennese coffee and pastries. By the time we get back, things have pretty much settled down.
Last night, with a bad storm front moving in, we stayed home with head phones on, listening to Garrison Keillor.
However, it had been brought to my attention that the small green chair had been bullied of late, so we discreetly removed the headphones and eavesdropped.
"You have to make more of an effort," the teak coffee table was saying, its voice surprisingly authoritative for a Danish product.
"You're weak and useless, if you want to know the truth," said the scratchy camelback sofa (I don't know why we bought it).
I was ready to jump in and defend the small green chair. I fondly remembered buying it at Kubinec's Fine Furnishings, its leaf-green corduroy unblemished and soft. It was my favorite place to sit in my pajamas. I liked to rub my arms over its arms.
When the small chair finally spoke, its voice was defiant.
"I am trying, I really am, but you see her! She's gotten too damn fat for anything but the wrought iron patio furniture!"
Harry helped me drag the small green bastard to the curb just in time for the storm to hit. Trash pickup is on Thursdays, and good riddance.