Thriftwood

I finally replaced my couch with a dreamboat, inviting, "Hey, come watch a movie or take a nap and dream of pixies on me" model. It is a quiet oatmeal color with flecks of a lovely brown that just basks in the sunbeams that stream in through the window. Very subtle and tasteful. It doesn't yell over my pillows and its arms are the perfect width for cat perching (it has two arms and I just happen to have two cats, though one has taken up residence on the back of it) and has the paw of approval from the more soft-spoken, elder cat, Dee-Dee, who made it perfectly clear last night as she walked across it, chriping, that it had a nice texture as well. I concurred and gave her a happy scratch behind her ears in her Scratch Indicator spot. My best friend Michael, who is somewhat of a couch expert, even gave his stamp of approval, declaring it an excellent stretch-out spot.

I should take this opportunity to tell you what a son of a bitch my previous couch was. When I bought it from the Salvation Army, which had, in the past, yielded pretty cool results in the couch department, it seemed okay. It was retro and had this embossed flower pattern on it. Sure it was kind of scratchy but whatever, I needed a couch and the price included a matching chair (which I still have for guests so I'm not at a complete loss for seating--not like everyone gathers at my house but the minute I ditch it, a jillion people will surprise me and stop over to see how I'm doing and I'll be at a loss, saying, "Gee, I JUST had this chair...") for a grand total of $50. The pair were sturdy, clean and I figured would last me until I moved. It wasn't until recently that I figured out the couch was bowing in the middle and becoming a sinkhole. Because it was roughly from the 60's, and possibly they didn't properly know how to measure cushions or some guy on acid made the couch, there was a rather large gap between the two cushions that was, again not immediately apparent. It was roughly the width of a cell phone and guess what routinely fell between there? Yeah, my cell phone. Also, pill bottles and other important items. My now ex-boyfriend had his one brilliant idea and suggested I put my pill bottles in a baggie, which I did. At the time I was a little torked that he thought of this first when he couldn't even pick out and buy his own shoes or schedule his own haircut, much less buy clothes. Yet, ironically he could solve the pill bottle between the couch problem. In the end, it got solved, so whatever. Also, maybe he was just really smart because when I met him he had two fake vaginas, possibly in case one ran out? (Alright, that was just me having a jab, but it's the truth! I don't normally do that, but I'm a little punchy today.)

A shout-out is due to Michael and my friend Ryan for heaving it the new couch my treacherous stairs and not taking out the antique light fixtures in the hallway or living room in the process. I love living in a historical building, but my stairs are treacherous. I have, actually, fallen down them. Not all the way, but from the fifth stair up, carrying a computer bag, clarinet case, messenger bag and arm full of books. Of course, assholes live below me and would never open their door to see what just hit the floor outside the door and the guy on the other side has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder hardcore from being in the army, aside from being rather odd. One time I somehow found myself in his apartment and a car backfired. He literally leapt over his desk and onto the floor between his massive L-shaped metal desk and the ginormous antique hutch attached to the wall of each apartment in the building. I was sitting in his video chair by the window which had speakers in it and thinking about how I could save up to get one of these things because you could also plug your headphones in it and listen to your music when it happened and he scared the shit out of me. I told him I thought it was just a car backfiring and asked if he wanted me to look out the curtain. There came from the floor a resounding "No!" I then understood I was a lady and he sure as hell wasn't going to use me as a shield if some sort of hell was going down outside his window, which was sort of sweet, really. I felt bad for him because he's actually very nice and always asks after me when he runs into my Mom. He's seen me go out of my building seizing with the paramedics more than once and one time I actually remember seeing him and hearing him say, "Hang Tough, Wendy." So he's a good soul. I suppose my point is that he is also a heavy day sleeper and even if he was awake my hitting the floor with all my shit probably would have made him hit the floor as well, which kind of sucks.

While I was in the midst of shopping, I was talking to my Mom (as you know, or if you don't, now you do, I can't drive right now due to my Epilepsy, but we're getting closer and closer to getting back behind that wheel!) in the car about making picture frames or something. I'm not sure, but what I meant to say was the word "driftwood" and what came out was "thriftwood" because we were passing the oddest thrift store. You know, the kind you don't want to go into because you're quite sure everything has been pissed on by a ferret or a drunken college student. Odds are, it's one of the two. Sometimes the latter owns the former and you get double piss on the merch.

The giggles got the better of us as the word Thriftwood was quite the interesting word to us and I started saying that it would be quite the thrift store attraction. 40 acres of crap you don't need. I justified it by listing other attractions and pop culture things with the suffix "wood" in them: Hollywood, Bollywood, Dollywood (!)...Thriftwood! Of course there would be limitations set forth at Thriftwood that I just don't see in place at your average thrift store.

For instance, no more selling of the following items:
*swim suits
*undies
*lingerie
*socks
*sheets
*blankets
*goggles

I'm sure I could think of more, but basically nothing that has touched any moist part of your body or, in the case of the goggles, that could transmit eye diseases. That's why women don't or shouldn't share mascara or other such eye makeup. You can create some really hideous eye problems that are drippy and pink, amongst other things. Come to think of it, add cosmetics to that list. Also, nothing mystifies me more than when I'm walking by an aisle and I see a woman casually flipping through used lingerie. Really, lady? You know some other lady's BARE crotch has touched that? Do you know what people do when they wear that? Obviously, because you're flipping through the rack and thinking of doing the same thing. Come here and let me whisper how crazy some people get with it, though. I'll even tell you some of my own stories in your ear if it will make you run screaming with your cart full of toddlers to the Women's Dresses aisle where you belong or even the Broken Ass Computer But I'm Sure I Can Fix It Department.
Then I see the casual flip through the used underwear which is a) usually chock full of grandma underwear and b)GRANDMA UNDERWEAR!!!! Shouldn't the words USED GRANDMA UNDERWEAR be enough to induce vomiting? They should put it on the back of poisonous chemicals. When you call Poison Control, the first they should say is, did you say to the person "USED GRANDMA UNDERWEAR?" If that doesn't work then the next thing to be used is "USED GRANDPA TIGHTIE WHITIES!" I have seen these items fly into carts like free iPods made of gold, usually pushed by people with mullets and women with mustaches, who I also don't understand. Are they not aware of popular culture making fun of them? Does the person with the mullet not go, "Oh my. I should maybe get a haircut! There are many websites devoted to making fun of my hair! Not only that there are ironic t-shirts for sale!" The woman with the mustache, well, the abundance of waxing studios and the fact that she could get away with being an old-timey villain is not a hint? On a personal note, it angers me that this woman has a husband! Granted, not the gem I would pick for myself (not a mullet fan, myself, but whatever) but still you know there was that moment where this guy stopped and was all, "Heyyyy! I want to give that ladeeee a smoochie!" My point being, of course that sure, these people would inevitably show up at Thriftwood. It's bound to happen. But they would mainly hang out chewing on our offerings of turkey legs and free popcorn. The turkey legs would cost like eight dollars. Plus you could get sandwiches and Arnold Palmers as a meal deal. Homemade root beer would be available, as well as year-round snowball fights. (I would hire my friends to collect snow in the winter and stock massive freezers with snowballs). This privilige would require the signing of a waiver because if you've ever been hit by a summer snowball, you know it's basically a wad of ice. I haven't worked out all the bugs here. I'm sure some sort of basic knee pads or face guard would be provided but the chestal area would be fair game. I mean, summer snowball fights aren't for total pussies and neither is Thriftwood.

Also, we would have fresh felt year round, cut into shapes. Maybe to taunt the mullets, we would have felt underwear and lingerie ornaments. Possibly mustaches and mullets?

And to top everything off: we'd have an antique carousel with live music by awesome bands and musicians (insert your dream musician here or feel free to leave a comment for your dream line-up. I'll start it off with David Bowie.That guy gets all the free turkey legs he can chew on.)

In closing, it's going to be pretty awesome and I just thought that I might put in a gallery of pictures of really comfortable couches as well. However, I don't know what our tagline is yet but I think the working one is THRIFTWOOD: We Gots Turkey Legs But No Undies!