I really want to get a new couch.
It’s kind of ridiculous because our couch is perfectly fine and this “want” falls squarely into the “1st world woes” camp, and yet I haven’t been able to shrug it off.
In my childcare days, I had a family who always joked that “anybody can have a baby. You’re not a real adult until you buy a new couch”. While it wasn’t explicitly stated, I’m fairly certain they were not including a couch one would have to put together oneself, which is the kind we had: a not-very-comfortable Ikea couch.
In 2008, even though we had no money, we thought we were ready to have a real couch. And we started saving.
I think it was 2009 when we had our first Argonaut Fish Taco stand at the H Street Festival. We were still in charge of Rock and Roll’s kitchen at the time, so we had the perfect spot to prep ingredients and fry fish, without having to walk through (what wasn’t then as huge) a crowd to get back to our stand. Rosa would be prepping in the kitchen and delivering food to the tent. Hector (and maybe Matt?) would be assembling tacos, Scott would be doing operations stuff, and Ara and I would be selling tacos, yelling “Argonaut Fish Tacos” in a voice I can only describe as kind of ring-master-y. When Ara got tired, she’d take a nap in her stroller, and we’d continue working. It’s not difficult work, but it’s taxing. And it was loud. By the end of the day our voices would be strained from yelling, and our ears would be throbbing. (That first year taught us to wear ear plugs, which we did, for the following two years. It’s also how we officially started offering Uncle Brutha’s hot sauce at the Argonaut. Brennan happened to be next to our booth and offered us some samples. When customers raved about the sauces, we’d just point to him and off they’d go.)
I got so used to yelling “Argonaut Fish Tacos” in that ridiculous voice at loud events like the Festival, that when we’d be at fancier events (Liveable Walkable Awards or school fundraisers or Living Classrooms) Hector would shoot me an embarrassed look for falling back into my circus voice ways. It’s a hard habit to break, I guess.
That first year, after we covered the cost of the ingredients, we paid out Rosa & Hector (and Matt?) and ourselves.
We used our money to buy a couch.
And we loved that couch. It wasn’t particularly long, but it could fit several people. And it has a built in chaise, so one person can be facing towards the tv or fireplace, fully stretched out, with others still able to use the couch. And arm rests – our old couch didn’t have arm rests! And it was comfy. On hot nights in our un-air conditioned home that summer of 2010 when the neighborhood was on 1/4 power for days, and in 2011 when Scott was in treatment, occasionally Ara and I could both sleep on it, especially on those nights that it just never cooled down.
When Scott first stopped drinking (the first time, anyway, in 2010) I noticed, obviously, the big things that improved. But there were little things, too. Like making the bed. Without him twisting and turning all night, the sheets were easier to manage and I could make the bed so much faster.
The mattress was gross, though. His side was stained with sweat marks, from head to toe. If I had known what I was looking at, I could have put it together, but I really didn’t have any experience in this.
The irony of my denial -not knowing that those sweat stains and twisted sheets were indicative of nightly detox, and the fact that I diligently made the bed every morning by myself, covering up the problem- is not lost on me.
Eventually, the issues with the sheets and mattress sorted themselves out, as Scott moved first to the couch, then to treatment, and then to his own apartment over by Lincoln Park. Even though Ara would sleep with me most nights, we hardly even touched Scott’s side of the bed (it was covered with pillows so she wouldn’t roll off), and I became used to focusing on and only making my side of the bed.
After Scott moved back in and was in Continuing Care at Kolmac, he’d moan to his group that I forced him to make the bed. “How does she do that?” they asked, (I’m sure a little concerned that I was not embracing something equivalent to Step 1 [which essentially means that we are powerless over all the nouns and pronouns in our lives]). “She only makes her side of the bed!” he told them, and they all laughed.
Somehow, the bed, in all its metaphoric glory, became a reflection of my own attempts at recovery.
Sometime after he moved back in, the Ikea mattress took its toll on my back, and we invested in a new mattress. And recently, a new comforter and a new paint color for our bedroom. It feels therapeutic – the exorcising of demons. There are no detoxing sweat stains on the new mattress and we each make our own side of the bed every morning.
But after we’re done waking Ara and getting dressed, we walk downstairs and…I see the couch. The couch that was essentially Scott’s home for months. The couch where he lived a double (triple?) life – not only hiding his addiction to alcohol, but pills, as well. And hiding the fact that he’d sneak out most nights. The couch on which -even though he’d refuse to eat breakfast or lunch and would be “too busy” to eat most dinners with us- we’d find Triscuits, their crumbs and stale cheese all over him and the floor – late night munchies before he passed out. The couch where he’d still be sleeping when we’d walk downstairs and the house would smell of booze. The couch where once I left Ara in his care while I went running, realizing only after I returned that he was still passed out.
Through this whole process, it has been interesting which things I’m happy to let go of, which things are bittersweet, and which things I hang on to, for better or worse. For all the badness that the couch represents, it’s not actually showing much wear, aside for the three cats who like to scratch one side of it. We don’t really need to buy a new one. And especially this year, as we’re supposed to be saving money, it’s hard to justify such a purchase, but…
I really want to get a new couch.
shaaren pine 