Having a blog can be really handy sometimes.
Like when you have a major life change and post about it? It means you don’t have to keep re-announcing it each time you encounter a friend you haven’t seen in a while. Provided that most of your friends read you, and mine do, you can just jump straight to the ‘how are you holding up’ conversation when you run into someone at Wal-Mart in, say, the toothpaste aisle.
This is all to be expected.
What’s surprising to me is what, more often than not, question number two is.
More than once or twice, after I’ve discussed with a friend how I’m doing (and the answer is still fine, I’m doing fine) and they are satisfied I’m okay, they’ll get a concerned look on their face. And then they’ll hesitate for a moment but then go ahead and ask, with an almost imperceptible cringe,
“What about The Couch?”
Not the dog, mind you, but The Couch.
I guess I’m just surprised that both mine and the ex-man’s great affection for The Couch was that obvious. It’s not like we were caressing it ala Montgomery Burns, “Ah, yes, my marvelous couch”; or Gollum, “The precious…” every time someone came over or anything. Well, okay, maybe I was, but not more than once or twice, tops.
And I swear to you, I had just written the preceding paragraphs when I noticed a new comment on my January 4 blog entry. The post included a photo of FurGirl that caught a corner of the couch in question:
In case I havent told you already, i love that couch...glad to see you have it.
See what I mean?
(I’m glad too, Stephanie.)