Greetings, friends!
For those of you following along, I have another installment of the great couch saga to share. After rehoming my ugly microfiber stalwart, I tried my best to acclimate to “110" of luxurious pink velvet.” But there were a few problems. First off, pink velvet and muddy dog paws are a terrible combination, which meant I had to cover all 9 feet of it with a big blanket just to keep it clean. This explained why the fabric was in such good condition for its age: the previous owner must have had the entire thing wrapped in plastic. And secondly, its narrow depth and slim cushions made it impractical for lounging, which in my mind, is the primary purpose of a sofa. Then there was the guilt: my husband felt terrible for foisting it onto me and I felt just as bad for not liking it. I gave it a few weeks, but never managed to develop the anthropomorphized affection I’d had for its predecessor.
We went to Ikea and were mortified by the price tags—upwards of $1000 for anything d…