Quel tragique, my little schnauzers. The fabulous new sofa we had snagged last week at Room and Board was delivered to day. Or was attempted to be delivered. As much as it longed to be held in our loving arms, it wouldn't fit up the stairs, even though the store previously had sent out a special Fit Team to measure and see if it would. The verdict: Too Damn Big, which I've heard plenty of times before, but never so bitterly.
So I just marched my little self back down there, dusted myself and started all over again. A terribly sweet matronly saleslady (side note: how sad it is to realize all these motherly types are my contemporaries. Laugh now, bitches, your day will come.) In trying to help us find a couch that was similar in sleek lines, long enough for us to lie on, but short enough to fit up the damn stairs, she led us back to the first couch I had fallen in lust with: a beauty in velvet, the epitome of Hollywood Regency glamour, a chaise with lines so taut they look like they were cut with an Xacto blade. It seemed the universe was having one cruel jest on me after another as I explained I would love to consider it, but it didn't come in the ivory velvet we wanted.
Turns out the Mommie saleslady is also our Fairy Godmother since she firmly contradicted me, went over to the swatch cabinet and yanked out the most luscious cream velvet you could ask for. Why the minion last week couldn't find it is beyond me, but there it was and I am not arguing.
And now I have the couch I truly wanted in the first place. Life is so sweet. Feast your eyes, my dears, on our new glam fest (you have to imagine it in ivory). If only the fucker fits.