On Friday night, Noogs wandered off from the dinner table and sat on the couch. A moment later we heard a plaintive cry, "Mommy, I spit." And sure enough, the girl had hurled her bread salad and salsa (and a cup of milk and two pilfered bananas) all over the arm and right cushion of the couch. A clean-up effort ensued -- Darwin took Noogs; I handled the couch. His charge came cleaner than mine did.
And as I wiped layer after layer of dirt from the couch and liberally spritzed Fabreze, it came to me: it was really time for a new couch.
It's not just that we had to cut off the attached arm cushion because it couldn't be cleaned. It's not just that now there's a bright spot of washed upholstery that still smells faintly of vomit. It's that the cushions are ripping in ways that can't be repaired. It's that the couch is at least twenty years old and was second-hand when we got it. It's that it was originally part of a sectional and so has one arm higher than the other, making it unconducive to slipcovering. It's that there are cigarette burns on one cushion (we keep that side down) from the previous owner's chain-smoking brother. It's that the couch used to be red and is now a shade charitably described as "dirt".
So it's time to hit up the classifieds and Craig's List and Freecycle.
This is what I'd like.
This is what I'll probably get.