It’s my birthday. It’s not a major one. In fact, it’s pretty damn minor. And it’s on a Tuesday this year. Tuesday has to be the most unspecial day of the week. It’s not the start of the week, and it’s painfully far away from the weekend. And there’s not even anything good on TV. It’s just Tuesday. So, to have a minor birthday fall on a Tuesday makes for a very subdued birthday celebration. No, celebration is too vibrant a word. Let’s call it a mere acknowledgment.
The boyfriend, bless his heart, has repeatedly asked me what I want for my birthday. I know he wants me to tell him something concrete, something that I can point at in a store or online. But, I can’t. Really, in terms of material stuff, I’m pretty well set. I’m not feeling the need for more stuff. In fact, quite the opposite. So, what do I want for my birthday? I want that goddamn loveseat in my sunroom to go away. I don’t care where it goes, I want it gone.
I’ve been asking for his help in getting rid of that goddamn loveseat for a while now. Yet, there are always obstacles. The first of which is that we have no idea what to do with it. It’s not in good enough condition to give it to a charity – the rabbits have been gnawing on in their spare time. And no, I don’t want to place it on Craig’s List or Freecycle. Who wants the hassle of dealing with a bunch of strangers’ inquiries and the waiting for the no shows. Plus, frankly, I don’t want strangers in my house. But, it still does have its good qualities and maybe someone would take it for free. I’ve suggested that deep in the middle of the night we leave it on the side of an industrial road that leads to a weekend flea market nearby. The boyfriend has agreed that might be the best way to find a good home for this perfectly good loveseat (his words, not mine. To me it is, and will forever more be “that goddamn loveseat”).
But, then we are faced with the second obstacle: moving the goddamn loveseat. It’s a heavy sucker. And I’m at a point in my life where I hire people to lug really heavy things for me. But, hiring someone in the middle of the night to illegally dump the loveseat does not seem to be the smartest thing to do. I mean, if I don’t want law-abiding strangers in my house, I’m sure as hell not going to invite a hired hand into my home late at night who willing to commit a crime. Perhaps I have to rethink my plan.
This morning, when the boyfriend called to wish me happy birthday and go on yet another fishing expedition as to what I want for my birthday, I was emphatic: please, in the name of all the good and holy in this world, please, please PLEASE make plans to get rid of that goddamn loveseat. I am willing to pay for the labor and fees to have it dumped. I just can’t take anymore discussions about that god-forsaken loveseat.
All I really want is to have my sunroom back. I have a vintage writing desk I bought a few months back with the idea of putting in there, along with a comfy chair for meditating or reading. To be able to look out the window at my avocado and peach trees while writing or to meditate with the sun on my face, yes, that would make me happy. And the only thing in the way is that goddamn loveseat.