Maybe it’s been made obvious over these past few years, but I have a lil’ bit of a sofa problem. Just a wee little problem. You know, just a small, minuscule, tiny, insignificant issue with obtaining sofas. No big thang. No real worries. No extremism. Nothing to call a specialist about. No deep rooted psychological pathologies.

Shut up.

I’m blaming The Boy…kind of. He and his less than design enthused friends have complained over and over that the sofas I buy are too low or too hard or too uncomfortable or too mid century or too whatever. In the comfy television watching den this debate has raged on and on while they sipped crappy beers and watched Nascar. Yes – NASCAR. In my home. The nerve.

Sharing my long unrequited love for chesterfields – Summer found the perfect little petite sofa and begrudgingly emailed it to me. I thought nothing could be more Boy pleasing than a deeply comfy and broken-in vintage chesterfield to sit on while watching manly things on the tube. He has yet to really wax lovingly about my thoughtful gift, but has taken the time to remark, “No more goddamn sofas. Aren’t you tired of moving sofas?”. NEVER.

The den is shifting into all brown town and getting a bit more masculine than I’d like. Now I just need some new art and new pillows and a new shelving unit and a new light and a new chair. Just a whole new room, no biggie.

Bowie likes it a whole bunch and he’s adorable, so therefore by the bylaws of adorable transference the sofa is now legally adorable. I called Iggy into the room to take some photos and add to the adorableness quotient, but once he rounded the corner and saw the camera and Bowie, he briefly sized up the situation and then turned heel and hopped back into bed to continue his nap. Iggy ain’t having none of our crap anymore. I don’t know how any of them put up with me.