In Time for Valentine's Day!

As my "fan base" for this blog grows, so do the suggested topics. I couldn't avoid this one today, provided by my friend Josh.

The above photo is of a couch crafted by an art student in San Francisco, who is now trying to unload this lovely creative venture on an unsuspecting (pervy?) buyer.

It is a va-ja-jay couch.

It can be yours for the low-low price of $600, plus a flight to California, and a U-Haul rental back to Chicago or wherever you reside (in your couchless apartment).

The best part is the description: "the couch has some scuffmarks and stains around the bottom from being moved." Yeah, that's what they all say.

I don't think I can write much more. Just go to Craig's List and see for yourself. There's even an "action shot" of someone sitting in it. And they don't look very comfortable. It makes the utterly unstylish papasan chairs look relatively normal, roomy and chic.

And, yes, I just typed va-ja-jay. Get over it.

You probably own a papasan.

Nowhere to Look

Why is it that elevators render people, who in normal circumstances are talkative and outgoing, totally mute and self-conscious?

I board a minimum of 2 elevators a day—one at home and one at work. I've noticed this more at home:

People in the younger generations are so utterly, ridiculously, awkwardly afraid you'll speak to them while in the elevator together, that they'll do practically anything to avoid...

the direct eye contact.

The elderly in my building are quite the opposite—they get in, and immediately want to know how I am, how long I've lived in the building (to which they always squeal, "I've lived here longer than you've been alive!"), what I do for a living, where's my boyfriend and how much money I make.

Seriously, these ladies are in serious need of a granddaughter visit.

Anyway, today I boarded the elevator at home with another young woman from my floor. She lives 2 doors down from me. She seems normal. She was going for a run, and I was going out to run errands (I don't run unless I'm being chased). I remarked about the new gym equipment downstairs, and you would have thought I'd asked her how much she weighed.

She blanched, and then recovered. Slowly.

She answered the question, but I could tell it took everything in her power not to say to me, "why are you talking to me?"

After the painful awkward 'where do I put my eyes now?' moments were over, we just rode in silence.

How dare I try to strike up a conversation with someone that shares my hallway, eats, lives and sleeps just 20 feet from my home?

What nerve I have. Clearly.