For the first time in out adult lives we don't own a futon.* It went over the balcony last night and landed with a satisfying ploomf! in the front yard. The ten-year-old, falling apart, low-grade pine frame followed shortly behind. (I did confirm the all-clear before tossing them.) The futon's place was promptly taken by a gen-u-ine sleeper-sofa. Look, ma, we're big kids now.
* It's been a big weekend for furniture migrations. After many years of lobbying, Sarah is finally getting her queen-size bed (apparently, sleeping in a cramped double with my big, gangly, hot-blooded self ain't all that), and the gorgeous but small antique half-tiester will be traveling down the hall to take on new life as Louise's "princess" bed (though tonight she declared that she no longer wants to call it a "princess" bed; she wants to call it a "half-tiester").
But here's the kicker—the guy who sold us the mattress? Glyn Styler. For real. The one and only. (This means nothing to most of you but a lot to a few of you. Seriously, imagine how strange it was: Glyn Styler… Veteran's Boulevard… selling us a mattress. We talked of spring counts, pillow tops, and memory foam. As the credit card machine whirred, we talked of lost houses (he lived in Lakeview), the joy of returning home (he'll be back in a few weeks), and the possibility of future shows (yes, though there are obstacles: "I don't even have any wigs!").
Weird, man, weird.