I might have mentioned in my previous post that my mom was a bit disapproving of the number of posts I've written that make me sound like I've never been sober before. I'm actually not drunk all the time. My friends and I just tend to get into goofier shit when we've been drinking, so those are usually the stories that are the most entertaining. However, I love my mother dearly, so I figured the least I could do was tell a totally alcohol-free story just for her. Here goes...
Before Ric and I moved in together, I was living with my mom, my brother, and a bunch of cats, including Bentley, who I brought to our new place a few months after I moved out of mom's. I know I've probably covered this already, but just in case I haven't, Bentley is a chicken. I mean he's a few feathers and a beak short of being a real, live, bona fide chicken. He's afraid of EVERYTHING.
Yeah, unfortunately, my cat doesn't speak English in real life, so there really isn't a good way to explain his fears to him. If it WERE possible, perhaps moving wouldn't have been quite so traumatic for my family. Things started out pretty typical with the whole moving thing. I packed up all my stuff, Jeem graciously agreed to help us do the heavy lifting, we rented a U-haul. No problemo. Until the cat saw Ric and Jeem carrying my dresser out the front door. Normally, he would just go hide under the bed or something if he got spooked, but for some reason, on this particular occasion, Bentley decided that the best thing to do to cope with his terror at things being relocated would be to pee. While sitting on my mother's couch.
It's bad enough that he pissed on the couch, but what made it even worse is that my cat drinks A LOT, therefore he also pees A LOT. Plus, cat piss is probably the worst smelling thing on earth. Needless to say, my mother was not thrilled. She tried cleaning it, but to no avail. It still stunk. Mom was also afraid that the lingering smell would cause Bentley to come back and pee on the couch again. So she came up with a "brilliant" idea.
She put the cushions in a hefty bag, tied it up tight, then put the slipcover back on the couch over her handiwork. Now, you might be thinking, "hey, that's not a bad idea! Holds in the smell, protects the cushions if he does it again, pretty smart, Maggi's mom!" Wrong. The problem is that there's just no way to keep air out of the bags. Mom had turned the couch into a three-seater whoopee cushion.
We kept a couple safety pins on the coffee table because sometimes when you'd sit down, you'd wind up sitting on a big bubble, so you'd have to take a pin and murder the couch in order to get the bubble to pop so that your feet would reach the floor again and you could get back up. Actually, I was the only one who really had that problem because I'm a munchkin. Everyone else just murdered the couch because sitting on a bubble isn't as cool as it sounds. It did make for a fun game though. My brother really loved sitting down next to someone who was already seated. This is because he's a big guy, so the air displacement would typically cause one of two things to happen.
It was all well and good for a while, but like all good things, it eventually had to come to an end. One day, my brother's friend Josh came over to hang out for a while. He walks in and sits down on the couch. Poor innocent Josh. Nobody in my family had warned him about our uh...situation. Suddenly, the cushion next to him inflates to about three times its normal size.
Mom decided that a couch that terrifies guests probably isn't such a good idea. And that's how Mom's couch wound up at the road.
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