My Dear Friend The Couch

I had every intention of making dinner tonight.  I had a risotto recipe pulled up at work and had organized all the ingredients in my mind that I needed to gather.  It was going to be creamy and amazing and I was going to pair it with peas and the roasted pork Andy made yesterday.

Then the couch called to me.

It sang a sweet song the moment I walked in the door.

It said "look at me, all plush and comforting.  I'm covered with all the pillows you moved from the chair and loveseat since they are covered with the Christmas decorations you never took up to the attic.  I could make you feel warm and loved.  I'll cuddle you with this Orioles blanket and you'll never want to leave me."

And for the next three hours I fell prey to its cushiony charms.

I wouldn't be lured away from that sleep when I heard Andy rustling around, fending for himself for dinner.  Adam Sandler's squeaky boy-man voice couldn't rise me out of my slumber even long enough for me to beg Andy to not waste any more hours of his life watching The Water Boy.  When I finally rose to a seated position (albeit with my legs stretched out in front of me half in repose) the couch still held me firm in its warmth.

I watched The Higlander and marveled that Christopher Lambert didn't take advantage of the technological advances that would fix his lazy eye.

I still can't get up.

I really want some waffles.

Andy has gone to bed.

The Bachelor is on.

Who wants to bet the couch wins for another two hours?

I love you couch.