The Case of the Funky Chair

Earlier today we took delivery of a funky chair. Not a cool, I'm-too-hip-for-your-farmhouse conversation-starter chair. No, a I-lived-with-a-smoker-and-his-dog-and-I-stink kind of chair.

We had no idea that the chair was going to be funky. It was coming from a good source--a family member who is VERY non-funky in her furniture selection.

Apparently her olfactory senses are blinded by love, which lead her to think that we would want this stinker in our house to sit on while we watch TV.

Let me just say that there is a great deal of Matlock and Murder She Wrote watched at this house. And I bet the vast majority of the Hallmark Channel viewing audience are watching on smoky, dog-infested furniture. However, it's not for us.

The worst shame of the whole scenario is that is it a lovely chair--with matching ottoman. Purchased from the great people at Schenck Furniture, who I love more than ever after they hauled away my mother-in-law's funky fridge.

The chair smells bad. How bad? The odor of it caused my poor ESPN-loving husband to forsake satellite TV and watch the 14-inch in the kitchen. It smells so bad that the odor could not be beat back with half a bottle of Febreeze. An odor so insidious that in a matter of hours it had infected two rooms and was creeping up the stairs.

A stench so bad that just now, after my poor husband has gone to bed, I dragged the offending chair and the matching ottoman out the door and onto the back patio.

If you live within a five-mile radius and smell something funky tonight, I apologize.