Who Is Tacky Now

Please don’t put that couch on the porch! My husband begged. It would be so tacky. Tackier than the refrigerator and ice machine? They are already out there. Tackier than five garbage bags full of who-know-what? They are out there too. Of course, they are his messes, so not tacky? I know better than to ask him again so I slide the couch to the porch. Upon arrival I realize I have two choices. If I drop it with a thud, he is going to hear the house shake. He might run out here before I can maneuver it into place. I have to lift the stupid thing. It is much heavier than I thought. I am silently swearing him out as I lift. Lowering it without dropping it is excruciating. He discovered this tacky couch on the porch around two that afternoon. That was six months ago. I keep taking photos of him sitting on this “tacky” couch daily, sending them to my friends with the caption “Who is tacky now?”