Not an Ash Tray

It was late at night on a Saturday.  We were parents of a 1-year-old, so of course we were a few bourbons in to it on the couch, binge-watching Entourage.  The doorbell rang.

No one remained on the porch by the time we answered, but a large box had arrived.  Typical time for a FedEx delivery, I guess.  The furniture I'd ordered online was here!  I'd searched high and low for a kid-sized armchair that matched our couches.  I found one, it was reasonably priced, and it was also a recliner - paying for shipping was an easy decision. 

So we brought it in, opened it up, and naturally, took turns sitting in it (if you've been to my house in the past five years, chances are you've tried out the Thinking Chair just to see if your butt fits).  Andrew went to put his drink in the cup holder and started laughing to the point of tears.  "Babe.  Take a look at this."

Engraved in the bottom of the spill-proof plastic cup holder were the words, "NOT AN ASH TRAY."

To this day we're not sure whether that statement was permanently etched there to remind toddlers not to smoke, or to discourage smoking parents from using their child's furniture as a receptacle for cigarette butts.  Either way, the chair finally gave way under years of agony due to the roles it played in the baby parkour obstacle course, preschool living room jungle gym and pseudo-trampoline.  It was with a heavy heart that we left it by the dumpster for the homeless man who lives 100 yds away.  I just hope he can read the warning.