My stuff is old. No, not THAT, you dirty birds! I mean the stuff in my house. I would say that 70 per cent of my stuff is hand me downs. Don’t judge. I had babies young, got married young, went to school late, and went out too much. I never took the advice of my parents, grandparents, or my brilliant, well off Uncle Politic who told me years ago to get a 401K and save, save, SAVE for emergencies. I never did. I am an asshole in that way and it makes me angry when I think about it. My couch was a hand me down from my grandma in Jersey. My coffee table, end table, and lamps are from my beloved aunt and uncle who are both now deceased. My dining set is a hand me down from my sister-in-law, which she had bought for herself second hand several years ago. We have a gorgeous bedroom set that was a wedding gift from my in-laws and a very nice rocking chair that we bought at Target when I was preggers with Smiley. That about sums it up.
We are finally to a place where we desperately want…NEED, in fact, some new shit. Our house looks like a cross between Design on a Dime and a college dorm. HP re-did our kitchen which is GORGEOUS and I love it. Our next plan was to use part of our tax return to get a new couch, lamps, and end tables. Also, a new, beautiful throw rug and possibly some new pictures. I have been wanting a new living room for so long that I was nearly peeing myself with excitement over the thought. Finally, I was going to have something of my own that I got to pick out! I have always wanted a red couch and that dream was about to come true. Until…
The fam sat down for dinner the other night. We were enjoying some ramen noodle stir fry (creative, right?) and just talking as families do at dinner. All of a sudden, crack, crack, CRASH! Our table collapsed right down the middle. HP caught the end and I tried my damndest to hold up the middle. The brunt of the collapse was towards me and my wrist was stuck underneath, my silver bracelet jabbing into my wrist bone. All the plates slid down and onto the floor. My ramen noodle stir fry lay in a useless heap. The dog went insane. The kids started sobbing. My wrist was throbbing. HP was swearing. That table took a perfectly normal evening and turned it into a clusterfuck of emotion.
After we calmed the kids down, put the dog outside, and I got some ice for my wrist, we stood in the dining room assessing the damage. I gave a little nod up to the gods because we had, for some odd reason, sat in the wrong seats that night. I sat where Smiley usually sits. If he would have been sitting there the table would have collapsed onto him and I imagine more then his little wrist would have been hurt. Talk about divine intervention!
HP got some tools and wood glue and rigged it back together. But I know, it’s only a matter of time. That table’s days are numbered. I gazed into my living room. I stared down my couch. I gave dirty looks to my lamps. I flipped off my tables. Guess I am stuck with those POS’s for another year. My red couch will have to wait. Sigh.