When we left off, I was obsessing about our custom-made, accidentally pinkish-brown sectional. I didn't spend all of my time obsessing—we may not have picked the perfect color, but that sectional was darn comfortable. The absurdity of my problem brought back a childhood memory. Since our dad worked for the railroad, our vacations consisted of taking the train from Portland, Oregon, to Rochester, Minnesota to stay with our grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins—quite an adventure, but that's another story. One day, I happened to be tagging along with my aunt when she stopped at her neighbor's home in (what I now realize) was their middle class neighborhood...
My aunt's friend was literally wringing her hands over some new custom-made furniture. She thought the light blue couches with coordinating piping looked like they belonged in the bedroom. Though I secretly agreed (but sure as heck wasn't going to say anything—besides, what did I know about furniture?), I was struck by the frivolity of rich people problems. While my sisters and I worried about our mom's next breakdown, we knew there were oodles of folks coping with worse. The incident cemented an observation I'd made before: we all have different frames of reference.
So I guess I'd come a long way. From a childhood where Mom doled out fish sticks to make sure we all had enough to eat—to dining-out whenever we felt like it. From wearing hand-me-down clothes—to donating furniture to Goodwill. From worrying if Mom would be there when we got home from school—to obsessing about Muppet furniture and a pink sectional. From working class to middle class, I'd definitely taken on some first-world problems.
Though I was well aware there were people dying in the world, my search for a new rug began. Leaving no stone unturned, I hit every rug store I'd ever heard of, took gobs of photos, and contemplated countless looks. I knew I wanted color, but what color? Not brown. We already had plenty of that, and was brown actually a color? Then, I found it—a very '60s, as in psychedelic Mad Men—turquoise, green, red and orange rug. I was afraid to send a pic to my friend—she'd suggested white. She loves it! All I know is that rug makes me happy. Nostalgia? Maybe. Spend weeks talking hubby into donating perfectly good wool rug and replacing it with a cheapy.
Move on to chairs. Though I've never cared for the look of our spindle dining chairs, they don't bother Mike—he doesn't see any reason to replace them. Plus, our table is shorter than most tables—he's afraid new chairs will be too tall. That would be uncomfortable—an engineer's nightmare. Work with our fabulous new friend, Darcy, at Kitchen Kaboodle, who seems to understand our OCDishness after our sectional hunt. Manage to zero in on some chairs, but can't find any tables we like better than the ones we have in our nook and family room.
Mike agrees to new nook chairs. As cute as the temporary squeaky second-handers purchased at an antique store are, they're now thirty years older than when we got them. Besides, the kids have gotten big—as in bigger than us. The kiddie table needs to grow up. On one of my searches, I find an exquisite mid-century table and chairs at a local family furniture shop. Mike hates it. I love it. He thinks it's uncomfortable. I bring it home to try it out.
Though we immediately miss our larger, more functional nook table, I have yet another scathingly brilliant idea--give everything an updated look by keeping our old table paired with the new chairs. One month later, come home to an I've-never-seen-him-so-furious husband eating dinner in our nook. The knife-edge chairs are ruining his life. Fine, call the owner and see if he'll take them back with a restocking fee. Several hundred dollars and a highly-embarrassing episode later (the owner's already sold the table and looks like he's going to cry), I give up.
Though we immediately miss our larger, more functional nook table, I have yet another scathingly brilliant idea--give everything an updated look by keeping our old table paired with the new chairs. One month later, come home to an I've-never-seen-him-so-furious husband eating dinner in our nook. The knife-edge chairs are ruining his life. Fine, call the owner and see if he'll take them back with a restocking fee. Several hundred dollars and a highly-embarrassing episode later (the owner's already sold the table and looks like he's going to cry), I give up.
Then on a trip to Target, I spot a turquoise cloth chair with chrome legs. Pull it off the shelf and sit on it. Ahh...no knife edge here. You're kidding me, I say aloud, as I look at the price tag of $39.99. Not only do I love turquoise, the chrome/fabric chairs are just the ticket to turn our nook mid-century-ish. Buy it, try it, call the nearest Target. They have three more, and they're five dollars off. It's serendipity! Now all I need is a table. A couple of years go by. Find the perfect table at Macys.
Move on to dining room. Last day of Kitchen Kaboodle sale. Work with ever-patient Darcy on new table and chairs. Keep it simple—honey wood and rose fabric. Order eight chairs and an eight-foot table. Two days later, Mike calls from work—he's already mourning the loss of our old dining set. "Now you tell me?" Plug my nose and call Darcy. She's kind. And understands—her sister is an engineer. Cancel the table, keep the chairs. Settle in for an eight-week wait. Check with consignment shop about taking our Early American furniture. Not interested. More trips to Goodwill.
Move on to dining room. Last day of Kitchen Kaboodle sale. Work with ever-patient Darcy on new table and chairs. Keep it simple—honey wood and rose fabric. Order eight chairs and an eight-foot table. Two days later, Mike calls from work—he's already mourning the loss of our old dining set. "Now you tell me?" Plug my nose and call Darcy. She's kind. And understands—her sister is an engineer. Cancel the table, keep the chairs. Settle in for an eight-week wait. Check with consignment shop about taking our Early American furniture. Not interested. More trips to Goodwill.
Cruising through Home Goods one day (hard to believe I know, but I really don't like to shop—remodeling cured me of that), I spy a Star Trek-looking turquoise Commander chair with chrome legs. It's not only shallow, it swivels and rocks. Our small family room is pretty full, but... take photos and decide to sleep on it. Barely get a wink, worrying someone might buy MY chair. But it's still there, and when I pick it up, it's light as a feather. Leave it in the van overnight—best not to hit hubby with these things right when he gets home from work. Bring it in the next day. Try it out in different places, dent the hardwoods. Oh, a foot is missing. Commence long and involved internet search to secure a fifth foot.
Low-profile dining chairs arrive. They're gorgeous. And comfortable. And fit our table. I feel confident entertaining again. Host Thanksgiving dinner. Have everyone over for Drew's birthday. Host Christmas Eve. Take a photo for this post. Hmm … that dining room light fixture is looking a little stodgy. But if we get rid of the dining room fixture, we're gonna have to get rid of the living room fixture too. Gotta go...
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