I’ve fantasized about selling all of my furniture and living on a vast collection of pillows. Maybe even just one really big bean bag that I could drag around from room to room as needed. It could be done. It probably should be done, because this collection of furniture has got to stop.
Most of it I’ll pick up for cheap or free with the idea of re-selling it down the road. The dining table, for instance, has been for sale for nearly 6 months but I have yet to accept any of the offers. I can’t. It’s a gorgeous set with beautiful swinging lines. Plus it has such a random story & I wish more people…scratch that, I wish anyone would ask me about it. I bought it off a dude named Robin Hood who used to roadie with the Grateful Dead. He lived in a log cabin surrounded by vicious chickens deep in the woods. There it is. At present, people are told this without asking. Having mastered the art of segueing furniture into nearly every conversation, I’m currently practicing the fine art of pretending that conversational partners trapped by good manners are actually interested.
Speaking of more furniture…(<–smooth, right?) the tulip chairs were picked up in Hickville, 200 miles away from the nearest traffic light at a warehouse auction of planks of wood (literally) and old office chairs. There was also a flight simulator machine for sale (that would now be in my living room if I could have figured out how to transport it. While the auctioneer did his ramble, I imagined a life of watching television through the cockpit windows or perhaps holding an animated conversation with guests from the safety of chairs outfitted with four-point safety belts. Had it all figured out. Except for the transporting it home part.) The farmer who bought the cockpit didn’t notice the two tulip chairs that had also been thrown in to sweeten the deal and had taken his baseball cap off to scratch his head about them when I skipped over and flashed him the pearly whites. I had watched the auctioneer throw the chairs in with the flight simulator in an attempt to get a second bid and was pretty sure they wouldn’t go with whatever décor the winning bidder’s house was rocking. I could accept that he had walked away with the flight simulator dream-machine for $5 if he would accept a dollar for the tulip chairs. Being a southern gentleman, he did and then said that he would have sold them to me for just the smile. For my part, I would have paid him one hundred times as much money, but managed to not say that out loud, instead cramming the chairs into the SUV and spending the rest of the weekend blissfully re-arranging the living room around them.
We won’t talk about the couch. It saddens my soul. I did find an exact replica on Craigslist earlier this month for roughly $800 more than I paid for it. That also saddened my soul although secretly I was pleased with myself for being such a savvy shopper. Also the replica seller neglected to put his contact information in the ad so at least if I can’t have it, no one can have it.
What else… the pirates chest, my gorgeous bedroom suite, all of which could probably be sold for a profit over what I paid, but only over my lifeless corpse. I love it alllllll.
There is no more room in the inn for additional furniture. At some point in the very near future, things will either need to go, or I’ll have to start stacking.
So when a friend offered me a matching pair of mid-century modern upholstered chairs earlier this week that were otherwise going to be thrown away, I did hesitate. In addition to the space problem, one of the chairs has a broken mechanical function and an important piece missing and the upholstery on the other is badly worn. They would need serious help and “refurbishing dilapidated chairs” features prominently on the rather extensive list of things that I don’t know how to do.
All of that said, they are naturally in the back of my SUV right now. And will likely remain there for some time as there’s nowhere else to put them. These I’m definitely for sure no-fail going to get rid of…right after I’ve made absolutely certain that there’s no space for them by re-arranging the living room a billion times.