Where to begin? There is so much to hate.
But this maple chest of drawers is my latest pet hate. It's bulky. It's heavy. The finish is shot. The handles keep falling off.
My mother gave it to my sister at a time when my sister had almost no furniture. By the time I was moving to Chicago, it had been relegated to my sister's basement, and my mother instructed me to pick it up on our way west.
We've had it for about 20 years.
It's in a funny part of the house, an awkward passageway between the living room and the sunroom. It sort of serves as a music room. The stereo is there, also the piano and my son's cello. And a toy piano, just for fun. Also the bar, for when the fun gets to be too much for me and I need a drink. And that antique cherry drop-leaf table--the one with the picture of my father in his Coast Guard whites. It deserves a better home, but I don't have anywhere to put it. So this weird, undefined space also serves as the Poppy Home for Unwanted Furniture. There's way too much furniture crammed into it.
In fact, I have a big bruise on my hip where I bashed into this pointy part of the piano lid just the other day, when I was trying to sidle between all these pieces of furniture.
I would have put the chest out on trash day, except it's too heavy for me to move by myself.
And anyway, in my family, you're not allowed to give away anything my mother gave you. She is quite likely to ask for it back, either for herself, or for one of my siblings. If you don't still have the item in question ... her eyebrows drop in a really frightening way. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! The scary dropped eyebrows! I'm telling you, my bowels turn to water at the thought.
If I throw it out, donate it to the rummage sale, or otherwise get rid of it, I'll be disowned or worse.
Worse being that my mother decides to come live with me.
Speaking of which, she's coming to visit today. I'd better go dust the fucking thing.