It was time to get the ratty Rodeo Drive heirloom chair out of the garage and make it a part of the family. It was November 2009, and we called the good-guy upholstery man who ran for Congress, has a signed photo of himself with Ronald Reagan, comes to your house with giant books of fabric swatches, and who was referred by an Eagle Forum Tiger Mom.
He arrived in the evening so hubby could sit alongside and witness the momentous purchase. Mr. Upholstery Man saw my swatch pick, a stately chair pictured in a torn out newspaper ad and saved for the day when we'd saved a little (read aLOT of) spare cash... enough, even, to have a second identical chair built to match. WELL, so we didn't really have a set-aside; we just didn't have monthly college tuition bills to pay anymore, and the new freedom called for celebration.
The day had come, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Except, Mr. Upholsterer didn't have my pattern. Before "plan B" was all signed and sealed, Mr. Upholstery and DH agreed that they liked this little swirlie pattern, and because I tend to like anything swirlie, I gave in. As we got ready to push away from the table, I sensed buyer's remorse start to creep over me. I began to suspect this pattern, small and busy, would overpower the senses. And yet, Upholstery Man was a professional, and he disagreed, so I gave in again. Christmas came and went, New Years 2010 passed by, and then most of January disappeared before delivery day arrived.
I was... mortified? Ticked? Vindicated? All of the above? Yes. Nasty, too. Pretty obviously disgruntled. Delivery Boy left inahurry. He saw what I saw. The pair look like they belonged in a bordello. Well, sigh. They were meant for our bedroom... (...yet remained in the living room all year, after several bottoms found them comfy, convenient, inviting.)
The point of this little excursion down bad-memory lane is to tag the year 2010 as the Year of Rain; or, the Year of When It Rains It Pours. What followed was a saga of numerous other misapprehensions: of Bible Bookshelves purchased at a BibleBookstore Going Out of Business Sale that got their feet wet in the art room before I figured out they'd fit in another room (--they really did shelve Bibles in their former tour of duty, so ruining sacred shelves just felt Wrong); of rainstorm after rainstorm ungluing each caulk-fix in the leaky art room; of watching OS and a very skinny friend labor under the weight of those huge floor-display shelves, spinning them in a most brilliant manner in order to wedge them just-so beneath a sloping aluminum roof; yet, they had to be moved twice more. Floods at the back door, psyche-accosting bordello chairs smirking at my front door. Termites appeared. We ignored them. A roof leak re-appeared in a bathroom. Roofers who tended to it smeared black tar across white fascia board. When called on to fix it, they didn't. My tutoree didn't re-up. My SAT proctor job didn't re-up. My oil painting dream died. My counselor didn't want to talk about She-Pastor-Persecutor, so, I stopped going. That makes, uh, ten-or-something tries at counseling? Then, one night, I quipped a rant at the Celebrate Recovery women. The shame sent me into a 'withdrawal from society' that led to my new Zygote mentality and this silly attempt at forging spiritual growth through a public bflog. What began with high hopes for hubby & me to start each day in bedroom prayer-chairs, ended in a heap of soggy concrete and a Christless Christmas. Go Team.
Rain.rain.Rain.rain. 2010 won't come again, but tho the trials seem behind, history's always on rewind.
My chairs still remind me of pubic hair, and the 6" termite hole in the den wall (nicely sprayed, thank you very much) is neatly covered up by a giant painting of moonlight I found in a neighbor's trash can, and the Oils class that lasted only three sessions before I began to sense Nero fiddling while Rome burns produced a barley passable half finished landscape; but my gut doesn't hurt anymore when I look back on 2010. And counting down this birthyear50 is becoming a helpful tool, sculpting my beleaguered mind with a new purpose: to embrace my failures and believe Christ, that His strength can be perfected in my weakness.
It could happen.
PS:
Anna, I am sorry I felt it was my place to coach you about sounding professional. Looking back, I can hear it couched in my usual self-important tone. I am an ass. Thank you in advance for the 'Whatever' response I'm pretty sure you'll offer.
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