When Heidi of, Me as a Mother did a blog post on her new chair and told her readers she gave names to inanimate objects, I knew that, not only did we share a love for retro furniture, we also had a penchant for naming non-living things.
Heidi introduced us to Fred, a gorgeous green “Chesterfield” type chair with exposed hardwood leg details.
I fell instantly in love.
I envisioned myself sitting on Fred, laptop on my lap, and coffee cup within arm’s reach; sitting on a small side table the color of Fred’s legs.
But alas, my quest to find a Fred where I lived was unsuccessful.
So imagine my delight when yesterday, as Roxy and I turned left on a side street next to the house, we came across a dark brown chair that had been abandoned under a tree; half covered in bird poop.
I looked at Roxy, she looked at me, and I could almost see a cartoon light bulb looming over our heads.
Was it possible that someone was throwing this handsome fellow away, or did it belong to one of the neighbors?
But if this was the case, why was it positioned so close to the dumpster?
I also noticed that it appeared to have been strategically placed under one of the chestnut trees.
Was this someone’s impromptu outdoor reading corner?
Had someone dragged it out one afternoon and forgotten to bring it back in?
I wistfully looked at the half reclined back, the rounded arm rests, and the rich, chocolate brown hue and I was a goner.
I envisioned little Roxy sleeping under it, while I slowly sipped my java in the afternoon.
The late afternoon sun would stream through the window while Marvin Gaye crooned in the background.
There’d be no one in the house but Roxy and me, and we’d sit back, relax, and watch the sun set.
It was too good to be true, so not waiting a minute longer, I called the Significant Other and told him he had to make a stop on his way home.
A loud screech which I made out to “Are you crazy?”
This followed by, “If you think I’m going to trash dive, you’ve got another think coming. Absolutely not. I don’t care how much you threaten with not cooking. Forget about it.”
A red flag went up the minute I heard “the tone”; a tone which unmistakably informs me there’s no budging him.
So what’s a girl to do?
Go to plan B, of course.
I innocently replied, “Well, there’s other things which I can swear off till hell freezes over and they have nothing to do with cooking.”
Yes, Ladies, the oldest trick in the book, and I’m not apologizing.
Needless to say, a half hour later he showed up at the house bearing the little chair.
“I don’t know why you want this junk. It’s not even leather.”
“And you’re not Javier Bardem, so what’s your point?”
So without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to Marcelo.
He reminds me of those Italian leather chairs; the vintage kind you see in high-end business offices. Wouldn’t you agree?
After the Significant Other dragged it up three floors, I quickly went to work to remove bird poop, leaves, flower blossoms and small twigs.
I then cleaned the upholstery with a soap and bleach solution, rinsed it, swabbed it with germ cleaner, and sprayed it with Febreeze.
At that point, the Son walked in and said, “You realize that chair is made of ‘pleather” and the liquid you just squirted is running down the sides.”
“You see pleather, I see leather. Now go and take out the trash.”
“Why? Is there another chair waiting me for me to bring up?”
Yes, ladies, everyone wants to channel Steve Martin.
As I shoo the Son away, my eyes rest on Marcelo.