That table sat in my parent’s house in Rhode Island. It was at the end of the entryway; it’s where we threw the mail. I always liked it, and when they did that we’re-moving-put-your-requests-in thing, the table became mine. It’s a game table — pull it away from the wall, fold out a leg and you’ve got a perfect circle.
But I don’t play games on it, because sometime later my father, after catching an episode of Antiques Roadshow, informed me that the table might just be the most valuable piece of furniture our side of the family owns.
Uh oh.
Now when I have parties, I hide the table. I put it in the room with the shut door and the pets, shelter it in a closet, pushing aside the coats. Which is of course ridiculous.
I try to leave it out. But I don’t put anything on it, and I put things (read: books) on every other horizontal surface. And then women who stop by drop purses on it, because you have to drop a purse somewhere. Which is totally anxiety-making. I mean, they probably don’t have viscous fluid leaking through their purse lining at that very second, but YOU NEVER KNOW.
Right. Not rational.
So on the edge of turning the thing into a neuroses-laden cherished secret hideaway table, I came up with a new plan. It’s in my office. I think it’s going to hold something. You know, it may not be all that valuable; it’s not as fancy as the one on TV. It’s old, but I don’t think it’s mahogany; maybe the Antiques Roadshow twins would see it and shrug.
And that chair? I fished it out of the basement of my parents’ house when I lived in NY and needed furniture. A corner of the seat has teethmarks from one of our dogs who liked it down there, and found the chair first. My parents said it was broken, but I was desperate. And all it needed was a caster.
