shabby chic? or just shabby?

Tomorrow I'll probably go buy this desk. The chick with the most awesome name ever (and is the name of a language school in Guatemala I've toyed with going to) sent me the pics and I'll go over tomorrow, and ask her to keep it there until Ahmed can help me move it to my new place. I could try to move it here tomorrow, but:
a. there's simply NO room left in my apartment AND
b. I may be Superheroine Plan Girl with the sweet green Superheroinecruiser, but I save my physical strength for combatting forces of evil rather than lifting heavy furniture single-handedly. I could probably get somebody to help - but all my classmates are drinking heavily tomorrow night and then leaving town.

And, I'm going to try to get a good deal - both this and the patio set for what she's asking for just one. We'll see. The patio set is mis-matched and funky ... but that's what I'm going for now. Trust me, this backyard does NOT want some fancy Pottery Barn set in the backyard (do they even make patio furniture?) - I have views all around of abandoned houses.

I didn't move to New Orleans because I wanted clean and sanitary box stores and matching furniture (OK, I know I said I want to match the Queen Anne thing, but that's because it's all old and funky). If I wanted that, I would have stayed in Southern California and had major plastic surgery and bought a new car every 2.5 years and hired a gardener and a housekeeper.

But I didn't want that. I wanted funky New Orleans, so here I am. And there are cockroaches in this city, and we will have to learn to peaceably coexist. But there's also a heart here, and a something else that I just can't identify. It's the way the woman at La Madeleine said, "All right Ms. ** [insert my name here], where y'at?" She knew I'm sad and she was kind. (I had a spinach salad and tiramisu - and now my stomach hurts. It couldn't possibly be the cream of the tiramisu or the sugar and fat, or the bacon in the spinach salad. Of course not. It would HAVE to be the spinach and/or strawberries in the salad.)

So I like these old beat-up furniture pieces with scratches and sticky drawers. It's not just because I'm poor (or more technically, because I'm spending all my money traveling this summer and paying rent) - I want the real wood. I want the real furniture that carries the vibes of many owners. I like the quirks and the imperfections and the fundamental realness of it. No more particleboard for me - and I also like the not assembling it. As many times as I have moved, I have assembled several lifetimes worth of Ikea and other similar quality stuff. And I don't feel like doing it anymore.

I don't know what I'll do with all this crap once I move - hopefully I can pass it on to somebody. And I don't want to ask Ahmed to help me move again - I'd like this to be the last time with all this stuff.

Tomorrow I start packing after my last final - for which I seriously have done no preparation for. I don't feel well and haven't been able to concentrate at all. I didn't realize it until the doctor (I went in for thyroid check) asked and insisted on examining me. I'm just sad, really sad.

I have my scratches and dents and imperfections and quirks as well. Maybe that's why I can related to this furniture - surrounding myself with like friends.