Well ... let me start over. This isn't about me. Okay, this blog is kinda about me. But please accept my apologies for my absence.
It's not that things have not been getting done. They have. It's that, frankly, too much has been getting done.
Every morning I get into work a few minutes earlier than the previous day hoping to write but something, someone, a phone call, an email, the buzzing of a text message tears me from the blog.
You see, the blog is pleasure and sometimes when I'm so busy it feels like an indulgence. So days pass. And I scribble notes on slivers of paper late at night. And I tuck those papers in my pocket hoping to transcribe them the next morning. Today, though, I locked the front door at work and ignored the phone and just focused. So, what have we been up to at the row house? Let's start out of order with the story of how we became the owners of a lime green porter's chair.
So we were sitting on the couch in the peacock-colored room discussing the layout for downstairs and "dream pieces" came up in conversation. He loves Stickley furniture and I said that I'd never met a porter's chair that I didn't get a girl-boner over.
Now, for a little history, a porter's chair was traditionally used during the medieval times by a servant to screen guests near the front door. The hooded design of the chair was implemented more out of function than style to keep the servant warm near the drafty front door where he would often have to be stationed for long periods of time.
I had previously looked around for a porter's chair in the past but the median price usually hovered around $1,000 (out of my league, especially with all the renovations that still needed to happen). But I clicked around and clicked around ... and found something on Craigslist that looked promising. However the price seemed a little too good. I knew I was going to be swamped with work the next few days so I asked Pete to reach out and inquire about the chair. After that I kind of forgot about it.
Until the next day when I got a message from Pete that the seller had responded and the chair was available for pick-up in Connecticut, BUT they would meet us halfway to Jersey City AND, because Pete had charmed them somehow, they would even lower the price to $375. The seller's relative had purchased the chair more than 50 years ago in Massachusetts for an interior design client who had never used the piece. It was now just sitting in their garage and they wanted to sell it before it got damaged beyond repair. Pete wanted to know if I wanted him to meet them to pick it up.
We placed the chair in the downstairs living room even though we're still finalizing the painting. We only have a shop light in that room so it's still quite dark, The next night I came home from work and found Pete at the threshold staring into the room. "Whatcha looking at?" I asked, glancing into the dark room. The silhouettes of tarp-covered furniture created a curious undulating landscape.
"That chair," Pete said, pointing into the corner at the only unwrapped upholstered item. "The porter's chair. It's terrifying."
I was silent for a beat. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to sell it?"
"No!" he said quickly. "It's terrifying in a good way. I love it ... I just don't know if I want to be the first person to sit in it."
I gave him a kiss and walked away, leaving him to stare into the dark at the porter's chair in the far corner of the room.