My chairs look like assholes.

That's another nickle in the old swear barrel for me.

Well they do.  I bought a pair of super awesome 1950s chartreuse dining chairs for five bucks at a roadside flea market last spring.  I love them so much.

Chartreuse floral vinyl and Chrome?   Yes please. 

We're selling the house.

My real estate agent told me to hide them because they might "turn off buyers".  PSH.  Buyers don't know what's hip like I do.  Readers, they don't know.

So I had to put these stupid dresses on them.  My breakfast nook looks like a lesbian wedding now.  I mean, don't get me wrong, Readers, these chairs are 60 years old and certainly capable of making a decision together, but where do we draw the line?  Before we know it, chairs will want to marry the garage or my luscious crane mobile.  What then, Canada?  WHAT.  THEN?  It's chairs and the table, not chairs and the stable.  I'm making a sign straight away.   People need to wake up.
 

And then?  Pretend the computer on the table is a kindly priest. 

Actually, I don't know what I'm still talking about.   My point is that my chairs looked better when they were being themselves but I got totally sidetracked pretending to be a furniture bigot.

Whassat?  Oooh!  Beer!  Gotta jet.