Please see my guest post on An Army Of Ermas “The Agony of the Feet.” Enjoy!
Watch out–rant ahead. Please, people, (and especially if you’re a college grad), do not say “Me and my friends are going somewhere.” I’ve seen this over and over again on blogs and Facebook. I’ve even seen this used on a writer’s forum. It sounds like a kindergartener speaking. A child who hasn’t had third grade grammar yet. To sound believable and educated, it’s “I and my friends.” But even better is to put your friends first, as in, “My friends and I are going to the store.”
Think of it this way. Would you say “Me is going to the store” ? No. So therefore, you shouldn’t say, “Me and my friends are going to the store.”
I could go into a whole grammar lesson on the proper use of me and I, but not now.
I’m going to the store.
The other night I heard the garbage cans being rummaged through. I did what I normally do–I woke my husband out of a sound sleep. The up side of that, is his snoring stops and I can go back to my dreams. I turned over in bed, safe in the knowledge that my significant other, clad in boxers and tee and mightily armed with a dust broom, would save our garbage. I really hate to wake up in the morning knowing our neighbors can now see that my home cooking means reheating Dominos pizza.
My husband’s scream woke me back up. “Argghh!” followed by him yelling, “What do you think you’re doing?” The words echoed in the once quiet neighborhood. I went to the window, wondering if maybe a person was rummaging in our garbage. No. My husband was waving the broom at a raccoon that was running away. So, my usually sane partner-for-life was asking a raccoon what he thought he was doing. By this time, our two sons were up and standing with me near the open window, amazed that their father was now talking to animals. I saw the lights go on in our neighbors’ houses.
For the record, the raccoon didn’t answer.
I was finishing my morning coffee when my husband came home from getting his hair cut. He said, “Come on, you have to see this great table I found at the town flea market. Good price, too.” For my husband to get excited about an old piece of furniture, it has to be good.
We drove over to the place where they were selling a lot of old things. I hesitate to call them “antiques,” as it’s hard for me to discern what’s an antique and what’s just plain old. I even have trouble with reproductions, like new furniture given that distressed look, the kind that look like they’ve been through several wars.
My mother had bought one of those new dressers made to look old. It cost her quite a bit of money and about the only good thing is that it looks interesting. And yeah, old. But the drawers stick and are warped, parts of each panel are separated, and more than once a drawer almost landed on my toes.
Okay, back to the flea market. We went in and my husband proudly showed me the table he adored.
The table he saw was just okay. Nothing special. My husband was okay with me not liking it. He trusts my judgement. I was ready to leave when it hit me. That “We have to have it” feeling. Something drew me to it. It looked like it had been a storage unit in a store, maybe a general store or clothing store. It has turned legs, a slight bit of etched decoration on the front, an old knob, and it’s engraved “14” and “32” in three areas. Nothing else. And it had been painted all black, but some of the paint has worn off in areas with just bare wood showing.
My husband saw that I loved it, got a great price for it, and it’s now in the eating area of our kitchen. Here’s what I fell in love with:
If anyone can tell me what this was used for, or approximately how old it is, I’d appreciate it. Other than that, we really like it. Even my hard-to-please sons like it too.