Not long after we moved in late July, we started looking around for thrift stores. Our new neighborhood may be missing some of the amenities we’re used to (a park and Harris Teeter within walking distance, how I miss you both!), but it has a stretch of highway with THREE antique stores and FOUR thrift stores! Heaven.
I’ll post about the antique stores in another post, because I want to talk about the Ugly Chair. We found the Ugly Chair in Community Thrift on Highway 28 in Manassas. It was sitting innocently behind an entire fleet of burgundy 80s-era rolling office chairs. The Chair and I eyed each other. Wonderful shape, but upholstered in a green velvety material that had faded to an eye-popping chartreuse.
I turned my back on the Chair, because Lord it was ugly, and announced to Raymond that I’d come back if I really wanted it.
Sure enough, the next day we went back for it. I drive a Jetta and Raymond drives a Mini Cooper, neither of which are particularly well-suited for hauling furniture. We put down the back seats in the Mini and took it over to the store since it has more vertical space. Not enough, however, for the Ugly Chair. We bought it ($30), carried it outside, and spent 15 minutes trying to somehow fit it in the car. (No, of course we hadn’t done anything practical like bring rope! Rope is for amateurs.)
Raymond finally managed to sorta kinda wedge the chair into the car, and we drove home at 20 mph, hatch open, me sitting in the passenger seat clutching the chair behind me so it wouldn’t fall out and onto the road. It actually worked out quite well: the Ugly Chair got home in one piece and is now gracing our living room.
It’s still an Ugly Chair, yes, but it’s not too hideous in its new habitat (our living room’s an olive-y green anyhow), and eventually I’ll either save up enough money to have it reupholstered or get good enough to do it myself. (I’ve never done any upholstery, so it might be a while before I get good enough to take on button tufting on the back AND arms of a chair.) I love it anyhow.


