A New Kind of Old

This afternoon The M and I had company. Aimie, one of my students and travelling companions from Honduras, came over for dinner and conversation. We put her to work painting furniture with us. Later I'm going to have her work on my car's transmission.

It looks like they're racing. It's like NASCAR on the DIY channel.

Recently, The M's mother moved from our town to Houston. She left behind a dresser that The M wants to make into something new. Actually, she wants it to look old, not new. I told her it looked old already, but she said it was the wrong kind of old. She wants a new kind of old that men can't understand. It's the style, she says.

I think I might be the wrong kind of old.

The style has a name: Shabby Chic. The Chic is pronounced "sheek" and it means something good but undefinable like "hip" or "cool". Imagine an old table made of weathered wood with peeling paint and rusty nails. I think we have the shabby part down pat. At any rate, The M and I (and now Aimie) have been working on sprucing up (or down) the place with select garage sale lamps, worn out tables, and the like. To my surprise, the house looks pretty good in a bad kinda way. Or maybe it looks bad in a good kinda way. Maybe I too can be shabby chic; with effort I could look so bad I look good. Or something.