This is the "man's" dresser that my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I picked up at a flea market the first year we were married in 1990.
I don't believe we've seen the top of it, since then.
Oh, it's a lovely piece with a matching triple dresser (that's mine) and I even sewed cute little lace curtains back before the kids, you know, cured me of such domestic-like behavior.
We've already given up the rather large master bedroom to our three very ungrateful daughters (it has it's own bathroom, damnit) and they insist on mucking that up, too.
But, this post is NOT about the kids, yes?
About my husband's dresser. It sits at the entrance of a very smallish bedroom - I can touch the window sitting on the end of our bed - that has been in renovation for...um...how old IS my son?
Anyway, it gets tight...quick...around here and did I mention that I'm claustrophobic?
Oh, I tried cleaning it. Even gave him a pretty basket to put things in. If you look hard enough, you'll find it. It's up there, buried under a pair of jeans I'm supposed to fix.
It's like Erma Bombeck said:
"Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk while it's still snowing."
Is it too much to ask that my husband straighten up his own crap?
As you can see, the dry wall is in desperate need of a paint job, too - but, I'll save that for another bitch session...um...I mean, blog post!