It's the only thing that keeps my house from looking like this:
I mean, really. If I were a woman who lived alone, I would have a sideboard, and this is what my sideboard would look like.
Covered with antique lamps and teacups.
It's a sickness.
I would own all of those lamps. And I would turn on a different one each night. And I would make myself tea, and I would use a different floofy flowered cup every day.
And I would eat cookies along with the tea and I would gain 100 pounds and I wouldn't fit in my clothes, but I would love looking at my teacup and lamp collection.
It's a trade off. Clothes or teacups.
Those mint green ruffle dishes? I covet them. I COVET them. Covet is not a strong enough word.
What is the universe trying to tell me here? That I should have been born in 1910?
That I have a sickness?
It can't be that I need a hobby. I have more hobbies than I can count, and can think of ten more hobbies I'd like to take up if I had time. So don't suggest that.
What?
I can't even stand it.
Stop.
The only thing that stops me from filling my house with floofy tchotchkes is the fact that I have three small children and a dog.
That, and the lack of a vast personal fortune.
P.S. Please forgive the camera phone pictures. I just happened upon these and couldn't resist.