Wait, let me rephrase:
I have a hobby that has become a problem. No, I don't need an intervention, a 12-step program, or anyone to light a candle for me. Because, see, the promblem isn't mine ... it's my husband's.
I love furniture. Especially orphan furniture. And he hates that I bring home wayward dressers, sad and pathetic magazine tables, and benches looking for a hand-up, not a hand-out. I can't seem to say no to cheap, desperately-in-need-of-a-coat-of-paint-to-make-it-all-better, carved and cabrioled pieces of furniture. They just sing to me from across the flea market tarmac. And I answer the call, immediately deciding how I'm going to fit it into the car, what color it will become, and where it will go.
And what I'm going to tell my husband.
Case in point: Last week I went out to some local shops and estate sales. I didn't go in the hopes of finding anything bigger than a breadbox. But then I found this cabinet. It weighs a ton and a half, had spiders living in it, has peeling veneer, won't fit up the stairs, and I love it love it love it.
In hopes of keeping marital harmony, I got rid of a rather small, very plain dresser. I think it's a good exchange, don't you?