"Bedside Tables" (or "My mother is so rude")

The other day I had this conversation with my mother:

Me: "I'm looking for some new bedside tables. I hate the ones I have."
My mother: "I don't know why. Nobody but you is going to ever see them."

Bitch.

But she's probably right.
ahem

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway... When I moved (post losing everything in Katrina),
I had nothing, including money.
 In haste, I bought the two cheapest tables I could find.

You know them...the kind in your grandma's house under the chintz.
Meanwhile, they've been sitting next to my bed harboring dust for a decade.
A decade!


Every time I looked at them I felt disgust
Not a good way to wake up.

Spurred on by my mother's rudeness, I hunted all over the thrift stores and consignment shops in the metro area for new ones.
I never could find what I wanted for a price I could afford, so again I had to settle (compromise).
I got tired of looking. 
One day, I found two....not my ideal, but on sale!....and with drawers!...and legs to keep the dust bunnies from hiding! and suitably faggy for even me!

Of course, both, however, had hideous paint jobs.  That's why they were so cheap.
One painted like a distressed pumpkin, the other in what my mother calls "baby shit" green.
 Ick
So I got them home and repainted them something boring and neutral (like my soul)...and voila!, now they're not-being-seen-by-anyone-else-but-me all across the globe!