Wrought Iron Dining Table Prices, Ratings, and Reviews

ok so i was making a shirt with those iron on letters and i did it on my dining room table. the table is wood. and now there are like cloudy spots on the table!! what can i do?? can something be done or am i screwed?

I’m new to writing, but I like it a lot. I have issues with grammar and such, so this draft won’t be perfect. This is a story geared toward teenagers. After reading it, if you don’t like it at all, feel free to move on with out leaving a harsh comment. If you would like to leave some constructive criticism or leave a few suggestions, I would appreciate it. I have a prologue and 6 chapters already written, but I’m just going to share the first chapter for now.

Ch.1

I jolt up from bed, eyes streaming with tears and body shivering with chills. I try to catch my breath as I heavily pant, noticing that the surrounding temperature is so cold that I can see my own breath. I finally calm down enough to look over at my alarm clock and see that the time is 6:27. Thirty-three minutes until first period starts. I collect my myself, brush my teeth, get dressed and run downstairs to see my mother at the dining table, reading the "Texas Times Newspaper" and sipping on her black coffee.
"Addi?" she said
"Addison, there are some waffles in the microwave and fresh milk in the fridge."
"Oh, okay mom, but I’m really not that hungry right now and I’m going to be late." I said
my mother looked up at me with worried eyes ans said "Addi, you really need to eat something. This is the second day in a row that you decided to skip breakfast and I’m beginning to worry about you"
"Mom…I’m fine. i’m just not hungry right now. I’m not starving myself or purging my food or anything, so lay off! I’ll just get a bagel at school or something."
My mom massages her mocha colored temples and shakes her head at me. "Addison…just please eat something, especially since your field trip is today. The last thing we need is you collapsing in some strange place because you decided to skip breakfast."
Sick of her whining, I grabbed a waffle and my car keys, shoved the waffle in my mouth in front of my annoying mother and said "happy now?" and left before she could answer me.
I slid into my silver Neon Plymouth, turned the key in the ignition, and headed down the street toward my high school. As I was driving, I couldn’t help but think about that reoccurring dream from last night that was all too familiar to me. I am seventeen now, but ever since I was twelve years old, I would dream about her. The beautiful, golden-haired woman in the red prairie dress. She was always running, always putting the iron box into the hollow of the tree, and always apologizing to her baby.
My dream has always been the same.Always. But who is this woman? Who is that child? And why I dream about her? I was trying to make sense of the whole thing when Mrs. Del amour’s golden retriever, Sandy, ran out into the street.
"Oh my God!" I screamed. But there was nothing I could do. I closed my eyes, with my hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, tingling like crazy.I have never experienced anything like this before. It felt like my hands were falling asleep and I was losing control of the wheel. The strange sensation was spreading throughout my whole body and there was nothing I could do about it.
I kept my eyes closed, thinking the worst had happened. I waited to hear the crunching sound of Sandy’s bones, but i heard nothing. I cautiously opened my eyes to see Sandy in my rear view mirror, perfectly fine.
"I don’t get it. She was right in front of me." I said aloud. And she was. Sandy was two feet in front of my car and I know that Sandy couldn’t have made it out alive, with the speed my car was going at, yet I couldn’t explain how she had survived. This was definitely all the weirdness I could take right now, so I dissmissed the dream and the car incident from my brain for the time being. But really, how did sandy survive?

I’m sorry that it’s super long. I just have a lot of detail that I can’t leave out because everything happens for a reason.
I said people didn’t like it please don’t leave HARSH comments, like "you suck". Constructive criticism is welcome, but rudeness is not.

This story is about a 17 year old girl, named Addison Tanner. Every night she dreams about a woman in a red prarie dress and has no idea why She later finds out how she is connected to the woman and how that connection ties into her life. She goes on a class trip, discovers that she is different from everyone else and gets teased about it. the anger from the teasing triggers some genetic abilities within her that results in a tragic accident involving her classmates and herself, yet she survives. She has no idea why she survives, so she seeks answers from her "dead" father’s ides of the family who happens to be fundalmentalist mormans (she is biracial-black and white) whom she has never met. She then learns secrets and the truth behind the woman in the red dress.
That’s what I have so far as far as a summary.
Ahh..sorry I have a lot of mistakes in my summary…I’m rushing right now.

But I meant that she finds her father’s side of the family.
Sara- I understand what you mean by the conversation about the waffle not being that important. The waffle really isn’t important, but I’m trying to show how the main character and her mother can get into arguments about anything and how these arguments push her to explore the other side of her family and cutting straight to the chase in a story can be confusing to readers of they don’t have any background at all. Trust me, the dream is probably one of the most important parts of the story and i undertsand that a reader might noe get that now, but remember, this is just one chapter out of the story.

I saw a new glass topped wrought iron dining table and chairs in my friends house. Can you help to search out a new one for me through online?

So I’m redoing my bedroom. Right now it’s like a hodgepodge of everything and I’m so sick of it. My walls have like…shards of wallpaper stuck on them and its so gross. It’s just generally a not to great place to be for a long period of time.

I’m getting the wallpaper taken off next monday and i’m painting the walls a light blue. I’m doing white trim and white curtains. I;m going for a beach theme.

I’ve pretty much got everything together for it but my problem is with my wood furniture. None of it matches!! Well, my night tables match each other but nothing else. My bed is kind of a pecan wood with wrought iron scroll work, my book shelf is cherry wood, as is my vaniety. My desk and TV stand are some random wood color…my furniture is mostly MDF or just plain pressed fiber board so I can’t sand and stain them. I don’t think I could paint either… Like i could paint everything and that’d be fine but my bed would look so weird. I just got it so I don’t wanna mess it up.

I’ve had my room looking like crap for so long, I want to have it look put together. Any thoughts?

I make custom wine racks, end tables, coffee tables, and other items along those lines out of metal, wrought iron, on the side as a hobby, id like to make more and sell them. hopefully make a business out of it. the only thing i have going on right now is word of mouth. i was wondering what are some cheap (cost effective) was of selling the products? and ways of finding the people who would want something more "custom"? ebay? craigslist? or should i look into making my own website? im a fabricator, not really a marketing guy. so i guess im asking for input on how to get customers?

The wedding was a good month away, and yet preparations had begun for it already.
“Bibi, look at these marigolds, you won’t find better in all Karachi—
“Oh, Mrs. Shamsi, name the color and it is yours, however you look stunning in this one right here, and it’s bringing an…an indescribable glow—
“A waterproof tent? That certainly will require more rupees,”
Flower vendors, food caterers, venue organizers—the list simply went on, the gates were left open as these people and alike bustled in and out, day and night.
Why Amirah, one of the many daughters of a wealthy businessman, wanted to marry in a bungalow in sultry Pakistan when she had glamorous London at the tip of her fingers, was beyond Zara.
She did not understand Amirah. She was very ahead of Pakistan, so far away from it, and without any second thoughts, she had chosen it as the place for possibly the biggest day of her life. Unlike Amirah, Zara could only dream of places far and beyond the borders of Karachi, Pakistan. The world far and beyond the sweeping bungalow, which seemed to get smaller and smaller the more she knew of it with each passing day. No doubt, the bungalow was certainly remarkable; with its impressive pair of wrought iron gates. A tall, sturdy wall enveloped the building, with thick green vines that clung to its creamy exterior. Upon entering, the foyer stretched to a soaring staircase twirling up to the second floor, which branched off into many bedrooms, each one roomier than the next.
Zara loved the way the stifling, humid afternoon slowly turned into a cool, breezy evening. She loved the way a single giant palm tree swayed in front of the bungalow’s wide terrace as if welcoming and bidding farewell to the many guests coming and going through the wide gates, or how the Shamsi family gathered on the lawn as the sun slowly set behind them, while they sat back in roomy lawn chairs enjoying tea. A pack of children often giggled and ran around the grass enjoying a game of kabbadi, keeping the place alive and careless of the time flying by. Or the way Danya, the bungalow’s head cook moved feverishly throughout the kitchen from morning to night, her plastic flip flops slapping against the shiny stone floor.

But none of this was hers.

Though Zara spent most her days and nights inside the bungalow, she had no business of calling it home. Her home was a grimy flat she shared with her parents. It had a single, lumpy mattress that Zara and her mother slept on, or rather tried to as they spent most of their nights tossing and turning, often left facing each other and finding each other’s wide open eyes. Her father had grown accustomed to spreading a thick sheet onto the floor after a day’s work, he’d sprawl down, too exhausted to complain. Zara and her mother would often catch him snoring peacefully, only to listen to his routine complaints of a searing pain in his back and neck the next morning, “One day he’d wake up with no backbones,” Zara’s mother would say.
Unlike the magnificent chandelier dangling inside the bungalow, a single fluorescent light tube clung to one of the walls in the flat. There was a small stove that took most of the room in the so-called ‘kitchen’. A tiny, cheap cooler lay next to it that Zara’s father had bought. A couple mismatched utensils, several pots and pans with missing handles and burnt surfaces were stored in a single cupboard over the stove. There was hardly ever any water coming through the sinks, and Zara would regularly bring water and leftovers from the Shamsis. The three of them would sit on the rackety wooden table to eat and drink, atop three wooden chairs that creaked with their weight.
But beside all this, Zara’s father was a grateful man, “Too grateful for his own good,” Zara’s mother would snicker. He was a man contented with what he and his family had, “Allah has given us much to be thankful for, mashAllah” He’d say, “He gave us the Shamsis,”
“Our family has served the Shamsis for as long as I can remember,” he’d say this as if it were a very grand accomplishment. When he was a young boy, he would go to the Shamsis bungalow and tend to their wide garden of bright flowers and small trees, pregnant with berries and fruit. He’d do the chores he was ordered perfectly, leaving Abdul Shamsi’s white Honda spotless. Abdul Shamsi had been so pleased with his servant that he had found him a good wife and had given him a place to call home, even if it had been just a dingy flat.
“I never wanted your father to work for that Shamsi,” Zara’s mother, Farida, would scowl to her. “I wanted him to do something on his own. I knew he was capable of it. Besides, if I hadn’t been forced by my father to marry him, I would be with a man who would have realized it,” Every time this came up, she would knead the dough a little harder, she’d toss the rice in the air a bit more forcefully, spilling some around. She would teach Zara the little she knew, one of them being sewing. When Zara would r

I just started, I know this is the beginning so it might be a little boring, but I am wondering does it make sense, does it flow or does it sound choppy? Thanks in advance I know there will be some grammatical errors if you see them please point them out! Thanks

Sadness enclosed Alex’s eyes. Abandonment filled his mind as he walked six miles home from school in the early summer nights of Brazil. He slowly walked down the street telling himself over and over that his mom probably just got stuck at work…again.
With every step he took on the broken street of Etapas Pequenas it became harder to fight back the tears that kept threatening to come forward. Alex turned the corner of his street and saw his dog, Amigo, in a tipped over cardboard box on the side of the road.
Alex ran to Amigo, his heart ripped out to see that his parent locked him out again. His parents didn’t like the large mutt that Alex found wounded from a dog fight. Amigo was Alex’s best friend. That’s why he named him Amigo, it means friend in Portuguese.
Alex buried his face in Amigo’s fur. He scratched behind his torn left ear, a battle wound from his dog fighting days.
Alex stood up and walked up the steps to their large casa. He opened the wrought iron door thinking in his head how to tell his mom that she had forgotten to pick him up from school for the second time this week, but there was no need too.
The minuet Alex’s mom saw him she dropped the book her book club was currently reading and ran over the orange tile floors to Alex, yelling apologies the whole while.
But they meant nothing to this boy who walked home from school because his own mother forgot to pick him up and then found his dog in a cardboard box on the side of the road.
Somehow seeing his mom and her entire book club in the living room made the tears Alex was fighting back spill over. He saw the cake his mother baked sitting on the table with two slices left. She must have left work early to make the cake, so wrapped up in her own life she forgot about the one person she was responsible for.
Alex saw his dad sitting on the sofa watching TV in the room across from him and that’s when he lost it.
“I’m so sorry Al, it won’t happen again. I promise. Now come have some cake, I came home early from work to make it.” Confirmation that she had forgotten.
Immediately his mother knew she said the wrong thing and the only words Alex managed to mutter were, “No thanks” and he ran out the door, Amigo hard on his heels.
Alex sprinted through the concrete jungle of the city for god knows how long. Amigo seemed to sense his pain for he still followed.
Alex had one thought in his head, one place for him to go. Casero.
He arrived at the tiny stretch of woods at the far end of the city. Out of breath he hoped to fence and collapsed. Hot tears streamed down his wind whipped face. Amigo started licking the satly residue off his face.
Pull yourself together Alex. You need to calm down; she only forgot to pick you up. Even as Alex thought that he knew it was more than that. He knew he wasn’t his parent’s first priority their jobs were. His dad so caught up in his construction business and his mom in her veterinary clinic.
They both ran extremely successful businesses that took over and corrupted their lives. His mother barely had time to sleep yet somehow she had time to bake a cake for her weekly book club. His Father had many hobbies none of which included playing with his only son.
He had never had the full attention of his parents even when he was an innocent baby. There was not one home video of him. There must be at least twenty of his mom and dad both opening their businesses. There were no photographs of him and his parents. There was only two of Alex on the exceptionally crowded wall in the hall leading to all the bedrooms and those were only him with his grandparents whom he loved more than his real parents.
Alex’s grandmother was a large Hispanic woman and for some reason sought out becoming a fortune teller and his Grandpa, a scrawny, Portuguese man with only a few scraggly hairs left on his head, owns a small super market in the next town over.
If they didn’t live so far Alex without a doubt would have gone there and let his grandmother fix him some herbal tea and tell him his fortune.
“You will do something great in your life, my dear Alejandro,” His grandmother refused to call him Alex for that was not his real name and it was like calling her Amigo and Amigo Grandma.
“How do you know grandma? How do you know I won’t be stuck in Mom and Dad’s house the rest of my life?” Alex would ask that question every time she told him.
“See, just there” She pointed to a line on Alex’s hand “I know you will do something worthwhile in your life. I mean for Lords sake you have already rescued Amigo! Who knows what else you will do with your sharp mind and kind heart!” Her deep throaty voice, worn down from age made Alex’s heart tingle with love.
oh im sorry near the middle it states "Pull youself together Alex; she just forgot to pick you up" it was supposed to be in ittalics he was thinking it. sorry

Heyy, i wrote this thingie for a english grammar class im taking, because we have to go places and write whatever we sense for about 10 minutes, and this week we had to do it again and this time she wants titles…. can you please help me? and if you can give me a few to choose from!!!

Although I might be exaggerating, my skin feels parched and thirsts for a dip in the pool. The water laps up against the side of the pool, calling me to jump in. But duty calls, and I have to write about my surroundings.
Clang, clang, clang. The sound of clashing metal rings through the air. I look up to see about three Mexicans working on something barely visible through the shrubs and wrought iron fence.
Suddenly, a sharp tingle shoots through my toe. I glance down to see ants nibbling on a piece of tomato; apparently one wandered off and had a taste of my foot. But unlike the many storybooks where the ants work hard to carry the food away, they lie face down on the tomato, almost seeming intoxicated, barely moving as they feast.
In the shimmering pool splashes roughly fifteen people; mostly kids enjoying their summer vacation. Screams and yells echo through the air, and I watch as one kid soaks another with a squirt gun. My friend’s little brother, just over a year old, waddles by obviously hindered by this inflated swimsuit. I giggle to see his cheeks forced up to look chubby. He doesn’t seem too bothered, though; he wears a smug look on his face as he licks his yogurt-drenched fingers.
A single red flower blooms on a bush next to me, and it’s almost the exact same color as the Gatorade that rests on the table that I’m using to write. Swaying palm trees surround the bushes, and escaped Subway trash clutters the greenery.
Twin slides stand at the opposite end of the pool, and fun-loving kids gleefully catapult themselves out of them and into the frigid pool.
I let my eyes casually break from staring at my paper, but as soon as I shift my hands off the page it escapes through the air and the wind pins it to a bush.
My body aches to immerse myself in the in the refreshing pool water, and once I estimate that it’s been about ten minutes since I started writing I close my book, take a deep breath, and plunge into the water to join my friends.

thanz for taking the time to read and answer!!!

I have six angelfish, three pairs, in one tank and it is now time to separate them. One pair will be staying where they are and the other pair will be going into my 55 with an old pair of angelfish. This leaves one remaining pair. I want to get them their own 20, I have everything for it except for the actual tank, stand and the space. I have two ten gallons on a wrought iron stand already set up.

I was thinking of removing the top ten gallon and placing the 20 in its place. Would this be a bad idea? It would be in a place where no animals or little kids could possibly knock it over and there would be another tank below it to weight it down.

Would getting a 20 tall be better than a 20 wide for the stand? (I know that wides tend to be the better idea but in the case of desperation…)

Or if this is just a horrible idea. Should I put it on an old but sturdy table?

Thanks for any help.

A big white house. A dirt road bending and twisting. A young girl sitting on the wide front steps. A small town outside London. And me standing at the end of the dirt road near the rusty mailbox, a suitcase in each hand, a book bag slung over my shoulder. The girl was staring at me looking curious and angry at the same time. There was a huge wrought iron gate separating us. Something in her expression was glad about my standing on the other side of this gate. I stood there, watching her not wanting to push the gate forward. I slowly looked around myself. There were woods on both sides of the road that led back towards the small old fashioned town. I hated that this was my only choice of a home; a place where the shopping mall probably wasn’t closer than three hours and there wasn’t any cable; a town where everyone was behind the times; about twenty years behind the times to be exact. Everyone here still acted as though it was the eighteen hundreds. There was an old bakery in town, along with a blacksmith, sewing store, chimney cleaners, horse stables, cotton plantation, and a few other things. But I guess I would have to get used it; I had no other place to go. Not even the orphanage would take me. They thought that a rich, spoiled girl, would never fit in, and they were right. I had come from the heart of Italy. I’d lived nearly my whole life there with my mom. Before that we had lived in London, but moved to Italy to be close to my mother’s family after my father’s death, when I was seven. My accent was a strong British one mixed with and Italian accent. I thought it was very pretty. My mother had died two weeks ago. She was hit by a train in her car. I stayed with our nanny for two weeks but once the funeral was over she was rushing to find a family member for me to move in with. My grandpa was the only person who would take me.
I sighed, and pushed open the gate. The girl jumped up and disappeared into the house. I stopped dead wondering why she had run away. She had just been staring at me but then when I pushed open the gate separating us she ran. I shrugged closing the gate back and continuing down the long dirt path. The house was huge, the sort of house you see in old movies on a plantation. I walked slowly taking my time. The dirt crunched under my black simple heels. I had worn a dark teal colored skirt, and a gray blouse with black heels. I matched a black beaded necklace that hung down to my belly button. I figured I better look nice, as to make a good impression. My hair was pulled back from my face in a dark teal bow. I went up the old steps carefully and stopped at the door. I bent to set down a suitcase but the door swung open.
“Look at you!” a voice rung from the hallway. I stood up straight and looked into the face of a motherly looking woman. She had curly brown hair pulled back in a bun and she was wearing an apron around her waist over her simple yellow sun dress. I smiled and hesitated.
“Oh now, come in dear, we don’t want to let the heat in.” she gestured quickly for me to come in. I stepped in the door and she closed it behind me. She took my bags including the one on my shoulder and set them at the foot of a marvelous grand staircase to the right. She led me down a hall calling over shoulder, “Get her things Martin; the butler.” She added to me seeing my confused expression. She steered me into a big kitchen, with all kinds of fancy cooking utensils and sat me down at a small table in the center. I smiled up at her when she stood in front of me.
“Well don’t you look just like your mother.” She put her hand on my cheek. “Such terrible news too. But it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t meant to happen.” She smiled weakly and turned to the counter.
“Um, excuse me miss, but how do you know my mother?” I asked. She turned back to me whipping her hands on a cloth on her waist.
“Well dear, I’m her sister.” Her smiled faded some, seeing as I had no clue that she was.
“Oh.” Was all I could manage.
“Yes, well I see just like the rest of my family she prefers not to mention me.” She nodded thoughtfully. I waited hoping she would speak again. She did. Her voice was worn and caring, and soft. She smiled at me turning back to her work on the counter.
“Excuse me, but why don’t they mention you?” I asked slowly. “Not that I’m trying to be rude you do understand.” I assured her. She sighed and turned to me then pulled out a chair and sat down next to me.
“You may call me Aunt Honey.” She smiled at me. “Anyhoo, when I was very young, and our father died I became very ill. My mother couldn’t care for me, and I got sicker and sicker. My mother kept trying to care for me, but she grew sick too. I became so ill that I should have died, but I didn’t. My mother did. It was my fault she died. I never let her have one moment away from me while I was sick. But I got over it. Two years later my father died; I had gotten sick again and insisted that he care for me instead of take
A big white house. A dirt road bending and twisting. A small town outside London. A young girl sitting on the wide front steps. With me standing at the end of the dirt road near the rusty mailbox, a suitcase in each hand, a book bag slung over my shoulder. The girl was staring at me looking curious and angry at the same time. There was a huge wrought iron gate separating us. Something in her expression was glad about my standing on the other side of this gate. I stood there, watching her not wanting to push the gate forward. I slowly looked around myself. There were woods on both sides of the road that led back towards the small old fashioned town. I hated that this was my only choice of a home; a place where the shopping mall probably wasn’t closer than three hours and there wasn’t any cable; a town where everyone was behind the times; about twenty years behind the times to be exact. Everyone here still acted as though it was the eighteen hundreds.
There was an old bakery in town, along with a blacksmith, sewing store, chimney cleaners, horse stables, cotton plantation, and a few other things. But I guess I would have to get used it; I had no other place to go. Not even the orphanage would take me. They thought that a rich, spoiled girl, would never fit in, and they were right. I had come from the heart of Italy. I’d lived nearly my whole life there with my mom. Before that we had lived in London, but moved to Italy to be close to my mother’s family after my father’s death, when I was seven. My accent was a strong British one mixed with and Italian accent. I thought it was very pretty. My mother had died two weeks ago. She was hit by a train in her car. I stayed with our nanny for two weeks but once the funeral was over she was rushing to find a family member for me to move in with. My grandpa was the only person who would take me.
I sighed, and pushed open the gate. The girl jumped up and disappeared into the house.
I stopped dead wondering why she had run away. She had just been staring at me but then when I pushed open the gate separating us she ran. I shrugged closing the gate back and continuing down the long dirt path. The house was huge, the sort of house you see in old movies on a plantation. I walked slowly taking my time. The dirt crunched under my black simple heels. I had worn a dark teal colored skirt, and a gray blouse with black heels. I matched a black beaded necklace that hung down to my belly button. I figured I better look nice, as to make a good impression. My hair was pulled back from my face in a dark teal bow. I went up the old steps carefully and stopped at the door. I bent to set down a suitcase but the door swung open.
“Look at you!” a voice rung from the hallway. I stood up straight and looked into the face of a motherly looking woman. She had curly brown hair pulled back in a bun and she was wearing an apron around her waist over her simple yellow sun dress.
I smiled and hesitated.
“Oh now, come in dear, we don’t want to let the heat in.” she gestured quickly for me to come in. I stepped in the door and she closed it behind me. She took my bags including the one on my shoulder and set them at the foot of a marvelous grand staircase to the right. She led me down a hall calling over shoulder, “Get her things Martin; the butler.” She added to me seeing my confused expression. She steered me into a big kitchen, with all kinds of fancy cooking utensils and sat me down at a small table in the center. I smiled up at her when she stood in front of me.
“Well don’t you look just like your mother.” She put her hand on my cheek. “Such terrible news too. But it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t meant to happen.” She smiled weakly and turned to the counter.
“Um, excuse me miss, but how do you know my mother?” I asked. She turned back to me whipping her hands on a cloth on her waist.
“Oh…well, your grandfather dear, yes, yes, pictures.” He said hesitating, sounding not-so-sure of herself.
“Oh.” I mumbled quietly.
“Yes, well you must be hungry, such a long, trip here! It’s been so long since you’ve been to London, I’m sure it’s different being back here.” She rambled as she cooked. After a minute or two I could smell chicken broth, and carrots, and bread baking in the oven. I heard a clank as she set the top on the cast iron pot on the stove. She turned back to me smiling waiting for an answer.
“I don’t remember it much; I was only seven when we moved.” I gave her a simple answer to work with. I wasn’t in the mood for talking; more for sitting in my room and crying. I had held the tears back on the plane ride here. It all was a horrible nightmare. My mother had just died and I was forced to move back near London, which was where my father had died. I didn’t even know my Grandpa, I had never met him, and if I had I didn’t remember him well.
THE ADDTIONAL DETAIL IS JUST THE STORY REWRITTEN.

I HAVE TAKEN SOME OF YOUR ADVICE AND FIXED SOME PARTS.

SO THEY ARE DIFFERENT VERSIONS.