I don’t know about you guys, but I get a distinct sense of satisfaction from assembling my own furniture.
Perhaps you may scoff at this. What’s so difficult about piecing together a few bits of wood and metal, especially when you even get instructions? Well, Mr. Vila, it IS hard to assemble some things, particularly when you have no tools and no experience with carpentry, and when the instructions are so stunningly indecipherable you have to laugh, so that you won’t cry.
As a woman, I can’t help but feel just the tiniest bit smug that I do these things myself (though I admit I had to call in a manfriend after a particularly disastrous misstep with my last project in Dallas). It doesn’t even occur to many of the women I know to attempt furniture assembly — or basic home repairs — themselves. Of course, these women always have a boyfriend or husband handy to do the work for them, and I do not. These are the same type of women who smugly refer to “my husband” as often as they can. But I digress.
Anyway, last night I put together a desk. Though it does not really match the rest of the decor just yet, will probably look great once I’m rid of the Futon of Despair.
I think it’s just great. However, I’m sure you can imagine my frustration upon finding the fracking monitor doesn’t fit between the table top and the top shelf.
I want to scream! But I won’t. It will do for now. I simply couldn’t bear working on another freelance assignment (thank you, freelance gods) whilst perched on the futon with my laptop balanced on my knees, and any additional piece of furniture goes a long way toward making this place feel less like a jail cell and more like a home.