I know that others have been saying this, but if you are not watching NBC’s The Office, you are missing out on something wonderful. I’ll admit that I was not really willing to get on board with the American version, having loved the subtlety of the British version, and also the wonderful way that Ricky Gervais manages to be both pitiful as well as deplorable. And then when the pilot was an exact rip-off of the first British episode, I turned the channel with a sneer. However, after Mopie and Chauffi both told me how brilliant it was, I gave it another chance (actually I had no choice, as it aired after Meh Race). It won me over, slowly but surely, and then, by the Halloween episode, I let it fully into my heart and now am the better person for it. I embrace its goofy subtle wonders.
If you have iTunes, download last week’s episode, the one where Michael injures his foot. I laughed so hard that I almost passed out.
My quest for organization continues. Esteban has made hints at cleaning out his deathtrap of an office and throwing out the giant metal desks that are two thirds of what overwhelms the room (the other third being a giant fake furniture wardrobe thing that he bought to house the server, but has now decided that it’s not necessary and he can throw away most of what is in there). Now I am obsessed with seeing those metal desks on the curb and when the metal scavenger guy’s truck swings around our corner, I may bring him a cookie in gratitude for taking the desks away away far away. The fantasies of renting a dumpster have progressed to just having some kind of portable death ray that would demolecularize (hi, is that a word? No? Ok then) on a very small scale, say, a pile of garbage or a very ugly recliner. Spring cleaning would be a breeze, although those post-break up Wicca-like evenings in which one gets drunk and then burns everything they ever received from the ex would be really anticlimactic. Unless the demolecularizer (still with me?) maybe also shot out a burst of glitter. Zap! Voila! Festive. I should find a scientist to invent that for me. A drag queen scientist.
Progress on my office continues, although is still halted by the missing rug, which is in transit from Minneapolis. At which point, we’ll put together a bookshelf and then my quest to take over the back of our house will be successful. As would be expected, I’ve now set my sights on the next project, which is supposed to be the dining room, but I’m now deciding that it might be cheaper to finish the floor/ugly vanity/hideous paint job issues in the bathroom. The dining room redo only involves new carpet and paint and crown moldings, but would somehow be less satisfying than getting rid of that hideous vinyl tile in the bathroom. I went to the flooring store during my lunch yesterday and talked to the people who told me that there was no way I could put in the slate I wanted (the room is so tiny that I can afford to spend a little more per square foot) because they would need new a new sub floor and most likely need to put in new supports in the basement, all of which sounded like too much trouble just to appease my picky aesthetics. In fact, the only thing that wouldn’t be a pain the ass is vinyl or laminate. We have laminate in the kitchen and I sort of hate it (it’s crazy slippery when damp or freshly washed or when you are walking on it with socks), and I sort of really hate vinyl, but at this point, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to rid myself of the half-assed ancient stuck-on legacy vinyl tile from 1978. And I did find a non-offensive vinyl product at the flooring store, so I may go with that. However, just like any home repair with this house, one change requires a sequence of events. I’m not going to bother putting the floor down before ripping out the hideous vanity, which will require a new pedestal sink there. And then repainting everything. However, since this all requires a plumber and probably twice as much money than I think, it’s just Pandora’s Box, but instead of all the nightmares and pain in the world, said box is filled with To Do lists, missing parts and miscellaneous construction dust. And also, I have some kind of impossible idea for a bathroom sink. I think about things too much.
So yes, bathroom and dining room. And a pocket-sized death ray. I’m not asking for the world.
Over the weekend, I was going to put up two shelves that I purchased eons ago, but then had no idea where the stud finder was and no idea where the big giant measuring tape was. One of the Esteban’s crazy-making traits is that he scatters items hither and fro, anywhere but the very place they belong. So a measuring tape might be in the garage but it might also be in the basement on top of the water heater or perhaps in his truck or inexplicably left at his friend’s house. In fact, a long time ago, I ended up buying three hammers because he never put the hammer away and thus, I could never find it. So the stud finder? Oh forget it. When asked, he denied knowledge of ever owning a stud finder and then suspect that maybe it wasn’t ours but rather Ward’s, and then tried to distract by saying that a stud finder, if we really did own one, wouldn’t work anyway because the room has plywood under the sheetrock. So very frustrating, but despite the deflection tactics, he did have a good point. Thus, I stopped by the Hundred Dollar Store in search of another tape measure and also a stud finder that could go deep. Very deep. To seek out the studs.
Someday I will graduate from the fifth grade. That day is very far away.
And while I was looking at the tape measures, it occurred to me that I really hated the big hefty metal ones that measured 50 ft. Half the time, I’m only measuring maybe 15 feet. Or really, eighteen inches, because I’m measuring furniture depth or where a picture is going to go or how wide a window is. What I really needed was a light little girly measuring tape. Preferably in pink.
One might be surprised to learn that tape measures do not come in pink, at least not at the Hundred Dollar store, but I did find a wee tape measure that fits perfectly in my hand. And then I thought hell, I wonder if they had hammers that were a little easier to wield? And they did! So I grabbed myself a seven ounce hammer and vowed to glitter up the handle so that Esteban never touches it and therefore never loses it in his sock drawer or what have you.
What I really needed was a place to keep this stuff for myself. In fact, buried deep in the recesses of one of the linen closets, there was an abandoned white Caboodle (oh the late 80’s, they were so adorable) that would be just perfect. Not too heavy. Not too masculine. I put my new Ryobi stud finder (which penetrates the studs with gusto) in there, along with my wimp hammer and my teeny tiny measuring tape. I threw in a Stanley knife (another thing that disappears, even though I’ve purchased four in the last three years) and some picture wire and a very impressive wire cutter. It’s the spot for my flannel scuff protectors and my little jelly dot things that keep my picture frames straight on the wall, as well as my wee level. It has little compartments to hold nails and Super Glue and a flat screwdriver and a Phillips screw driver and every other thing that I can never find because someone didn’t put it away.
To recap: I made myself a girly tool box.
Yes, I am somewhat embarrassed but now understand why guys get excited at Sears. I went back to the hardware store and bought more things today during my lunch hour, things to go in my girly tool box. I even toyed with the idea of buying shims, because they seem like something that I should have, something inherently useful. Yet I have no idea what one would do with a shim. A shiv, yes. A shim, no.
There is something very primal at play here. However, if this means that I’m going to start thinking Larry the Cable Guy is funny, someone has my permission to delicately club me on the head with my seven ounce hammer.
Just make sure that you put it back where it belongs.
