Jim Rohn said, "Happiness is not by chance, but by choice.", and aside from the fact that dude sounds a little bit like he was very rich, happy and likely got slapped at the occasional cocktail party for excessive perkiness and a terminal good outlook by people who just wanted him to accept that not every day is sunshine on roses...I largely agree with him. That's why I'm taking a day off from the back room reno. My happiness is a choice, and I choose to not play nasty drill games for one day so I will be happy. Plus, we made a lot of progress.
Here's the Shari's lace koigu sock (Sockbug pattern) admiring the new paint job.
In the background lurks the Ikea cabinet that has officially (and quite literally) crushed Ian and I. On Friday when we were feeling sort of full of ourselves for laying the floor.. Wait? Did I show you the floor?
Nice eh? I'm really happy with the floor, and that's the body of the second tinks sweater enjoying the cool vinyl. I'm at the divide for the back and front neck, which means that I have to work back and forth instead of around and around for the last 12 rows. I know some knitters modify the rate of slope at the neck to let them steek it...but that's not going to work for me. Babies have fat necks. I'm going to have to suck it up for 12 rows.
Sorry, the Ikea thing. So Ian and I are putting this behemoth together, and first you assemble one side and the bottom, then the instruction shows these people lifting up the unit, then putting the top on (working over their heads) then the other side. It seems like a royal pain in the arse. I mean, why wouldn't you just assemble it on the floor, then lift it up? Maybe because it's heavy? In any case, Ian and I decide that we are smarter/stronger/more advanced than the Ikea instructions, and move on with assembly.
When we are done we have an enormous square. Top, sides and bottom, no back yet. (We're going to do that when it's standing up.) Ian and I actually congratulated ourselves on being smart enough to ignore the instructions, then lifted the unit and discovered why they want you to assemble it standing.
As we lifted it, Ian at one end, me at the other, we noticed that the square had some shift. Just a little. We lifted it a little higher and in the span of about one terrible, heartstopping nanosecond - the entire unit collapsed like a parallelogram. It completely folded, slamming shut, ripping every single fastener out of the wood as it went. (You may feel free to imagine the filthy language used at this point. Don't hold back.)
Please add extra obscenities for noble decisions made by Ian and I during the nanosecond of collapse. In that instant, as the supremely heavy unit chock full of sharp corners and (now protruding screws and fasteners) careened toward our hard won NEW BACK ROOM, without thinking or without consideration...my brother (a king among men) jammed his hands between the new vinyl floor and the heavy wood, as I (similarly inspired) leapt to protect the new drywall and paint job by installing my knees between it and the wall.
Injured bodies heal and we have socialized medicine
Floors and walls have to be repaired on a budget.
Later (very soon after actually) when Ian and I were drinking coffee, nursing our wounds and reflecting on the nature and ultimate wisdom of Ikea instructions (and how it had taken both of us to agree to be that stupid). Ian took a long drink of coffee, thoughtfully rubbed his injured hand and looked me dead in the eye.
"Steph?" he said, sort of quietly, "You're just going to fill that ^#*&^ing room full of wool, aren't you."
No comment. Pass the bandaids.Posted by Stephanie at January 30, 2006 12:46 PM