FINALLY. Minor progress occurs

The householder was angry. Really angry. She’d been in her new digs for a good three weeks and hardly anything looked any different than it had on day one. She still couldn’t cook and was getting tired of eating out of Costco’s freezer (which actually meant she wasn’t eating much at all). She was beyond fed up, ready to stand on the rooftop, scream, and throw rocks at passersby. Her ankle hurt. Her shoulders burned like the Little Bear fire.

But she was determined to get one damned bookshelf up today, with books on it. No matter what. Even though she didn’t get started ‘til 2 p.m. because she’s a lazy git, she’s living on Australian time, or maybe both, or maybe worse.

She wound up moving every bloody banker box in the house–more than 50–as well as most of the regular boxes, because the books were in the heavier banker boxes and she was looking for her favorite author. She figured it was fitting for his books to go on the first shelf in the new place.

She lifted. She toted. She hauled. She grunted. She panted. She kicked things out of the way. She moved everything ranging from tools to desk parts (which she carefully replaced so as not to mess up The System) to an escalerita. Several times. She did remember to eat, though not so much to drink. She snarled and swore and shouted at Recalcitrant Inanimate Objects, of which there were many, many, many. She sliced open box after box after box to see what was inside; she remembered labeling the boxes she wanted, and she’d labeled more, too, but this time she rough-labeled everything, moved them into the proper rooms, and actually made more room to move around. She glared at the boxes with the Glare of Death, daring them to fall over, collapse, or otherwise increase her ire.

She also laid her Dad’s empty bookcase on the floor and replaced the felt on the feet, and did the same with her Granddad’s 100+-year-old (yes, them hyphens is right, and it’s 106 this year) piece, which was interesting because the clips and things that hold the glass and wooden doors closed, well, don’t (like you’d be in perfect shape after 100 years, so shut up and stop laughing). She had to tape them shut, take out the wee drawers, and move it to the carpet to get some control. And seeing as it has built-in shelves and things, it’s much heavier than her Dad’s case. She took care to keep her shoulder low, which made it quite difficult for her biceps to do their job. But, guessing that it weighed around 70-75 pounds, she did it. Who else was around to? She put it elsewhere, and moved the cheesy cheap-ass IKEA thing into the corner by the kitchen, where at this point she thought it would likely be most useful.

Finally–you guessed it–the last two freaking boxes, buried under every stinkin’ thing in the office from boxes to tools to furniture parts to polar bears, contained the books she wanted. She hauled them out to the bookcase, fought ferociously with the uncooperative shelf-support clips in the dark (even a flashlight didn’t help), got a shelf in place despite its repeated desperate attempts to run off to Zanzibar, and put all the Pratchett books she’d found onto the shelf. She was surprised to find they all fit (but suspects there are more elsewhere–like the Johnny ones and the Carpet People ones–and they won’t. Not on the same shelf, anyway).

She stood back and looked at them with satisfaction.

Finally. Finally. Finally this confounded mess of a place could start to look like Home. She needed that more desperately than even she had thought, and she’d felt pretty darned desperate for a very long time. She’d run out of the 2024 spoons she’d been borrowing at appalling interest rates and The Future had notified her it would not be issuing her any more, thank you, she’d gone way over her limit.

Mindful of both ankle and shoulder, she did quit after the one shelf. She decided she’d go get ice packs for her shoulder tomorrow morning, and maybe start trying to figure out what kitchen stuff would go best in the IKEA thing, which she was beginning to think of as “pantry.”

Even though that would require pulling a fair number of boxes labeled “kitchen stuff” out of the bottom of many stacks of boxes. There wasn’t much choice; there was no more room in or near the kitchen for more kitchen-labeled boxes. She sighed, a deep, voluminous, wave-propagating sigh that would have made a West-of-Ireland sigh sound like a gentle spring zephyr.

“You can’t have everything,” she thought. “At least you got something done today that’s visible. Just pat yourself on the back–owwww, not with that hand, dope! Use the slightly less painful one!–and call it a good job for the day.”

So it’s a good job for the day. And that’s that. Now she can do a little knitting.

This looks like the crafty room is worse, but it’s not. The banker boxes are the white ones, and the damn things don’t break down. There’s some kind of sticky stuff that holds the double walls in place and you can’t get them apart. Hoping someone will come and take them away as-is, because they’re sturdy, tough boxes and cost about $3 a pop.
Lots more room in the office for working on The Monster Desk
Grandpa’s pie safe, about to be converted into more bookshelves, across the room from its initial position.

IKEA thing stuffed in the corner, with tub of pots and pans bracing it so it won’t fall down. I did find a stud to fasten it to, but it hurt the crap shoulder a lot so I left it alone. It totally does not fit style-wise with any other thing I own, but at this point who needs furniture that will outlast me?
Yessssssss. Success, peaches.

Posted by wordsmith

1 comment

Looks good! Progress, both physical and digital.

Leave a Reply