Imagine Destiny's Child playing in the background. Or maybe some Gloria Gaynor. Anything to give off an aura of independence. Because, folks, I have become one hell of an independent woman. I mean, I assembled my own furniture this week. I've never done that before; I've always simply passed along the tools to my (arguably) more competent boyfriends. (Hi John! You could assemble a desk like no other. Put that on your resume. Along with "proficient in handling high-strung, emotionally-eruptive, highly stressed femme fatales that forget their femme-ninity.) ANYWAY. This week? I totally assembled all sorts of furniture. ME. And I am getting muscle mass too. Seriously. My hands are becoming very...meaty.
But my competence does not extend to book-case bolting. For some reason, this skill evades me. Alas, it's an important one for me. Ever since my grandfather, dear ol' plan-your-work-and-work-your-plan Boppa, began buying me bookcases when I was like...two or something, he always insisted on bolting them to the walls. Because maybe he thought I was going to test my shimmying skills with $40 Wal-Mart chipboard? I don't know, really. But the habit stuck, and now I am convinced that I must BOLT MY BOOKSHELVES OR DIE. Which, considering I now live in Southern California and have an earthquake or a faultline with my name on it, lurking just around the corner, and as I have more pounds of books than the Queen has in the bank, is a distinct possibility.
So! Picture it--me, an Independent woman. About to end her days buried under a pile of Dickens, Austen, and Teasdale, because she was not plucky enough to figure out bookcase bolts before the Big One hit. My hypothetical cats will have to chew through about three layers of nineteenth century melodrama before they get to their dinner of my meaty hands.
But hey, bright side. Maybe my neighbor can take a picture of it!
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