Do-It-Yourself Girl

In the preamble to my final 2011 post, I alluded to my having had to buy a new computer.

That purchase followed windstorms that begat power outages that begat my realization that a strong surge protector should not be underestimated…

Yes, I now have a new surge protector.

As for my new computer? Once I set it up on Sunday, December 4th, I stood back. What’s wrong with this picture? I asked myself.

… You should probably know, before I continue, that my computer (and therefore my office) is in my kitchen. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, you see. And so I am sure you’ll agree that any other options for the computer simply aren’t palatable.

Bedroom? Absolutely not.

Bathroom? ... Hello? Health Department?

Living room? Then what is living…

Yeah, so anyway, the workstation is in the kitchen where, luck of the layout, there’s a nice corner that accommodates space.

... I was looking at that space shortly after I set up the windstorm/power outage-inspired new computer. And I noted, with my new Microsoft Word 7 eyes, that the corner needed to be refurbished in a big way.

See, I had this workstation whose name was Jan. (You might know him. He comes from Ikea.) And Jan was cool for the simplest of functions. He had the top shelf, for the monitor. And he had the pull-out tray, for the keyboard. His lovely blond wood (a color you might expect from a workstation named “Jan”) also was featured in the shelf well below that keyboard tray. Other than that, there were the two upside-down-U-shaped black metal brackets that kept all his parts together.

Jan was never exactly flush with the wall. I suppose he could have been, but – in placing my office in my kitchen – I somehow had a need for the more open feeling that comes when one is not at right angles with a wall. And because Jan was not flush with the wall, there was this triangle of space behind him. A triangle designed to tempt cats.

Okay, I know what you’re saying: ”What doesn’t tempt a cat?”

Good point. You can rest your case now. (But please don’t smirk. It isn’t polite. Besides, it makes you look needy.)

Bottom line is, my entire work area was a study in cat-proofing. And it was ugly that way.

So, when I looked at that corner – just after setting up my new computer – and I realized it needed to be renovated, I immediately recalled the corner desk/computer stand that I’d seen at Staples during the 90 minutes or so I spent there while the tech guys were making sure that the life inside my old hard drive was fully captured in the new.

And so… on the second Saturday evening in December, I stopped at a Staples that was on my way home from other errands (i.e., not my usual Staples), and I purchased the corner desk.

The guy who helped me finalize my decision indicated that they could have it assembled and delivered by Monday. But I didn’t want to wait.

“I can do it myself,” I suggested. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

He mentioned the need for an Allen Wrench and a Phillips head screwdriver.

No sweat, I thought. I’ve got a drawer full of Allen Wrenches, thanks to the Ikea furniture I’ve assembled over the years. I also have at least three Phillips heads.

(And, by the way, won’t it be nice some day if tools – like hurricanes – are allowed to be named after women? But I digress…)

Yeah, so back at Staples: I bought the corner piece as well as a rolling two-shelf cart in the same cherry stain.

The sales associate loaded the boxes of the to-be-assembled furniture into the back seat of my Corolla, and off I went – my Saturday night agenda crystal clear.

As I was driving home, I sent all my hope to the possibility that either my neighbor across the hall or my friend downstairs would be home. Because, without a man to carry those boxes up the stairs, there would be no furniture-assembly activities in my immediate future.

(This dilemma reminded me of when I had first moved to the building. I had just left my marriage and so I was appointing my new place slowly. Invariably, I’d come home with a piece of furniture tied to the top of my car. And pulling into my space in the carport, I’d immediately remember: “Oh, shit. I don’t have a husband to carry this upstairs.”)

Fortunately, my cross-the-hall angel-neighbor was home, and he was happy to apply his Adonis physique to the task at hand.

Once the two boxes were in my living room, leaning against the couch, I proceeded with the preliminaries: clear out the kitchen; vacuum and wash the floor; and then – carry the corner desk box into the now empty space.

At this point, I uncorked the Kendall Jackson cabernet.

I was feeling relaxed and ambitious at once. Oh, how I love a project!

Okay, I should probably tell you right now that a little red flag got flown as I was bringing the large rectangular box into the kitchen. That red flag? A tiny piece of hardware, hopping out of the box.

It was at that point that I realized how shoddily the box was taped together. It was at that point that I realized that this box had already been opened. A piece already built and then dismantled perhaps?

I didn’t want to know about it.

Because – not only do I love a project, but: when I decide to pursue a project, I cannot be stopped.

Sipping the Kendall Jackson, I shoo’ed away any concerns that were floating through my head.

I emptied the box (as someone had apparently done previously), and I leaned all the large pieces against the walls of my kitchen.

I then opened the hardware bag, and I let the various screws and things go where they might on the tray table I’d set up for that very purpose.

I didn’t have the patience to count hardware and compare those totals to what the instruction manual told me to expect. I mean, seriously, who has time for that shit?

I did, though, take a quick inventory of the large pieces (that is, the pieces that would actually create the desk).

I forget what letter of the alphabet was assigned to the piece that was clearly missing, but when I noticed its absence, I immediately flipped through the instruction manual to glean its function.

Hmm… seems the missing piece, which appeared to have all the depth of a piece of cardboard, was meant to live under the keyboard tray. But, was it necessary? I decided it wasn’t. I also decided that, if I discovered it was necessary, I would find something in my apartment that was otherwise unneeded and could take its place.

And so I proceeded.

I got through the first few steps without a hitch.

Then, I got to the part that required particular screws that had come with the kit.

These are not screws that one generally has in her otherwise-impressive screw collection.

These are screws that play a dual role. First, they are burrowed into the hole they are assigned to. Later, their tops meet a pre-drilled tunnel in another piece of the furniture, and a whole other piece of hardware must be placed in that tunnel. Then, the pieces are blended together with a quick twist of the Phillips head.

I know, I know, I’m probably losing you. I should have left it at the fact that these are unusual screws.

Anyway, when I did the count of these unique little pieces of allegedly included hardware, I realized that I was missing one.

One screw I couldn’t substitute. (In spite of my vast collection.)

Acknowledging an unforeseen dilemma, I revisited the design plan, and based on how the desk would ultimately stand, I decided which of the eight needed screws could be omitted.

After that step, I moved on, and as I did, I discovered how many “regular” screws were missing from the hardware bag.

But, as mentioned, I’ve got quite a collection, so I was able to choose from that collection strategically and according to my interpretation of the design. I was able to determine which of these misfit screws would not be within view – ever.

… I have never needed so many hours to assemble a piece of furniture.

I have never been so frustrated by a process.

But, I did it, and I love the result.

...As I have for several years now, I do all my typing in the corner of my kitchen.

But now, it’s a clean corner.

It’s organized and without clutter.

I like it.

And I like remembering the chutzpah I brought to the current design.

(Though, admittedly, I have a few loose screws.)

Monday Reruns: And the BON Goes To...

(original post-date: September 1, 2010)


FADE IN.

We see a virtual ballroom in Hollywood. The crowd gathered and filling the seats is represented exclusively by little square-shaped icons. In some cases, a single face occupies the square. In other instances, it is a pair of faces representing two generations.

There’s also a tree (or the top of one).

A ladybug.

A bicycle.

The face of a dog.

THE ANNOUNCER calls out a name that not everyone hears (because, at the moment, not everyone is online). One of the squares appears shocked and surprised. Maybe even a little flustered.

Shaking her imagined forearms excitedly, she (the icon; the square) races to the stage. "Jeez!" she begins, clearly excited. "I didn’t even know my category was coming up, and here I am! Yeah, so, …uh, I wanna thank the academy. … my producers. … my agent. Oh wow… … Oh and yeah, Griffin! Vesta! Lotto! You cats at home… Go to bed already!"

FADE OUT.

What a crock of a fantasy.

Cats sleep 18 hours a day.

It is absurd to imagine any moment – no matter how lofty or ephemeral – that would justify telling cats to go to bed.

… I also belong to no academies.

I have no producers.

As for getting an agent? No one can say I haven’t tried.

But I still have something to thank: The First Amendment.

If you haven’t read it lately, you should.

But, if you haven’t read it lately, you also shouldn’t feel like a slacker.

Seriously.

Me? I just found it online (had to, since I mentioned it). And so – just now – I read it fully for the first time in God knows how long.

Not only did I read it, I copied it for all of us.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

So there you have it.

… I had a grievance for many years. (Actually, I wouldn’t normally call it a “grievance,” but I’m trying to do a segue here, so work with me.) I was despondent at times because, although I love to write, no one in the world of ten-percenters seemed to care.

I entered the blogosphere reluctantly, my grievance on my shoulder.

I have since discovered a peaceable assembly.

It is called Words of Wisdom (appropriately, WOW), and the website, which was launched by two wise women named Pam and Sandy, celebrates blogs of substance.

Today, I am WOW’s Blogger of Note (BON), and per the BON tradition, I will share with you links to three previous posts.

I hope you have the time to take a look. And if you don’t have the time now, I hope you’ll come back.

*Technology is a subject I cannot get away from, and that’s because it concerns me… The technology is developed, after all. Us? Not so much. Here’s a piece I wrote after watching footage of a community parade: The Subtext of Texting.

*Do you shop at Trader Joe’s? Click here.

*Alright then, Ikea?

I chose those three posts intuitively. Now, as I look at what I just typed, I fear you might think I’m all about shopping.

Don’t even go there.

There’s really not that much about shopping in those second two posts. They’re more about life… and the words that go into it.

I am grateful to the First Amendment for letting me share my life in words.

I am grateful to WOW for peaceable assembly.

2011 Postscript: The WOW site closed up shop sometime in the past year. It's too bad, as it was a great meeting place, and some of my favorite bloggers are those I first met among the WOW groupies.

Monday Reruns: At Your Service

(original post date: July 28, 2010)

Several years ago, I was having dinner with a friend at the Louise’s here in Los Feliz. The waiter approached our table, and as servers now do, de rigueur, he introduced himself.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Jan [pronounced YON], and I will be your server tonight.”

My first thought was to share with him, Oh-my-god, that’s the name of the workstation I just bought at Ikea! But I held back. Instead, I smiled and politely said, “And I’m Katie. And I’ll be your customer!”

And so we went on from there. A lovely night, complete with fresh ground pepper and shaved parmesan until we said “when.”

… Such a different world from my waitressing years in Manhattan. Back in the 80’s, nobody knew your name. I spent seven years waitressing in NYC, and in those years, I worked at 24 restaurants. The last five of those years I spent at ONE restaurant. Do the math.

Yeah. So there were some years of hopping around, looking for the place where I could hang my apron for a while.

At one point during the drifting phase, I was working a lunch shift in the Wall Street area, and my friend and neighbor, who had a non-stop station at a family-owned Hungarian restaurant in our Upper West Side neighborhood, had persuaded that establishment’s owner and owneress to allow me to fill in for her on Wednesday nights. (I would later take over her full shift, after she was fired, but I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Okay, so I’m working Wall Street lunches, Monday through Friday, and on Wednesday nights, I’m at the Hungarian place in my own ‘hood. Money’s good enough, but I’m always looking for a new venue. For this reason, I’ve consistently combed the environs, dropping off -- to restaurant owners and managers all along the west side of Manhattan -- my home-made, so-very-low-tech, 3x5 index cards. The cards indicate my availability as a waitress. They also provide contact information.

By about the fourth or fifth Wednesday at the Hungarian place, I’m getting a sense of the drill. My station comprises nine “deuces” (that’s restaurant lingo for a table for two) and three “rounds” (which can seat up to eight per table). And if that sounds like a lot of station, your sense of empathy is commendable. Add to that sheer person capacity an acute absence of trays. The acrobatics I learned at that restaurant are a subject for another essay, and so we’ll come back to that at another time.

Regardless, on the Wednesday evening in question, I’m running around like usual. I’m wearing one of my mix ‘n match waitress outfits (“Restaurant Garanimals,” as it were). In this case, the combo started with a straight-lined beige skirt that falls just below knee-length but has sassy side pleats. Topping it off, above my tie-in-the-back, two-pocketed, standard issue waitress apron is a raw linen, short-sleeved, tailored plaid top whose primary color is red.

With harried energy, I approach a young couple sitting in one of the deuces. I smile as I ask if they’re ready. They are. And after they place their order, I move on. Within two or three minutes, I return to deliver their drinks. Thereafter, in sequence, I deliver their appetizers, their main courses, their desserts, and their coffees.

Just as I do for the other 20 or so couples I wait on during a four-hour shift that night.

Just as I do for the parties of six or more that take up the larger tables in my constantly turning-over station.

By the following Saturday, I’m ready for a weekend off, but I also know that my index cards are out there. Anything can happen.

Sure enough, late Saturday evening, I get a call from a local restaurant owner named Augie. His Sunday brunch waitress has phoned in sick. He’s wondering if I can fill in. I accept the offer.

I awake that Sunday morning just before eight. Shower and put on my beige skirt and red plaid top. Head down to the local eatery. (Augie’s is just west and south of my apartment; about the same walking distance as the Hungarian restaurant, which is east and north.)

When I get to Augie’s in time for the nine o’clock set-up (no one is expected before ten – this is New York, after all), I wrap the apron around my waist and introduce myself to the bartender.

The bartender is relaxed and kind. He shows me where I can find everything for set-up (creamer pitchers, all the sidestand stuff, coffee makings). He reviews the menu with me. He introduces me to the kitchen staff. He makes it clear that I can call on him if I get in a jam. (Oh, and yeah, he shows me the jam…)

Customers filter in, and while it gets a little busy at times, it never feels out of control. (After the Hungarian place, I can handle anything.) The bartender even comments on my cool at one point. He is clearly impressed by my capacities as a “guest-waitress.”

I am in the rhythm of Augie’s when I approach a couple in the corner.

“Ready to order?” I ask, smiling, my pad held in front of me, my pen primed to record their needs.

There’s a pause. The man in the pair stares up at me and adapts a dumb-founded look.

“Hey!” he says, “Didn’t you wait on us at the Hungarian place on Wednesday?”

Sure enough.

That same couple.

And me, in the same outfit.

Were it fifteen years later, my approach might have gone something like this:

“Hello, my name is Katie, and I will be your server for the rest of your life!”

* * *

Aug 2011 NOTE: Dear Readers, Followers, and Passers-By: I’m happy to direct you to Get Busy Writing, where blogger Emily Rittel-King has a weekly feature called "Blogger Mentor Mondays." I am her guest today, and so I hope you'll drop by and check out our interview as well as some of her past posts. And, thank you, Emily!

Monday Reruns: Shopping at Ikea: What's In a Name?

(original post-date: February 10, 2010)

Having a close, personal relationship with words serves me well. It enables me to experience joy whenever I create a new sentence. It permits me to add clever comments to conversations. It gives me a niche where I rest comfortably, appreciative of my avocation.

About a year ago, though, I realized that there’s a time and place when one must abandon her verbal relationships and just shop smartly. For me, the moment occurred at Ikea.

At the time, I was in the market for a coffee table. Not because I was craving one particularly. Rather, the piece of furniture that had been performing that function for several years had become worn. You see, my previous mid-living room surface space was never, in fact, a coffee table. It was, instead, a wicker ottoman that I had purchased at Pier One along with its matching chair. Although the chair had held up relatively well, the ottoman had not. It was much too busy being a “project” for the cats. And when I could see through the sides of the squat, textured rectangle, I knew the cats had completed their project. I also knew it was time to move the piece to the curb and replace it with something less tempting to feline trouble-makers.

Before going to Ikea, I went online to peruse their coffee table options. My friend and neighbor, Debbi, who is my go-to girl when it comes to interior design, perused the website with me. She immediately zeroed in on a coffee table that was light in color, had simple lines, and would therefore blend in well with the other pieces in my living room. Beyond that, it was dirt cheap. But I immediately protested when I saw what Ikea had named this table: “Lack.”

“I can’t buy a piece of furniture named ‘Lack’!” I told Debbi.

My veto power having been enforced, we continued to peruse the pages of coffee table options. We found two or three pieces that also would work well in my living room, and although their prices were quite a bit higher than the one assigned to “Lack,” these tables, at least, did not have loser names.

… So with my pre-shopping research behind me, I headed up to Burbank.

I saw the tables in person. I studied them. I circled around them. And once I had given the matter twenty minutes or so of observation and thought, the choice was clear.

Lack.

(What can I say? Deb was right.)

I recorded the information I would need in order to retrieve my new table from the shelves of inventory, and I headed down to the ground floor, where customers are lured through a maze of goodies that are so small and so inexpensive, one needs a tremendous amount of willpower to resist impulse-shopping.

I didn’t succumb to any unexpected lures, I am proud to say, but I did purposefully spend some time in the lighting section. I already had planned to look at the offerings there, as I needed to replace the floor lamp in my living room.

I should mention, at this point, that much of my living room is all about mobility. With the exception of the furniture pieces that are flush with the wall, I like to be able to move things around. Furniture mobility serves art-making, exercising, and cleaning. So… when I saw a ceiling-directed lamp that featured a junior lamp, which could be moved from its parent and turned about any which way, I was impressed. When I saw that it was only ten dollars, I was even more impressed. Sure, I’d assemble it! What the hell!

It’s name? FINAL.

Yup.

Before leaving the impulse floor, I stopped by the shelves of lightbulbs and collected enough boxes to ensure that my new lamp duo would remain illuminated for years to come.

Then, I headed to check-out.

My prize purchases of the day – “Lack” and “Final” – may have come with negative, downer names, but the bottom line was a source of joy. I had spent less than sixty dollars.

Shopping at Ikea: What’s In a Name?

Having a close, personal relationship with words serves me well. It enables me to experience joy whenever I create a new sentence. It permits me to add clever comments to conversations. It gives me a niche where I rest comfortably, appreciative of my avocation.

About a year ago, though, I realized that there’s a time and place when one must abandon her verbal relationships and just shop smartly. For me, the moment occurred at Ikea.

At the time, I was in the market for a coffee table. Not because I was craving one particularly. Rather, the piece of furniture that had been performing that function for several years had become worn. You see, my previous mid-living room surface space was never, in fact, a coffee table. It was, instead, a wicker ottoman that I had purchased at Pier One along with its matching chair. Although the chair had held up relatively well, the ottoman had not. It was much too busy being a “project” for the cats. And when I could see through the sides of the squat, textured rectangle, I knew the cats had completed their project. I also knew it was time to move the piece to the curb and replace it with something less tempting to feline trouble-makers.

Before going to Ikea, I went online to peruse their coffee table options. My friend and neighbor, Debbi, who is my go-to girl when it comes to interior design, perused the website with me. She immediately zeroed in on a coffee table that was light in color, had simple lines, and would therefore blend in well with the other pieces in my living room. Beyond that, it was dirt cheap. But I immediately protested when I saw what Ikea had named this table: “Lack.”

“I can’t buy a piece of furniture named ‘Lack’!” I told Debbi.

My veto power having been enforced, we continued to peruse the pages of coffee table options. We found two or three pieces that also would work well in my living room, and although their prices were quite a bit higher than the one assigned to “Lack,” these tables, at least, did not have loser names.

… So with my pre-shopping research behind me, I headed up to Burbank.

I saw the tables in person. I studied them. I circled around them. And once I had given the matter twenty minutes or so of observation and thought, the choice was clear.

Lack.

(What can I say? Deb was right.)

I recorded the information I would need in order to retrieve my new table from the shelves of inventory, and I headed down to the ground floor, where customers are lured through a maze of goodies that are so small and so inexpensive, one needs a tremendous amount of willpower to resist impulse-shopping.

I didn’t succumb to any unexpected lures, I am proud to say, but I did purposefully spend some time in the lighting section. I already had planned to look at the offerings there, as I needed to replace the floor lamp in my living room.

I should mention, at this point, that much of my living room is all about mobility. With the exception of the furniture pieces that are flush with the wall, I like to be able to move things around. Furniture mobility serves art-making, exercising, and cleaning. So… when I saw a ceiling-directed lamp that featured a junior lamp, which could be moved from its parent and turned about any which way, I was impressed. When I saw that it was only ten dollars, I was even more impressed. Sure, I’d assemble it! What the hell!

It’s name? FINAL.

Yup.

Before leaving the impulse floor, I stopped by the shelves of lightbulbs and collected enough boxes to ensure that my new lamp duo would remain illuminated for years to come.

Then, I headed to check-out.

My prize purchases of the day – “Lack” and “Final” – may have come with negative, downer names, but the bottom line was a source of joy. I had spent less than sixty dollars.