My wife, as part of her ongoing program to improve the scholastic performance of our children, recently purchased an Ikea desk. Well, by recently, I mean about three months ago. Just today, the top of the desk finally came in. And by today, I mean “this afternoon.”
So tonight, after the little ones were snug in their bed, we put together the top of the desk. Now, while this may sound like a simple job easily accomplished by anyone with a modicum of basic handyman skills, for me this is right on the edge of “Herculean.”
In the middle of this task, right after thirty minutes of swearing because I thought that the piece was backwards, it called for nailing the back plate onto the piece. It included twenty tiny little nails, each about half an inch long, with their heads sharp enough to puncture an armored car.
Of course, I proceeded to beat the hell out of my thumb. Since it’s what separates us from the other animals, I figure it deserved it. There’s blood all over the desk now; turns out white was a bad choice.
Right in the middle of smashing my thumb to mush, my daughter called me downstairs because she had a nightmare that the house burned down. I snarled something to her (like ‘I hope so!’) and stormed back upstairs.
Then I swore at my wife, and she swore at me and called her divorce attorney. Then finally we got the desk together and all was well.
But since I have to sleep on the couch I’m guessing that make-up sex is right out.