I Have a Point To Prove

You've seen my desk. Or rather the trashed out buffet table that is acting as my temporary desk.

It's going to be a good long time before the office is finished. It's just not as large of a priority as, oh say, the kitchen. Or the bathroom.

In the meantime though, I still have to try to function in my faux office on my faux desk.

Yesterday we picked up a desk, hutch, and file cabinet on super clearance at Office Max. They don't match but for $20, who cares. Not me. It's better than a buffet table with paint all over it. And it's just "temporary," which in my world means "probably will be that way until we move to a new house."

But. . .

do you know how many parts these types of things have? Me either. But it has to be at least twenty kajillion bits and pieces and parts.

And silly me - who has never assembled anything more complicated than putting a role of toilet paper on the roller - decided that I was going to prove I was "woman hear me roar" and could assemble these things while Vern is at work this weekend.

There are pieces all over, I've managed to slice open my finger, and my hands have blisters shaped like a screwdriver.

But it's too late to back out now. I have a point to prove. I will figure this out.

Even if in the end, it's probably going to look like something the Unabomber would have in his shack.