Sanford & Meg

I got a bug up my butt last night after working on syllabi and first day lesson plans all day, and decided that it was time to seek out a bookcase. My books and art are the only things that are still in boxes. I've moved a few things into my office--like my Shakespeare dolls, Will and Bill, and a few Shakespeare editions and my posters of early modern goodness. (Now I need a lamp because the overhead lighting plus my grassy green paint is making me look jaundiced.)

I didn't want another pressboard, particleboard, faux wood bookcase. I've got this fabulous place with exposed brick and industrial looking things happening, and I wanted to show that rather than drag it down with another Ikea shelving unit. So I went to Home Depot and told the guy in lumber that I had a vision. I think it speaks highly of their staff training that he didn't even flinch, and indeed praised my creativity and helped me figure out how to achieve my bookcase ambitions. (Basically I wanted to get some pre-cut pine--I ended up getting stair tops--staining it dark to match my cherry/mahogany looking cabinet and my gorgeous old [likely pine] floors and using some sort of decorative brick or glass as the weight bearing thingys.)

I was the pied piper of Home Depot. I was trailing people from lumber, from paint, and from gardening around the store while I sought out the best possible combination. They all asked me to bring back pictures of the final product. Then I packed it all in my trunk (eliciting offers of help from many southern gentlemen! but I declined, saying that if I was foolish enough to buy this much brick, I needed to be strong enough to tote it places). I then drove home, cackling on voice mail messages to friends that I was building a mothersmurfing bookcase tonight!

Then began the white trash portion of the evening. I got home, threw on track shorts and my "love the country / hate the shrub" strappy tank, and started staining some shit. I have never stained a thing in my life, but I had bought a brush and a can of dark stain, and I had a pile of boards to make pretty. So off I went, frantically staining in the remaining evening light while sweating like a field hand.

Things learned:
1. Bricks are heavy. One should wear gloves when carrying them. I no longer have fingerprints.
2. True to its name, stain stains. Everything. The wood looks great, if sloppily stained, but I have really dirty hands. The stain makes them look bruised and bloody, actually. Last night I looked as though I'd been in a bar fight. Today I just look like a manual laborer, which is totally hot in a humanities department. You better fix my voice mail before I get physical!!!
3. It it possible to get a buzz off paint products.
4. This stuff takes forever to dry.
5. I think the bricks are too light now, but there is no WAY I'm taking them back. I've decided that the damn bookcase, when assembled, will have character. It will not be pretty, but it will be mine. (This very sentiment is what I worry will have to be said about my future children, should I have them. Not very attractive, but mine own.)
6. I should have made this into a teaching moment and made my students do this work for me and made myself into some sort of post-modern Mr. Miyagi. Move the brush in iambs! Dah-Dum! Daaa-Duuuum. Nice work, Timmy.