Some Assembly Required

I like putting things together. Not just 2 and 2, but actual things. Like furniture from Ikea. It's packed up so nice in the box, complete with instructions and a special tool that will only work for that project. Yet I always save the tool after construction, "just in case..." You never know when a friend will purchase the exact same giant wall unit, somehow misplace the tool and then call you for help. Sometimes the tool can also be used to pry open a paint can or scratch a spot on your back you can't quite reach. It doesn't say that in the instructions, but I tend to think outside the box. Consequently, I have a drawer full of mini metal wrenches, allen keys, glue bottles, leftover dowels and uniquely Swedish screwdrivers that could double as shoehorns. I'm amazed at how Ikea gets all the parts of a complete set of patio furniture into a flat box that easily slips into the back seat of a Corolla. I enjoy looking at the display samples of massive entertainment centers and then criss-crossing my way through the store, past all the tempting signs for the meatball special, to the warehouse bin where the incredibly small box of parts sits, waiting. It's hard to imagine what's in that box will eventually pop up into a shiny new shelving unit that will easily hold all your crap and then some plus a big flat screen TV, but once you put it together, voila! And the leftover box is just right for Maverick's temporary amusement, easily recycled Monday morning. I have assembled a lot of furniture in my time. I've pieced together nightstands, dressers, bookshelves, shoe organizers, wood beds, wrought iron beds, entertainment centers, kitchen tables, benches, desks, decorative carts, armoires and utility cabinets. My grandpa could build all that stuff from scratch with real tools, but it makes me feel a little capable that I can manage building those things on my own with nothing more than a screwdriver, and not always the right one. Why is it when you need a Phillips you can only find the flathead and when you need a flathead you can only find a butter knife? I'll admit I sometimes skip ahead in the instructions, especially if there are more than two steps written out under a diagram. I just look at the next picture. I don't want to read 14 paragraphs of detail. You can usually tell from the drawings where it's all headed. But I will also go back and re-read more closely when my handywork looks nothing like the picture so far. More than a few times, I've had to take something apart after finishing it because the wrong side of the board is facing out. I am also somewhat challenged by hinges and swivels. Anything requiring sensitive adjustment really depends on how much I've had to eat prior to starting the project. I have to be careful because I'm forever torn between finishing what I've started and taking a break. Breaks are dangerous. They involve a good sandwich, maybe some chips, a soda or two, what's on TV, I could use a nap...I don't necessarily want to get back to it. This means powering through to completion even when I'm not at my sharpest. Hence, doors that are a titch off when closed and drawers whose bottoms slip out and bow under the weight of their contents. Acceptable when you're contemplating a BLT. Not so hot when you're proudly touring your place and someone says, oh, is one side of that shelf higher than the other? Well no wonder all those candles are in the corner! Sometimes I'm really in the mood to put something together. Like the time my mom decided to sell our bunk beds. They were in the basement, so I took them apart, carried them upstairs and reassembled them in the garage for the sale. Sometimes I'm called upon in the darkest hour to whip pieces into place. One year my brother got a bike for Christmas. It came in a box, wheels and tubes, frame, seat, handlebars all in disarray, and I was in the basement till after midnight cranking it whole. Sometimes, admittedly, I dread a project in a box. One word: mini-blinds. A 4" x 4" square of instructions in 4 pt. Arial with a lone diagram that looks more like a football play is not enough. I can see why some people resort to newspaper or two pushpins and a towel for window treatments. For the most part, I'm game for anything that works like Legos. I loved them as a kid, but it's a little weird to still ask for them for Christmas. Since no one has taken me up on it in 30 years, I live vicariously through my nephew, Aidan. And I have to say, I was never one for dollhouses, but boy did I miss out. I put one of those babies together for my niece this past Christmas and by the time I snapped the roof into place I was thinking, I'm a girl. It would be all right to have one of these in my house, right? While we were arranging the little furniture (which, sadly, came assembled) on the various floors and making up soap operas, I was thinking, seriously, I could put one up in the loft and my nieces can play with it when they come over! Never mind they're 777 miles away and don't exactly drop by on random evenings looking for toys...but hey, "just in case." Air quotes make it okay to build more than one, right?

I've Got the Bejesus in Me

Horror movies scare the bejesus out of me. Not exactly sure how the bejesus got in me, but I can tell you it comes flying out at the opening credits, especially if the words are in white typewriter font, really small on a totally black screen with no music. All it has to say is something like "The Blooding of Duncan McGee" and I'm frightened at the mere prospect of Duncan's demise. The first scene can be Duncan bagging groceries and I'm already wondering if the tomatoes are actually killer tomatoes...my cursed imagination far outshines my penchant for logic. Most people probably find horror movies silly and predictable, but I am the one who is always startled by the crazy knife-wielding dude hiding in the closet at the log cabin on the lake. I hate that he wears a mask. I hate that his knife is grossly over-sized. I hate that he grunts like a tennis player with every strike. I think he is in my closet. Or under my bed. Or standing at the back door just after I flip off the light for the night. Movies like Halloween, Halloween II, Halloween III through Halloween XXVII have left a mark on brain for all eternity even though I only saw the first part of the first one 30 years ago. I only have to hear that "alternate-between-the-same-two notes-on-the-piano plunky theme song" to freeze in my tracks and wonder if Mike is behind me. His weird rubbery hands clutching a knife (not un-like the biggest one we have in our drawer that I sometimes chop lettuce with) and his pale face devoid of expression like the alter ego of one of those blue man group fellas. I think I was 11 when I saw what I saw of Halloween The Movie. All I remember now is that I had to sleep by the stairs at a slumber party right after and I didn't really care that they put my training bra in the freezer because I was actually alive the next morning to find out. I made the mistake of watching Nightmare on Elm Street way back when and still few evenings go by that I don't picture myself being filleted by Freddy's wackadoo claws just before falling asleep. I try to push my brain instead to Edward Scissorhands making a bunny out of a boxwood so that I can transition out of hell, but I can't shake the feeling that I will be sucked inside my mattress and spewed out seconds later in liquid form. I don't know who thinks of this shit or whether they realize the sleepless nights they've caused me. They'd probably be proud of it. Just thinking about writing on this subject has influenced my dreams the past few days. Last night I was trapped in a woodshed for a while that was lit in a greenish hue like someone was watching me with nightgoggles. I must have had them on too cuz I could see all the pitchforks pretty good. Reminded me of that scene in Silence of the Lambs where Jody Foster follows the bad guy into his basement. I don't even follow my cat into my basement and I'm fairly certain there isn't a well down there with severed fingertips at the bottom. I mean, I haven't looked in every corner. One of the lights burned out recently. I can't be totally sure. I didn't even go through a "phase" with horror movies - you know, where you sort of like them and like grossing other people out by sharing what you saw. I was never curious or even the least bit appreciative of horror as an art form. I don't know if it's really because I'm somehow, impractically, afraid to die under similar circumstances or if my mind just can't wrap itself around the act of creating scene after scene of gore, loosely tied together as boy meets girl, boy sexes up girl, girl needs to use the outhouse, girl never comes back, boy goes after girl, boy never comes back, best friend shows up at the pond, has to use outhouse, sees what's left of boy and girl, best friend never comes back, best friend's girlfriend shows up at the pond, has to use outhouse... if something can be learned from this it's hold your pee. Especially when it's dark out and you are at the pond. I wish I was one of those people who could actually go to the movie even though I'm frightened by it. Like I could watch it through my hands or something. Or look away when it's really scary and have someone tell me what's going on. At least then I could say I saw it when someone brings it up at a party. It's the same way I feel about Cedar Point and Six Flags and roller coasters that have to have a flashing light on top of the first hill so airplanes won't hit them. I wish I could just get in line like everyone else, casually lower the bar when I'm in the front car and take the next two minutes to see how much bejesus I really have in me. Because I don't watch horror flicks anymore, can't even bring myself to flip through a scary novel (abandoned The Shining half way through when I was 19 and my parents had casually moved my room to the basement) and I don't have the balls to hop the Millenium or the Superman or the mine ride at Disney for that matter, I have no idea how scared I really could be. I just assume I will be scared shitless and that's a mess I don't want to clean up. Not when the toddler next to me, smiling ear to ear, is wearing a diaper yet to be soiled. Was he even tall enough to get on?!