In need of soothing
I’m in the midst of a serious diet. I’ve lost about 20 pounds. I’m pleased but I can only say “about” because one day I weigh a few pounds more, the next day a pound or two less. There are many pounds still to go. I guess over a long, long time it will all even out and as long as another Cheeto never passes my lips, I will be a svelte wren once again.
With the help of nicotine patches I’ve stopped smoking after 32 years. I’m halfway through Week Three.
I’m going through menopause. Sometimes I’m very happy, sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I want to bite through leather straps and then hide under the bed until everyone everywhere goes away. I have no idea how long this will last. I’ve heard it can take from two years to two decades. I’m hoping for the former.
My stupid, hinky, arthritic wrist hurts. Feels like someone stuck a picture nail in it. I’ve been doing too much lifting and pushing of heavy objects lately, mainly because without cigarettes, I’m unable to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. The Wren’s Nest is cleaner and neater than it has been in years. Its transformation has kept me from chewing my hands off.
Now, consider: Mr. Wren and I just purchased a tall entertainment center which looks like an antique wardrobe. We both love it – it’s beautiful. It was rather pricey; not the sort of thing we indulge in more than once an eon or so. Two strong fellows just delivered and placed it in our living room. We decided to go ahead and move the TV, VCR/DVD and DVR machines into their new home. That way, I can get all the other furniture back into place, which will help me be calm. And serene. We unhooked everything. Mr. Wren carried the VCR/DVD over to the box shelf built into the upper part of the “wardrobe.” It’s obvious that this box shelf is specifically for machines like this; they’ll be neatly perched above the television set.
To our … surprise …the VCR/DVD machine doesn’t fit. Nor does the DVR when we try it. Turns out both of those machines are exactly 17 inches wide. The two sections of the box shelf, which has a divider in the middle, are exactly 16 7/8 inches wide. One-eighth of an inch too small for the machines.
There are a couple of options available here. One is to call the store at which we purchased our beautiful new piece of furniture and have them take it back, then move all the other old furniture back into place and try to forget this conundrum as if it was nothing but a bad dream. The other, which is what Mr. Wren has decided he’ll do, is to “shave a little off both sides of the divider so the machines will fit.” I have no idea how he plans to do this, but just before I put myself in a safe place so I wouldn’t injure him (this isn’t his fault, after all), he was carrying scaffolding from the store room into the living room. Well, not scaffolding, exactly, but a huge ladder-thingy which can be used as scaffolding if one needs it for that purpose. He set it down in front of the tall entertainment center which looks like an antique wardrobe. Then he said that before he tackled the problem, he’d make himself a nice salad with plenty of cucumbers.
I’m furious that a furniture manufacturer would make an expensive piece of furniture with shelf spaces that are just slightly too small for standard-sized electronic machinery. Mr. Wren says that the manufacturers of the machinery don’t make everything to a standard size, so how can the furniture manufacturer know what size to make the spaces?
My opinion is that both the manufacturers of furniture and of electronic machinery must be men, or they’d communicate with each other about these things. However, if seems they don’t. So here I am, trying to calm down. I want a box of sugar donuts. I want a carton of cigarettes, a good lighter and an ashtray. I want a gin and tonic, or at least a glass of wine, but they’re all off limits because of the damned diet. I would really enjoy a nice, big toke, if it was legal, and I’d love it if the hot flashes would stop this instant.
I don’t fit under the bed anymore. Perhaps if I keep on like I am, I will before long, and when things like this happen, I can visit with the dust bunnies while Mr. Wren gets out his power tools.
I’m going to go make myself a soothing cup of green tea, which is supposed to be good for all sorts of things. Then I guess I’ll watch while he “shaves” an eighth of an inch off either side of that damned divider in the beautiful new antique-like wardrobe entertainment center. I’ll say Ohms and practice deep breathing. Wish me luck.
Update: I’m back here in my den. Joining the living room scaffolding is the fan, set on “high,” as Mr. Wren has broken a mighty sweat. I would offer to help him, but I know I’ll just be in his way. When he’s doing things with power tools, yardsticks, tape measures, electric drills/screwdrivers, hammers, nails, molly bolts, pencils and ohmigawd, the electric planer, I know I’ll be as useful to him as a bicycle is useful to a fish. In the meantime, I keep hearing long, irritated sighs from in there – no actual foul language yet. His cane has clattered to the floor several times. This scares the dog and makes me jumpy. Soon, I’ll sneak out and busy myself making us some dinner – salmon, fresh broccoli, more salad with lots of cukes. And tomatoes. I’ll feed my sweet wannabe carpenter and retreat. It’s probably the safest thing I can do for both of us.