Five years + two bassists + one string theory guy + a professor's designs =

the gloriousness that is this . . .



That's right, my friends, the built-in bookshelves are done! Aren't they spectacular??







Now, once upon a time and not so long ago, indeed at the very turn of this year, yours truly was working in this very same space. But this very same space? It looked like this:



The shelves, which were begun by Bassist #1 (Demetrius) in 2003, were not usable from 2003-2008. As regular readers know, Demetrius was hired by that punk-ass bitch, let's call him Dowie Hay, to go on tour soon after he started to build the shelves in August 2003 and my shelves were shelved on Demetrius's list of projects. I have been bitter about this for years. They were unfinished and unstable, ripping off the walls in many places. My books were scattered all over the garret. Those books in the picture above were thrown haphazardly onto the shelves, completely unorganized. Narcissistic String Theory Guy came along in the Fall of 2003 and built me a pretty cool desk. That was pretty nice of him. It looked like this (though I added the wine and coffee stains later):



Jump to 2008. The saving of some pennies, the frustration of many years with books in utter disarray, and this winter's blast of mad nesting energy led me to hire Bassist #2 (my ex-boyfriend, The Boy of 2005) to complete the project.

The project is completed! I spent the whole weekend doing some touch-ups then finally finally FINALLY placing the books here and in other shelves around the house according to the intricate organizing system I have spent OH I DON'T KNOW THE PAST FIVE FRICKIN YEARS conceiving. Sweet fancy moses but it feels good.

My advice to you is this. Unless you are talented and experienced in the art of carpentry, never ever build anything in your house. It will take you more time and more money than you have, especially if you have no money because say maybe at the time you are an assistant professor who just bought an attic in an expensive city. Do not do this even (or especially?) if you have many friends who are musicians and also carpenters. Also--and this is very important--no matter what the commercials say and the many home improvement t.v. shows imply: you cannot do it and Home Depot cannot help. Seriously.

Worth it, though? Completely, totally, utterly. Because this room, as simple as it may look, is the room I have been dreaming of inhabiting since I was a teeny book-loving little girl.

More pics of various steps of the project below.

I may have been impregnated by aliens

Aliens because no bassists have been around (in that particular pregnant-making way) in recent months and impregnated because I am acting in what I consider to be pregnantly ways. Or maybe I am just behaving in the manner of the Real Live Bona Fide Gen-u-ine Crazy Person I may have become.

To wit:

--I am nesting like a madwoman. The nesting includes all manner of intensive spring cleaning (yes, in mid-January--remember, pregnant with alien or batshit crazy), reorganizing, and redecorating plans. I have even hired my ex-boyfriend, The Bassist of 2005, to finish the Unfinished Built-in Bookshelves and Work Space of Doom--the bookshelves begun by Demetrius before he was hired to play bass for rhymes-with Dowie Hay and left in middle of the project to go on tour with that little punk-ass bitch, Dowie Hay. I tried to finish them, but in turns out I am not handy with wood. (Shut up, Beavis.) Narcissistic String Theory Guy added some touches here and there, because he enjoyed playing with curves and angles, but they have remained woefully unfinished, unpainted, and pretty much unusable. Enter The Bassist of 2005 to finish the job--this month, for an excellent rate. Hurrah! Yes, all the bassists I know are also carpenters, and I apparently have to have had sex with anyone who becomes involved with the shelf project.

--I want to eat everything in sight as long as it is: not good for me, fattening, and/or outrageously starchy, salty, or sweet. Right now I would eat nothing but chicken wings, hashbrowns, and Golden Oreos if I could. (Warning: Do not go the way of the Golden Oreo. I provide the link only so that you can learn to identify and avoid this dangerous cookie. It took me a full year to lose the 12 pounds I gained when I quit smoking pretty much by replacing cigarettes with Golden Oreos.)

--I am craaaaaaaanky. Yesterday I flipped off an elderly woman in a Buick (granted, she cut me off and made me skid on ice), had a fight on the phone with my dental hygienist (what do you mean I can't keep rescheduling my appointment at the last minute indefinitely??), and verbally castrated a couple of Uppity Boys* in my first class (usually I save verbal castration for week two at the earliest).

So what do you think? Am I with extraterrestrial child? Have I finally gone mad? (It occurs to me that the preceding two questions do not constitute an either/or proposition.) Or is it a deep dark cold days of winter thing? Do I just need a drink? An oreo? A bassist?



*Do you know the Uppity Boy type? The ones who try to undermine the authority of an attractive young(ish) professor by flirting with her in class discussion? I have been teaching only upper-level courses for a few semesters and so I haven't encountered it in quite awhile. Jesus, is it obnoxious.

Televisions in the attic: the early fallout

Not being able to turn around without running into a television is going really really well so far. To wit,

1. I was in the kitchen--the one televisionless room in the garret--cooking dinner the other night. I was feeling oddly uncomfortable, but I could not quite put my finger on why. It just seemed quiet somehow, which did not make sense because I had music playing. I decided to replace the music with NPR. Yes! Voices! This was better. But they were strangely disembodied, I thought, and--long story short--I brought my laptop into the kitchen so that I could watch The Closer on DVD while cooking dinner. Sad sad sad.

2. I am addicted to The Closer and some episode of some season is likely to be on on the laptop or any one of my t.v.'s at any one time. The Grand He mentioned the show the last time I saw him, saying he loved it and it reminded him of me or us or some mysterious something that made me too curious not to want to check it out, but I hadn't had the chance to Netflix it until recently. I am almost through Season Two. I love it. (By the way, my sister claims she can't watch it for more than five minutes because Sedgewick 's Southern accent is so badly done. I think I've been away from the South too long for it to bother me, though I do cringe over certain words like "because" and "thought.") I see several obvious reasons it makes The Grand He think of me and a couple of not-so-obvious. I am not sure I am at all comfortable with some of these reasons.

3. In the past week and a half, I have had dreams about this person, this person, and this person.* I should not know who these people are much less be hanging out with them in my dreams.

4. Now first on my WWMD** job list is truck driver, not only because of this conversation between my father and his grandchildren but also because of the best reality show of all time, Ice Road Truckers. Turns out my father is also a self-proclaimed fan of this show. This is an amazing statement, because my father (being a staunch character, as Little Edie might say) is not the sort of person who claims to be a fan of anything. He also fully supports my fallback career plans. As he sees it, truck driving is my heritage. Of course, I am not aspiring to the ice road trucking. No. That would be like the RI of truck driving.

5. Silence has become a beautiful thing again. Sometimes I find silence distracting, but now . . . ahhhhhhhhhh.

*TMI asterisk: One of these was a really great sex dream. I am not saying which.

**What Will Medusa Do (if she does not get tenure)

Robin Red Breast*

This is one of my favorite neighbors. She has a nest in the neighbor's chimney and spends a lot of time in the tree outside of my kitchen window. Isn't she lovely?





*Not to be confused with Dr. Crazy's friend, Fire Tits.