The Right to Assemble

Never mind Mars and Venus. There’s nothing like a do-it-yourself project to bring out the beast, er best, in both men and women. This one came in a long, flat, heavier-than-it-looks box full of parts marked with letters of the alphabet. In my euphoria at finding just the right desk for my computer after months of stalking office supply stores, I assumed everyone in the house (Bill Dear) would share my joy and jump at the chance to put my new desk together, whistling a happy tune like so many dwarves in a diamond mine. It turns out this particular mine was missing more pieces than a yard sale jigsaw puzzle.

“Where did the boys go?” Bill looked around the house as if subcontractors would pop up from behind the recliner.

“They’re both out of service. One is napping and the other is at Gumpy’s house killing zombies. You’ll get help from little shoemaking elves before you get anything out of those two.”

Luckily two enthusiastic helpers appeared suddenly in the form of our Mostly Labradors, Hunga Din and Whatzit. Hunga specializes in outdoor labor, such as supervising the weekly trip to the dump and barking at the lawn mower. Whatzit takes over the indoor chores, such as chasing stray beams of light and barking at the vacuum cleaner. Combined they are an awesome team, and in minutes they successfully scattered all the desk parts throughout the house, chewed a decorative pattern on one leg (not mine), and placed muddy paw prints on every bit of the instructions that came after the “If You Speak English” section. Thank goodness they were on the job, but if either one spoke Mandarin Chinese, that desk would have been in place within the hour.

“Don’t worry,” I chirped scraping up spare screws and particle board dust from under the coffee table. “I’ll be glad to help you.”

Bill Dear rubbed his face, a sure sign that he was counting his blessings.

“What do we do first?” I asked, waving a hammer. I try to be patient, but the man is something of a slow starter. He insisted on inventorying the parts and locating the instructions. Meanwhile I practiced my hammering on a scrap of artificial woodgrained paneling-type material. Lord knows, they name office furniture parts like they name snack food. The first time I came across macaroni and cheese product with artificial nondairy flavoring, I thought it came from the toy store.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Bill Dear is given to hysteria when confronted with a take-charge woman.

“Practicing my hammering,” I answered, holding the panel up for inspection. I have to admit I was pleased with the results.

“Great.” More face rubbing.

I smiled contentedly.

“Except that you used the nails we need to put the backs on the drawers, and you filled the modesty panel full of holes.”

He never appreciates anything I do. No wonder nobody wants to help.

“Here.” He handed me a sheaf of paper approximately the size of War and Peace. “Tell me what to do next.”

“Well, take these instructions and. . .”

“Watch it.”

“I was going to say wipe them off. They’re covered in muddy pawprints. I can’t tell where to insert Part B.”

Bill made strangling sounds. I decided he must need a drink of water, so I got up and carefully made my way to the kitchen.

“Would you stop kicking stuff out of the way?”

About that time I hit a spot that was supposed to be carpet, but turned out to be cardboard box, slick as Elvis’s hairdo and long as a mullet. I surfed the living room deep-pile like a seasoned pro at Big Sur, dismounted with a somersault at the hallway, and threw my hands in the air like an Olympic gymnast after a solid gold vault.

Bill Dear was neck deep in my file drawer. “Hand me the specialty screwdriver on the table, will ya?”

“Star?”

“Well that was a great landing, but I wouldn’t turn pro.”

Next time I’m paying extra to have the store put my purchase together and deliver it.

The right to assemble puts a serious damper on my pursuit of happiness.

Nonny Nonny NaNo

My husband is participating in NaNoWriMo, an acronym that translates into human speak as National Novel Writing Month. Participants pledge to write a novel of 50,000 words in one month. That’s sort of like condensing the time it takes to have a baby from nine months to four weeks, with a minute or two at the end for hard labor or editing.

He confessed he'd signed up using the tone of voice he ususally reserves for admitting that he ate the last of the Halloween candy while I'll digging under the couch cushions for a Snickers wrapper that still has a smudge of chocolate left.

“I’m doing NaNo”

“Isn’t that something kids say to taunt their friends?”

He's hunched in front of his computer like a cat in a rainstorm. Scattered notebooks and assorted pens and markers cover his desk. My husband has a serious attachment to office supplies, but I can’t really blame him. I have feelings for fountain pens and sticky notes that verge on obsessive. He peers at me around a mound of wadded papers. “Not Nonny Nonny. It’s Nano.”

“That sounds like an old Irish drinking song. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“You’re not listening,” Bill begins to buff his head rapidly with one hand, a gesture that indicates one more well-timed remark will turn him into a spitting mess. Let's watch the fun.

“It’s NaNoWriMo.”

“Is that some sort of mystical religion?”

“No it’s. . .” He’s sputtering.

“Don’t let Madonna know. You’ll be wearing matching bracelets in no time.”

It’s cruel, I know, but the man was so tense, he couldn’t cross his arms without shooting the wax from his ears. There’s a certain amount of nerve involved in agreeing to write the Great American Novel in less time than it takes to pronounce the name of the author of War and Peace.

If you think Halloween is scary, you should try living with someone who's trying to write a novel in a month. Screaming banshees and headless horsemen are nothing compared to a man poised at the line of scrimmage who realizes his plot is still on the bench.

If he spends as much time writing in November as he did jotting down plot points last month, he’ll have a long enough novel to divide into a trilogy, two screenplays, and a set of leatherbound reference books.

According to the rules, bylaws, and official list of stuff to do, he could outline til the consonants come home, but he couldn’t write a word of the novel until the clock ticked us into November. Last night he was so full of metaphors, he couldn’t sneeze without blowing adjectives all over the monitor. I expect before the month is up, we’ll have to call Vanna to buy back some vowels.

In the meantime, I have to find something to occupy my time to head off my obsessive interest in this project. Perhaps I’m just remarkably intuitive, but it strikes me that somewhere around the 372nd time I inquire about his progress, he just might bounce his Webster’s off the part of me that makes the best target.

So for the next month you can find me working jigsaw puzzles and slinking nonchalantly back and forth past his desk trying to steal a peek at the computer screen.

And you can find him buffing his head.