A Totally Dramatic Story Involving A Bookcase, Part II.

On Saturday, shortly after deciding upon apartment-therapy-by-way-of-bookcase-installation, I discovered that a guy on Craigslist was selling one (a bookcase, I mean) at a reasonable price. And within 24 hours, Brad and I had driven to Washington Heights, money had changed hands, and we were the proud owners of an IKEA bookcase which was affordable, exquisite...

... and outrageously heavy. When we met the charming young furniture-seller, he took one look at me and said, "I think your husband and I should carry this while you wait by the car."

(I was gearing up to be righteously indignant until the two of them came staggering back out of the building with the first few pieces. Beads of sweat were visible on their foreheads, their eyes were bulging, and they were emitting guttural, caveman-like grunts. At which point I made the executive decision to save the anything-you-can-do feminism for another, more appropriate occasion.)

After maneuvering the disassembled bookcase into the car (more bulging and grunting) and getting lost while driving back to Brooklyn (still more bulging and grunting, though this time for different reasons), Brad turned to me and said, "Let's just take this out of the car tomorrow morning."

"Okay," I said.

This, for the record, is the reason why the bookcase was still in the car when Brad kindly gave me a ride to a rendezvous with my friend later that night.

It is also why I was not totally surprised when he called me approximately fifteen minutes later and said, "The bookcase went through the windshield."

Lesson of the evening: Braking abruptly when you have large pieces of wood balanced on the backseat is A Problem.

Other lesson of the evening: Knowing that you are going home to a car with a hole in the windshield is a good incentive to drink too much wine.


Other, other lesson of the evening: Drinking too much wine and then attempting to talk about feminism with your friend's fiance will lead to the sudden realization that a) it is 3am, b) you are slurring your speech something fierce, and c) you are repeatedly using the phrase "vaginal penetration" in conversation with somebody who you have only known for approximately 45 minutes.


And so, as I lay in bed later that night and waited (unsuccessfully) for the room to stop spinning, I knew that I could no longer put off...

The Installation of the Bookcase, With "After" Photo.
(To be continued.)
(Yes, this is what passes for a cliffhanger around here.)