Furniture Building: The Most Emotional Hobby Ever
I am currently enrolled in a “machine woodworking” furniture building class at OTIS design school. Of all my skills/hobbies—photography, videography, sewing, painting, decorating, x-acto-ing—building furniture is by far the most emotionally taxing.
Wood has a personality. It can be beautiful, quirky, temperamental, or down-right ugly, but always faithfully obstinate. The learning curve of making lumber conform to your demands seems conquerable from a distance, but once you’ve started, it surprises you with cruelly steep inclines, wicked hairpin turns and an infinite amount of switchbacks.
The Poor You Will Always Have With You
My junior year in college I lived in a 100-year-old house that I am convinced was built on ancient tribal burial grounds. The plagues upon that house would have caused Pharaoh to send me an empathetic text, “Feel ya bra. Sry u been havn dat shyt. FUBB. CYAL8R :’-( XOXO PhayZ.” Well, you know, that is if I had owned a cell phone, texting had existed, and I had given my digits to Pharaoh.
The previous tenants had taken most of their pets with them, save one pregnant cat, but the fleas had abandoned their nomadic lifestyle, established planned communities in our house, and waited for food to come to them: 20-yr-old toned, tanned legs. Rats slid across our sloped kitchen floor as we pulled lopsided cakes out of the oven. Lethargic flies took over our bedroom, a swarm so lazy that we could pet their wings before we killed 12 of them with one swat. Mosquitoes and roaches go without saying— it was Texas. Waco was annually infested with legions of smelly crickets that clouded the lights at gas stations, carpeted every available inch of concrete, and even tried to enroll at Baylor by sneaking into the dorms. Feral cats waged wars at night in our backyard leaving stiff kitten casualties for us to dispose of in the morning. Four friends, who had spent months looking forward to living together, instantly became vengeful enemies at the slightest provocation. And, our neighbor, who had lived in the house before us but moved to the apartment garage in our backyard, was killed in a motorcycle accident. We were on some cursed ground, y’all. As a Christian I’m probably supposed to be above such tribal spirits superstition, but my Native American ancestry salutes the verse, “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”
Spring
A few weeks ago I drove up to Fresno and back in one day just to take photos of fruit blossoms.
The Case of the Scrunchie Monkey
I am not a fan of monkeys. I don’t want to see them at the zoo. I don’t want see them on youtube. They creep me out. They’re too human-like. And they have an eerie sense of fashion. They know that scrunchies should never be worn in your hair. Ever. They think scrunchies are much better suited as a relay baton. Logical. Scrunchies make the ideal baton: you can wear them on your wrist and avoid dropping them from your sweaty hand. Actually, it’s quite an ingenious improvement on the relay race. But there’s one fault in this monkey logic—other than the scrunchie-baton would quickly become a sweat-soaked wristlet—okay, two faults. The second: in the monkeys’ relay, the hand-off is exchanged with their teeth.
“Stacey, what’s with your vendetta against monkeys? Every monkey I’ve met has been quite amiable and has never tried to play teeth-relay with me.” Well, have you ever met the monkey chained to the tree next the trailer across from the motel outside Fredericksburg, Texas?
The Forgotten Return
Here it is. Finally. Again. This is my third attempt to launch a personal blog. I tried eight years ago when you were a geek if you had one. Then I tried five-ish years ago when you were trendy if you had one. And now, I’m starting again when you’re either a passé cliché or a savvy entrepreneur if you have one. My bank account hopes for the latter. But really, I just hope to win back my three fans. Their quiet loyalty stands wearily resolute as the cold Siberian wind whips at his coat collar, taunts the limp cigarette butt stuck to his chapped lips, and tries rip away the tattered “Vote for Stacey” sign from his fingerless-glove grasp. This is the rugged allegiance of my three fans. I owe them a triumphant return! Or at least a humble hello.