Zen and the Art of Nothing.

Leaving work last week, I was seriously tempted to make up fantastic plans for the weekend.  You: “What are you doing this weekend, magda?” Me: “I’m so glad you asked!  Tonight I’ve been invited to a black-tie dinner at the Italian embassy, then I’ll do my Saturday morning volunteering early before jetting off for the weekend with J in the Virgin Islands, where we’ll share a little bungalow and tropical drinks and plenty of warm sunshine till Monday night.” You: “Liar!”

You would, unfortunately, be correct.  J and I had tentative plans to head up to his parents’ house in NY, but that dissolved when J was called away on work-related affairs all. freaking. weekend. On the side of his still at times undecided career, J helps manage a band, at least as far as their legal affairs are concerned. That band has a recording session this weekend, and as their lawyer he pretty much needs to be there to examine the contracts, rights disclosures, etc., etc. that go along with it.  This has left me pretty much to my own defenses this weekend, which I initially thought would be a bit of a drag.  I was wrong.  There’s something really precious about nothing., and I think I’ve just been too busy with everything to notice.  I haven’t had such a lazy few days since after finals, feels like.  Even when I’m not out with J or various other DC friends, I find myself busy, with an agenda; go do this, see this, find this.  Not this weekend.  This weekend has been all about me; my own little rejuvenating spa, right here in this apartment. 

Welcome to the spa chez magda, a priceless little oasis in hectic city.  Our qualified relaxation specialists are at your beck and call, and will assist you in finding tranquility and inner harmony for three blissful days.  Highlights from our service menu include:

• long mineral baths with your choice of wines from our extensive counter-top cellars
• kitchen adventures, including forays into spiced nuts and kick-ass cookies
• organizational help, bringing you a step closer to your resolutions by guiding your closet inventory and removing unworn and extraneous items
• breakfast in bed, featuring beer pancakes, a chez magda specialty (born of the college days of yore, when we wanted pancakes but had run clean out of milk in the house.  Beer to the rescue! So light and fluffy.  Totally amazing, and forever a staple since).
• pajama parties involving ice cream, popcorn, Chinese takeout and a veritable Doris Day movie marathon
• construction projects.

 

That last bullet references a bookcase-building adventure I entered into Saturday, which really was quite monstrous but worked out in the end. 

I have a lot of books; many that I read often, some that I like to look at, and a fair number of school texts that realistically should have been sold back, but that I couldn’t part with.  I read them! Look how big and imposing they are! I’m so smart!  Or something along those lines. 

In any event, most of them got left at my parents’ house when I moved out here.  My moving company was essentially the good ol’ guys at UPS: I didn’t have that many effects, save some not -really-worth-its-weight IKEA-style apartment furniture.  My sister, having just gotten married at the time, was all too happy to relieve me of me of the bulkier pieces.  The rest went into the boxes, but books are frighteningly expensive to ship—thus, they mostly stayed behind. 

My mom was slowly shipping them, stretching installments out over a few months in those handy flat-rate boxes.  I was always delighted to receive them—look, remember these? I loved this one!—but I really had nowhere to put them once they were here.  I’d line them all, carefully and ordered, along my bedroom baseboard.  Mom visited last March, and she was having none of that.  “This? This is what you’ve done with the books I’ve shipped?  No more until you get a proper bookshelf!”

I thought about this for a time, but like other things, it slipped my mind.  I didn’t so much mind the books-on-the-floor scenario; not ideal, but it worked.

Seeing all my books being held captive at home over Christmas had me quickly singing a different tune, however, and I resolved to find a bookshelf post haste.

I found the winning candidate at the Crate & Barrel outlet (which I love, by the way—the store, that is).  Also, outlet prices=good things, less money.  Also=good things, no delivery men to come and assemble them.  Hmmm.

The first problem was when the box of disassembled bookshelf wouldn’t fit in my car.  Come on! I drive a compact sedan.  It’s not like I’m tooling around in a Miata or something, seriously.  In any event, the loading dock guy and I spent a rousing twenty minutes ripping open the box and reloading the pieces into my backseat.  Of course, this meant that it took me about four trips from the garage to my apartment, lacking now the cohesive box-ness of it all.

There were frequent references in the directions to “with another adult,” and “you’ll need two people for this step.” Whatever, said I.  Hurrah for the single people! Hurrah for independent competence!  Hurrah for not relying on another!  Except, I think another person might have actually been useful in this instance.  The thing was a complete fiasco to build, and there was actually a point at the end—the very, very, absolute end, when all that was left was to slide the shelves into place—when they wouldn’t go.  It just wouldn’t come together.  It was then that I realized that the very first piece was in backwards, which was like a massive blow to my go-single-girl ego. However.  I am not the kind of girl who goes around letting bookshelves win, so I took it apart and rebuilt it in its entirety.  It was quite fulfilling, at the end of it.  Now I can look at it and say, biatch bookshelf, I own you.  I know all the sweat and tears that went into building you.  So there, I win.  Hold some books or something.

Photos, to commemorate this momentous feat:

 before (chaos!)

…And after (perfection!)

I seriously should be allowed at least one day like this a week.