I learned how to break into front doors in college. I’m very irresponsible with keys. My mom will tell you. She told every one of my college roommates before she even introduced herself. “Hi, you must be (insert name of psychotic college roommate of choice). Stacey is very irresponsible with keys. Oh, I’m her mom. Nice to meet you.”
So the skill came in handy when I needed to break back into my dorm room after a shower, say, or when I’d left my
bag of pot books inside. I’d like to make it clear right now that I’ve never, ever used this skill for nefarious or otherwise illicit reasons. It’s only ever been used to break into my own residence – or the residence of someone who explicitly asked me to do it for them in a pinch – in an attempt to retrieve my (their) own things, or just to sit the eff down because I’m eight months pregnant and it’s god damned cold outside.
It’s never taken me more than ten minutes before. So to the following useless tools of B&E I’d like to say “blow me:”
- Stems of plastic flower arrangement
- Wires inside stems of plastic flower arrangement
- Various thicknesses of cardboard
- Zip tie
- Wreath hanger
- Shingle that blew off my roof
- Piece of extra thick sandpaper
- Errant chunk of siding
- Kid who sent my husband a box of Hot Wheels with postage fucking due, necessitating my leaving the house to go settle up with the mail carrier in the first place. You, sir, are the biggest tool of all!
Also, to the lid of the pint of strawberries in the garbage beside my door: Bless your clear little plastic heart. You may be the bane of the environmental movement, but you will forever be special to me. =)
So, I bought a changing table. It was used. A girl had it for sale on our local garage sale Facebook page. I’d gone back and forth about getting a changing table. “Couldn’t I just change them on the floor,” I asked my stepdad, who had helped us get the nursery ready to furnish and had just moved a mini fridge and armchair into it for my helpless, pregnant ass. He laughed, shook his head, told me the first time I had to change them at three in the morning with less than two hours of sleep I’d be begging for a changing table.
The room is just so small. It’s so small. And the back part of it is my poor husband’s “man cave.” Our nursery was once his room. His computer, all of the things that he brought with him when he moved in that really didn’t match anything in my house. His Hot Wheels collection and his Rammstein posters. Now everything of his is shoved into a tiny little back room that’s really nothing more than a very small walk-in closet. I’m trying to think of a way to convince him to take my office (since I’m never in it anymore). My motivations are selfish. I just want the extra space in the nursery.
Anyway, I bought this changing table because it was the right price. Problem was that it was the wrong color. It was white. I’m talking white-white. I’m talking, like someone had done their daughter’s nursery in princess theme. Our stuff is rustic. Distressed. Wood grain. Neutral colors. Muted, neutral colors. This changing table was…just…so…white.
So I decided I’d need to roughen it a bit. I spent yesterday – the majority of yesterday – running to pick the thing up and then beating and staining it so that it would look old and, well, beaten. I sanded it down, extra hard on the edges, gave it a brush of Minwax, let the Minwax get just tacky, then wiped it off and stood back to admire my work. Take a look!