Everyone has been rearranging furniture and dust these past two days. My father decided a few months ago that he wanted a standing desk.
I always imagined a standing desk would look something like this,
and therefore it would be expensive and we would never actually get one.
One day however, I came home and my dad's new standing desk was lying on my parents bed. This little desk actually resembled a black and depressing children's play table. It was meant to balance on top of a normal desk, moving your workstation to a place so high you could only work while balanced on your tiptoes.
Having ascertained that the standing desk would balance ONLY on the clunky wooden desk in the kitchen, my father decided we would have to swap the desks in the kitchen and the bedroom. Simple enough for an ordinary house.
Unfortunately my family lives in a 'starter home' (slang for eenie weeny house), and both my parents have the souls of old English scholars and the books to prove it.
First we had to unpack the desks, (some of the shelves went on the squirrel cage and others with the dinner pans), and then we had to unpack and move a kitchen bookshelf. Next went the four hall bookshelves, which I helped move even though I could not actually pick up any of them. My father did not know how useless I was being, and so he moved them all essentially, himself. As of yet he still does not require medical attention.
By this time we had moved half the items in the house to the floor, and both ways into the house were blocked off. My mother began to feel strange and I had a moment of panic trying to imagine how the EMTs were going to make it inside, before she informed me it was just her diabetes being difficult.
The dogs decided around then that they needed to go outside, and when I simply shrugged and said 'too bad' they took it upon themselves to eat everything resting on the ground.
We ate lunch balanced on our knees, my father standing up because there were only two chairs available and he had to get used to a standing desk anyway. After lunch Dad growled out something about the state of the dishes and I made a sound like a goblin to avoid an argument (I am the resident dish cleaner). It worked well.
Dad and I managed to drag the desks into place while the dogs weaved back in forth under the heavy things we carried, and then we moved all the shelves back. Replacing the books was a raucous affair, my mother wanted to get rid of a few books, my father wanted to get rid of the whole bookshelf, and I kept finding stacks of books secreted around the house that made them argue over which books were worth keeping and whether Dad was hard to get along with.
Now the room rearrangements are somewhat pleasing to the eye, though I am slightly concerned that my mother's desk will collapse under the weight of some of her things.
I am looking forward to moving the turtle cage into my room tomorrow. This is a much better idea than my father's desk moving plan, because it requires the moving of no bookshelves at all.
I do think that all this moving stuff has given me plenty of exercise, so that's good. I've now exercised three days out of four? Where are my ripped abs? Oh I know, hiding under the fat. Sigh.
I always imagined a standing desk would look something like this,
and therefore it would be expensive and we would never actually get one.
One day however, I came home and my dad's new standing desk was lying on my parents bed. This little desk actually resembled a black and depressing children's play table. It was meant to balance on top of a normal desk, moving your workstation to a place so high you could only work while balanced on your tiptoes.
Having ascertained that the standing desk would balance ONLY on the clunky wooden desk in the kitchen, my father decided we would have to swap the desks in the kitchen and the bedroom. Simple enough for an ordinary house.
Unfortunately my family lives in a 'starter home' (slang for eenie weeny house), and both my parents have the souls of old English scholars and the books to prove it.
First we had to unpack the desks, (some of the shelves went on the squirrel cage and others with the dinner pans), and then we had to unpack and move a kitchen bookshelf. Next went the four hall bookshelves, which I helped move even though I could not actually pick up any of them. My father did not know how useless I was being, and so he moved them all essentially, himself. As of yet he still does not require medical attention.
By this time we had moved half the items in the house to the floor, and both ways into the house were blocked off. My mother began to feel strange and I had a moment of panic trying to imagine how the EMTs were going to make it inside, before she informed me it was just her diabetes being difficult.
The dogs decided around then that they needed to go outside, and when I simply shrugged and said 'too bad' they took it upon themselves to eat everything resting on the ground.
We ate lunch balanced on our knees, my father standing up because there were only two chairs available and he had to get used to a standing desk anyway. After lunch Dad growled out something about the state of the dishes and I made a sound like a goblin to avoid an argument (I am the resident dish cleaner). It worked well.
Dad and I managed to drag the desks into place while the dogs weaved back in forth under the heavy things we carried, and then we moved all the shelves back. Replacing the books was a raucous affair, my mother wanted to get rid of a few books, my father wanted to get rid of the whole bookshelf, and I kept finding stacks of books secreted around the house that made them argue over which books were worth keeping and whether Dad was hard to get along with.
Now the room rearrangements are somewhat pleasing to the eye, though I am slightly concerned that my mother's desk will collapse under the weight of some of her things.
I am looking forward to moving the turtle cage into my room tomorrow. This is a much better idea than my father's desk moving plan, because it requires the moving of no bookshelves at all.
I do think that all this moving stuff has given me plenty of exercise, so that's good. I've now exercised three days out of four? Where are my ripped abs? Oh I know, hiding under the fat. Sigh.
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