I think I've scared the husband

I am trying so very very hard to be calm, but I'm having a tough time. I have once again been vanquished by the assembly of furniture.

It's not even furniture, really. It's just plastic-coated wire grids that are supposed to fit togather to form cubes in which to store shoes, say, or blankets or-- according to the picture on the box-- a single beach towel, a soccer ball, 2 sweatshirts, 4 books, 1 magazine and a jar of gumballs.

And I have failed miserably in their construction. The little plastic bits that they claim were created expressly for binding these panels together were too small for the job and, when pressure was applied, would fling themselves across the room, scaring the cats and eliciting all sorts of loud and profane curses from me.

It's not supposed to be this hard, the construction of things. It's not like I went to a professional cabinet maker's and insisted they give me the wood to make a Louis XIII ornamental armoir. I got this at the supermarket. The directions are written in pictograms, more or less. This isn't even an IKEA quality furniture puzzle. I should be able to put this together without the need for alcohol, pills and a safe distance between me and other living creatures.

Well, I'm slightly calmer now, having thrown the stuff into the fireplace and stormed up to type out my rage. I'm still pissed, though this font doesn't accurately reflect that.

I'm going downstairs now. The husband has made pasta and my rage *could* be hypoglycemia related. Insulin Emily does have a very low tolerance for things not working.