When Bookcases Are Extremely Persuasive

Somebody! Anybody! Please come to my place of employment and slap the hell out of me. I completely need and deserve it.

I accidentally scratched my new hardwood floor in the master bedroom. I impatiently waited for Tim to return from the store. The whole time staring at the out of place bookcase sticking out like a sore thumb.

There it stood. Me looking at it. It looking at me.

"You don't belong there," I thought.

"Move me then," it said.

"I can't," I said "I have to wait for Tim. He said he'd be right back. He needed a Gatorade."

"But you know how you hate disorder. Move me." it taunted.

I couldn't stand it any longer. Just a little scoot. What could it hurt?

SCRATCH!

Fucking A! Sonofabitch!!! You have got to be kidding me.

I licked my finger and ran it over the slender scuff on my beautiful, but damaged dark hardwood. Why do we do that? Try to use our spit to fix things. Stains, scratches, etc... Anyway. So my saliva did not magically fix my colossal FUCK UP, but my hubby wasn't mad about it-- which did surprised me.

Then I began thinking. Ummm. If a bookcase could scratch it with a little scoot... then my kids will destroy it completely in 4.5 hours and 52 seconds.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Dammit fate. I envisioned a little Hot Wheels Cutlass slowly scraping across the living room floor. At the same time, a colorful xylophone dropping loudly against the dining room floor. I saw myself potentially running around like a mad woman yelling at all three of them to STOP, STOP, STOP and them not listening until... it's too late.

Oh Geez. So aside from rugs, I have to come up with a plan of action regarding the maintenance of my wood floor which will be installed throughout the living room and dining room next weekend. It's an already finished wood, but maybe a polyurethaney (patent on that word pending) concoction could be put over the top of it to protect it from my rough ass children and their neurotic mother.