I blinked. I was now sitting on the floor with the bracket upside down, a screwdriver in my mouth, and the instruction page missing. Page 7 (the crucial "lower shelf alignment" page) was just... gone. Erased. Covered in what looked like old coffee.
It stands. Barely.
This is the moment of truth. You press down on the surface. If the table wobbles, you don't just tighten a screw. You have to go on television (or Instagram Live) and explain to your followers: nixon coffee table assembly instructions
Warning: This post contains no actual political scandals, but it does contain high stakes, a few missing washers, and the potential for a very wobbly leg.
Every time I put my coffee mug down, I wonder if the surface is bugged. Every time my dog bumps into it, I flinch, waiting for the "third-rate burglary" of the whole thing collapsing. I blinked
I have no memory of what happened during that time. Did I assemble it correctly? Did I strip the threading? The world may never know. I call it "plausible deniability." Step 7 is brutal. It tells you to flip the table over onto its feet.
Read the instructions three times. Trust nobody. And for god's sake, tape down the rug before you start. You don't want those missing dowels rolling under the sofa where they can conspire against you. It stands
If the table stands firm? You have won the election. You pour a whiskey (or a ginger ale) and stare out the window at the Chesapeake Bay. After three hours, a lot of sweating, and one unconfirmed report of a stripped screw in the Southeast corner, the Nixon Coffee Table was built.
Here is what I learned from trying to build democracy... I mean, furniture , the Nixon way. The first step reads: "Inventory all parts before beginning. Do not trust the pictures. The pictures lie."
Is it sturdy? No. Is it ethical? Probably not. Does it have a dark, polished finish that hides the stains of red sauce from last night's pizza? Absolutely.