How to get Fired….maybe

So, I made a box. Well, technically it was supposed to be a box, but somewhere along the way it decided to become more of a circle. A rebellious box, if you will. And guess what? My wife—who is famously non-biased, totally objective, and also happens to be the mother of my children and the person contractually obligated to live with me—loved it.

So obviously, it’s a masterpiece. That’s just science.

Now that I’ve created what can only be described as a “true piece of art” (according to someone who shares my Netflix account), the question is: what’s next?

Cue dramatic music.

I was at work, minding my own business, probably Googling “how to make wood not look like sadness,” when one of our VPs walked in. She’s amazing—smart, kind, and terrifying in the way that only someone who can fire you with a smile can be. Turns out she’s into woodworking and epoxy. Naturally, I thought: I am a woodworker now. I have made one box. I am basically the Michelangelo of sawdust. Let’s make her something.

Because what could possibly go wrong with making a handmade gift for someone you deeply admire and who also controls your employment status? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is fine.

So I decided to make her a ring box. Not a circle this time—because I learned my lesson after the first box tried to moonlight as a frisbee. No, this time we’re going oval. Because ovals are just stretched circles, and stretching things makes them easier, right? That’s how geometry works. Probably.

Also, I’m basically a CNC expert now. I made one box—well, a circle that identifies as a box—and I’m just waiting for MIT to call and offer me tenure in Advanced Whirly Shapes

Off I went, like a knight on a noble quest—except instead of dragons, I was hunting exotic hardwoods. Destination: Woodworkers Source. If you've never been, imagine Disneyland for people who own calipers and argue about grain direction. Tools, slabs, finishes, clamps that cost more than your first car—everything designed to separate me from my wallet, my savings, and possibly my retirement fund. I walked in with a budget and left with a vague sense of financial doom and a smile on my face.

Now, the real question: what type of wood do I get?

I’ve already done walnut. My wife loves walnut. I’ve made her boxes, trays, a cutting board, and possibly a small shrine. At this point, if I use walnut again, she might start suspecting I’ve joined a cult. So I needed something new. Something bold. Something that says, “I care about you, but also I’m slightly unhinged.”

Padauk caught my eye first. It’s stunning—like a sunset trapped in lumber. But after checking the price tag, I realized I’d have to sell one of the kids. Probably the younger one. He’s still small, less emotional baggage. But then I remembered he’s the only one who helps me carry wood, so Padauk was out.

Then I saw it. Wenge. Dark. Mysterious. The kind of wood that looks like it keeps secrets. I was instantly smitten. I walked over to a 10-foot board that looked like it had been carved from the night sky. Perfect grain lines. Rich chocolate color. It practically whispered, “I’m the one.”

I reached out to grab it, full of hope and ambition—and promptly dislocated a few dreams. That board weighed as much as a small truck. Not a toy truck. A Ford F-150. And there I was, in my “I’m still young” jeans, with my wife watching me like she was evaluating my life insurance policy.

I couldn’t look weak. Not in front of her. Not in front of the wood. So I leaned it back, gave it a loving pat, and said, “You know what, babe? Mahogany. We should use Mahogany.”

Mahogany: the wood of compromise. Still classy. Still beautiful. And most importantly, light enough that I wouldn’t need a forklift or a chiropractor.

So that’s how I ended up with Mahogany. Not because it was the best choice. Not because it was the cheapest. But because it didn’t threaten to rupture a disc in my spine

Now that I’ve selected the wood—after approximately 47 hours of agonizing over grain patterns like I was choosing a Hogwarts wand—I hit the real question: how do I make this special for her?

Not just a normal oval ring box. No, that would be too easy. I had to go full sentimental craftsman mode. She’s Irish. Not just Irish-ish. Irish-Irish. Proud of her heritage, fluent in Gaelic sass, and a strong, successful leader at my company. Basically, she’s the kind of woman who could run a Fortune 500 while simultaneously baking soda bread and reciting Yeats. So yeah, no pressure.

What in the holy Guinness am I supposed to do to make something worthy of her? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should’ve just bought a nice candle and called it a day. But no—me being me, I had to open my big mouth. The moment the idea popped into my head, I sprinted over and told her I was making her a gift. Like a golden retriever with a power tool. Ego, meet reality. Reality, meet panic.

So here I am, staring at this beautiful slab of wood, wondering how to turn it into something meaningful. Something that whispers, “I see you, I respect you, and I didn’t just Google ‘Irish gift ideas for boss lady.’” (Even though I absolutely did.)

Back to the problem: how do I make this special?

Enter Celtic culture. Apparently, they have these things called Celtic knots. Intricate, interwoven designs that look like your headphones after five minutes in your pocket. These loops have no beginning and no end, symbolizing eternity, interconnectedness, and the exact opposite of my ability to plan ahead. Thank you, Google. You’re the real MVP.

After falling down a rabbit hole of knots that looked like they were designed by ancient mathematicians with a flair for drama, I landed on the DARA Knot. (Yes, I Googled again. Don’t judge me.)

The DARA Knot represents strength and endurance—like the mighty oak tree. It’s about personal fortitude, the ability to withstand challenges, and wisdom. Basically, it’s the knot version of her LinkedIn profile. It couldn’t be more perfect if it came with a built-in motivational speech.

But here’s the kicker: have you ever seen a DARA Knot?

It’s like someone took spaghetti, gave it a philosophy degree, and told it to express its feelings through geometry. Could I have picked anything more intricate for an inlay? I mean, sure, I could’ve gone with a simple heart or a nice swirl. But no. I chose the knot equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube made of wood.

So now I’m committed. I’ve got the wood, the idea, and the terrifyingly complex knot. All that’s left is to somehow not ruin it.

I designed the box using Easel CNC software, and let me tell you—on the computer screen, it looked like something you'd see in an upscale art gallery. Sleek lines, perfect symmetry, the kind of thing that makes you whisper “wow” and sip wine with your pinky out. But then came the DARA knot. Or should I say... the DARA not.

The original plan was noble: I downloaded a crisp SVG file of a traditional DARA knot, fired up the CNC machine, and envisioned a masterpiece. What I got instead looked like the knot had been through a breakup, a thunderstorm, and a toddler’s crayon phase. After a few weeks of trial, error, and emotional bargaining with my CNC machine (which I’m convinced was gaslighting me), I had burned through two-thirds of my precious 10-foot mahogany board. That’s right—ten feet of glorious wood reduced to a pile of “learning experiences.”

Eventually, I crawled back to Easel, tail between my sawdust-covered legs, and redesigned the knot to something more in line with my actual skill level. Think “Celtic-inspired” meets “I just learned how to use the undo button.”

Running low on wood, patience, and the will to live, I finally managed an inlay that resembled a DARA knot—or at least something that wouldn’t be mistaken for a tangled headphone cable. It took a bit of hammer finesse (read: aggressive persuasion), three weeks of nonstop sanding, and a generous coat of MONOCOAT finish because YouTube told me to and I blindly trust strangers on the internet. And voilà—I had a gift. Or, depending on how you look at it, a handcrafted bribe to hand her as she escorts me out of her life.

But in all seriousness, the inlay turned out to be the best I’ve ever done. Which might not be saying much, but hey—progress is progress. It’s an accomplishment, and I’m choosing to celebrate it. Even if my CNC machine is still giving me side-eye.