Yesterday was the grand move-in / move-out day. Finally I would be out of the dorm and into my real apartment to begin what would no doubt be real and exciting life. To start said exciting, adult life, my parents came into town bearing piles of furniture and kitchen ware to get me set up. Because, let’s face it, if it was just me I would eat Ramen noodles every meal of the day and build furniture out of cardboard boxes. And I would then totally build a fort out of the cardboard boxes with a sign in the front that said “NO GIRLS ALLOWED.” But we’re getting off track here.
So, over the course of 6 hours, we moved all my crap out of the dorm and down the highway all three grueling miles to my new place. We even got The Huge-Ass TV of Death and Awesome-ness all the way over there without any injuries to ourselves or the TV. I consider that one of the few physical miracles of this age, considering the size of the TV, the size of myself, the distances traveled, and my tendency to fall down all the time.
Rather than actually set anything up, we just sort of piled everything in the middle of the room and I’d get around to setting up later on. First, we must hit the Wal-Mart to buy all those things that I take for granted that people would have in their apartment that I most certainly do not have. Like trashcans. And a broom. And lights (but we’ll get to that).
Wal-Mart continues to and will always be my true arch nemesis. Fighting through the hoards of small, screaming children and climbing over the backs of fallen, less hardy shoppers, I found an excellent box of cut rate dishes that serve 8, a set of 6 steak knives in a cool wooden block, a skillet, and a standing lamp, all for about 30 bucks. Which is why even though we may hate each other with a fiery passion, I will always come back to Wal-Mart.
Oh yeah, so I definitely needed that lamp. Why, you ask? Because did I mention that while my apartment is hella awesome, it lacks lights? Yeah, there are no lights in the living room, or either of the bedrooms. Yet, both bedrooms come with strange-looking “Emergency Buttons” that come attached to the wall at waist height and hang from short cords. Obviously someone got a little confused on priorities somewhere during the construction process.
Anyways. Now it is time for the most fun part of the day, bed shopping. For an awesome new bed is to be my graduation present, so’s I don’t have to sleep on the futon anymore, much like a hobo. However, we hit something of a problem as we realize that beds are freakin’ expensive in Dallas. To the tune of 35% mark-up from back home. So no bed for Jason, until Wednesday.
My parents head on back home, now that I’m nicely civilized. I take a breath, look around my new place and the large pile of crap I now have. Sooo exciting.
*********************
Majority of the crap is now finally in its proper place.
Alright, time to cook dinner for myself. Huzzah for Ramen noodles. And the automatic sandwich maker. Sweet.
However, issues always arise. Because as I am carrying my steaming bowl of noodles to the table, I step on the border between the tile and the carpet and get a foot full of tiny carpet tacks. “Yow,” I say. But I recognize that I have a bowl of extremely hot liquid in my hand, so I do not freak out and flail like I would normally when impaling myself on a bunch of spikes. Congratulate myself on newfound cool, calm demeanor.
Suddenly, telephone rings. Turn to answer it, pour boiling liquid from the noodles all over my hand. Go blind temporarily from the pain. Noodles go everywhere. Recover sight, place bowl into sink. High pitched shriek. Hand under the water. Ahhh, much relief.
On the plus side, I completely forget about pain in foot.
So for the rest of the night, I must keep my hand in water, or have a cup nearby to reapply when pain comes back. “S’alright,” I say. “All part of being an adult.” I clean up the noodles (none of which touched anything but tile, thank God) and recover on the couch.
Hm, still need to put the futon and the shelves together. Will be difficult with injured hand, but must persevere. Adults must go through this sort of thing all the time. Begin work on the futon. Must apply large seating area piece A to outer frame piece B. No problem. Screw #1 in place. Move to other side. Attempt to place screw #2. Hand still wet from glass full of ice, piece A slips out of my burned hand and falls onto previously unharmed hand, sandwiching it between two large, unwieldy pieces of metal. “Yow,” I say again.
Decide that perhaps adults have a bit more common sense and grace than I. Will attempt to continue this process tomorrow, when hands and one foot are throbbing less. Huzzah for adulthood.
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