Moving is dirty. And also? It sucks.
Did you know that your shin bones are natural Hard Surface Testers? Especially in the dark of night, in an unfamiliar house, after you've slipped down four stairs in your socks and stood up full-tilt into the ceiling beam above the handrail and you can't tell if those stars circling your head are actually there or if you're just stoned again. That is the exact time your shin bones will encounter something of the most extravagant hardness, and also stationary-ness, that your brain will actually explode and for a second you won't even care that the dog is eating your eyeball off the floor.
Of course I also bang my shins any time a metal bed frame is involved. And I do mean ANY time.
We bought a second hand (eew, I know) bed from a woman on Craig's List because my grandmother is coming to stay later this month and I decided not to make her sleep on the floor after all. When we arrived, we realized that the bed was not dismantled and waiting for us in her garage, but instead was fully assembled on the second floor of her townhouse.
Since I know my history of shin-to-bed frame interaction, I promised the bed woman that although it was certain that I would injure myself while taking apart the bed frame, I promised not to get blood on anything. After I'd successfully whapped my poor right shin with the metal cross bar of the bed frame, I hurried downstairs to show bed woman the bleeding cut on my palm and to brag that I hadn't smeared it on the walls or anything.
I could tell she was very impressed.
Fast forward to a scene of Gray and I struggling to force a decidedly too big, non-bendy, queen-sized box spring up our very tiny, also non-bendy, Barbie-sized staircase, and witness my brilliant decision to place my already-lacerated palm between the corner of the box spring and the wall just as Gray decided to heave his entire body weight and all the righteousness of the heavens into his end of the box spring, and hear the resulting crunch, POP!
That was the sound of my thumb crumpling. And also, the staples from the corner of the frame entering the juicy meat of my hand.
Suddenly I'm hungry for pork tenderloin.
Anyway, so I'm still alive, although my shins would like to argue the contrary, and we are starting to get settled into the new house (which means A) that I can find my underwear now and B) that Gray has thoroughly tested the toilet's abilities) so hopefully I'll be here much more frequently henceforth.
|That's the dining room back there. Can't you tell by the ceiling-high stack of mis-matched chairs?|
|Moving is hard work.|
And also, I need some kind of self-exclusion form for Craig's List so that if I try to log onto the website, armed guards will show up and escort me (gently but with authority) back to Google where I belong.
A ninety-five-year-old house can only accommodate so many couches, you know?