The Apartment: Part Two

20 Oct


Continuing the transformation of my abode. Yesterday was the excursion, today: assemble.

Step Four: Assemble.

Seven hours. Eight Stores. One Drive-Thru coffee shop. Several thousands of dollars later. I emerge from fluorescent lighted jungle of a Bed Bath and Beyond somewhere in the suburbs. I hadn’t meant to get so far off course, but the mission took some strange turns. I am as elated as I am exhausted. I manage to secure every item on my list and still come in a bit under budget. (The International Woman of Mystery is more fiscally responsible!) I’ve still got some wedding savings left, but I’ve also got a wardrobe to assemble. Other assignments to complete.

I’m cruising down I-25 in my rented truck, feeling overjoyed by my success, when it hits me: I still have to build all this crap.

I have never actually built anything in my life, save for a lopsided jewelry box for my mother in 7th grade shop class, but the International Woman of Mystery would never be deterred by such circumstances. I consult my GPS and make one final stop before heading back to the apartment.

At the neighborhood hardware store, I purchase my very first tool kit: a modest array of 39 basic tools. The sales boy tries to talk me into some pink set “just for ladies” but I smirk at him and go for the bigger box. I vow to learn to use all 39 items, just to spite him.

On the way out, it occurrs to me that my fortress will also require some home security. I buy a can of mace, a mousetrap and a baseball bat for good measure.

Step Five: Relish.

By the time I carry every piece of equipment into the apartment (with the help of one good strong neighbor) and return the truck, it is late. Too late to build anything. I am starving and practically delirious. In all my effort to beat the clock I forgot to change out of the heels and my feet are now throbbing. One more night on the air mattress won’t kill me.

I order a ham and pineapple pizza and a liter of soda. I am too tired to even set up the new television. Note to self: work on stamina. Instead I put on my new bathrobe and pour myself a Diet Coke in a champagne flute. I bought the stemware instead of tumblers. I once read somewhere that there is no shame in drinking milk out of a brandy snifter, but no self-respecting lady of society would ever drink wine from a juice glass.

I fire up a movie on the old laptop and toast to my new life.

–Jenny G.


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