I’ve got some tools, let’s drink ‘em!

Moving is a time honored tradition that dates back to the beginning of the bible when god told Adam and Eve to get the fuck out. It is still as pleasurable now as it was then. Probably just a bit more expensive. And you are more likely to get screwed over by a cable company.

Sometimes, though, moving means you get some new stuff…like furniture you can’t afford or have the room for. And SOMETIMES there is a person in your life who insists that they are going to get that for you. Which means you have like an hour of saying how it’s appreciated, but not necessary, then fifteen minutes of insisting on only getting the bare necessities, and then you go absolutely ape shit and start inquiring how much the gentleman’s chest costs and if there is a more expensive reclaimed wood option.

This is pretty much how I lost my way. I swore I would never be the guy who had a headboard on his bed. What is that? I have a wall and if I want my bed jammed up against something it is going to be the wall that came as part of the package deal with whatever landlord I just gave all of my money to. But when you start looking at new bedroom sets, there is a guy there talking to you about headboard options and how they are modeled after barn doors, but for some reason have USB plugs in them.

New furniture was purchased, thanks to someone else’s generosity, and all we had to do was wait. Wait until I had to scramble to disassemble an old platform bed that I just recently watched a professional struggle to deal with and check with my insurance company to see how my deductible was doing because there was almost no way I wasn’t going to need a trip to the ER.

To help make sure that I was going to get to tell an ambulance driver to “hit the cherries,” I borrowed some tools. Not that I don’t have my own tools. I do. Well…most of them were my dad’s tools and they are coated in a very manly dusting of rust. That makes them vintage. But I figured the easiest way to tear through this motherfucker was to get a drill and just GO. TO. TOWN.

I started flipping through the manual for my old bed. Just the fact that the bed came with a multiple page, magazine sized manual was a bad sign. Two things immediately jumped out at me. The first: this manual’s absolute insistence that someone else assist me. You know what, manual, I was home alone and I had a delivery window of between 8am and when I decide I don’t need any furniture and should just live in the woods, so it needed to be done the night before. The second: it’s lighthearted manor of telling me that I “can skip the drill.”

FUCK YOU! I have a drill! I went out of my way to get a drill and I don’t feel like taking six hours to give myself carpal tunnel and scar up my very pretty knuckles. I’m going full Buzz Lightyear in here and I need MORE power, not less. Stupid manual. Which, by the way, takes up a significant amount of page space telling me how to put the drawers on the bottom of the bed together. Well, the joke is on you, Hemingway…I’m not even going to take those apart!

I didn’t want to wait around much longer because the gas station fried chicken I had for dinner was already not sitting right, so my next step was to hurt my back trying to drag the mattress across my apartment. It didn’t go that much better from there. Long story short, I only cut myself like twice, but discovered the earlier spoken of professional who struggled with the bed did more of a mime job than actually securing it and I found about half the screws laying somewhere under the damn thing instead of keeping it together. I was basically one overly dramatic bedding commercial impression from flopped right through it and directly into the bowels of hell.

I felt appropriately manly by doing a small home project and turned back into the soft disappointment to my ancestors that I normally am by just pointing where we wanted the new furniture to go to the guys who couldn’t help but comment on how heavy it all was. Yeah, guys, I know. Barn doors aren’t light, so if you would be so kind as to place the gentleman’s chest over there, it would be much appreciated. Thank you.

Maybe it’s all heavy enough that the next time it needs to be taken apart I can’t do it myself. Maybe it’s all just a bit too big and I have to stand to the sides of my drawers when I open them, but to quote the most revered poets of my generation, “I guess this is growing up.”

I moved, I got new stuff. I have reached a part of my life that my parents achieved much earlier in their lives by embracing credit card debt. And now I’m the kind of asshole who has a headboard. Resting ever so close to the already provided wall, but not enough to mess up the paint and swallow the security deposit.

So, sure, if you are going to move, I recommend getting new furniture, but I also recommend never fucking moving. I very romantically looked my girlfriend in the eyes and told her, “If they try to fuck us with a rent increase after the first year is up, I will burn the ever loving shit out of this community.” She ignored me and kept sliding the door on the gentleman’s chest, saying, “Like on a barn!”

2 Comments

  1. I’m fascinated by the term “gentleman’s chest.” In my mind you have a barn door headboard, and a large, life sized replica of Clark Gable’s pecs on your wall. (He always seemed like a dapper gentleman to me)

    Like

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