Hello blog fans, remember me? To be fair, I didn’t get internet at my new place until one week ago, so I did have a decent excuse why I haven’t been blogging. Plus I’ve been busier than a one-armed-paper-hanger (who came up with that expression?)
So as many of you know, I FINALLY got my new place in St. Louis! After a stressful and crazy experience with my mortgage company, and more than a billion phone calls to my Realtor, I got the shiny new keys to my very own home.
I feel the need to say that again.
MY VERY OWN HOME!
I have a washer and dryer! I get to put holes in the walls! I can paint if I want! I have a zillion sheets of paper with my signature on them! I have mortgage payments (booooooo!) For the most part, home ownership hasn’t been much different than home-rentership, but it just feels different somehow. I feel more accomplished, more grownup than I did before. And not the sucky, boring kind of grownup, the AWESOME kind. The independent, I do what I want, I fend for myself, I can paint my walls neon green if I want kind of grownup! Feels pretty fantastic. (And no, my walls aren’t neon green…but its nice to know I have options.)
Moving into the new place was relatively uneventful, depending on who you ask. God bless the men in my life (father, brother, brother in law) because without them I would STILL be hauling boxes up three flights up stairs. Mother nature, that tricky bitch, decided to make it 90+ degrees outside, so all of the moving and stair climbing was exhausting to say the least. Luckily my couch fit up the stairwell, and we didn’t even have to resort to any Ross Gellar “PIVOT” moments. And happily I’m not fancy enough to own super fancy furniture (aka all of my stuff is particle board) so nothing was too terribly heavy either.
There was only one big project we had to undertake when I moved in, and that was hanging up a kitchen cabinet. See, I have a small kitchen. When I say small kitchen, I mean I have one drawer. Go look in your kitchen right now, chances you have at least seven. Well I have one. So there was this big empty spot on the wall next to the window, and I asked the seller to provide me with a cabinet. They agreed, but said they wouldn’t provide the labor, they’d just provide the actual cabinet. Alright then, I have a fairly capable father, I’m sure he can hang up a cabinet pretty easily.
So we unbox the cabinet, and my fa-ja begins the process of trying to screw it into the wall. He ran into one problem…he couldn’t tell if the studs were metal or wood, and his stud finder wasn’t quite finding the studs reliably. He needs to see behind the drywall, but left his X-Ray glasses at home. So I’m sitting at the kitchen table, visiting with my friend Heather, and all of a sudden I see my father start HACKING AT THE DRYWALL IN MY KITCHEN WITH A HAMMER. My brand new home. My pretty new drywall…and my father is beating the piss out of it. I immediately whimper/scream, sink lower into my chair and then went into the fetal position, all while my mocking family points and laughs at the destruction. Through the newly created hole in the wall he is able to find the metal studs, and he feels confident hanging the cabinet…just as long as I promise to keep my lightest items in there. His suggestion? Cotton balls, feathers, things like that. Useful kitchen items like that.
So since I am not exactly a Rockefeller, I haven’t purchased that many new items for my home, with the exception of a bookshelf. This particular bookshelf was a $30 cheapie from Target, and was very clearly labeled a “2 Man Carry” on the outside of the package. Well I don’t have two men, so I figured I could lift the damn thing myself. I’m fairly strong, so I was able to lug the stupid thing up a few stairs at a time, (lifting with my legs, not my back!!) and would take a break every few seconds so I wouldn’t pass out.
Well, I’ve mentioned that I live on the third floor, but somehow I had forgotten that small fact. In the heavy-bookshelf blur, I somehow mistook the 2nd floor for the 3rd one. I lugged the furniture over to “my door” and stuck a key in the door. Huh, funny, the knob wouldn’t turn. So I take the key out, check to make sure it’s the right one, and stuck the key back in. Again, it wouldn’t turn. I’m starting to get really confused when all of a sudden I hear “Uhhhhhh….HELLO?” from the other side of the door.
My immediate thought is “SOMEONE HAS BROKEN INTO MY APARTMENT!!” (and apparently they changed the locks?) Then I realized it. I didn’t see my doormat. The number outside of the door is not right. And oh yeah, I’M ON THE WRONG EFFING FLOOR.
I immediately squeak out an “OH! I’m sorry! Wrong apartment!” and with a massive dose of adrenaline, I hoisted that billion pound bookshelf over my shoulder and RAN up the stairs to my place. I have avoided the 2nd floor like the plague, and haven’t run into her since. She probably bought a security system anyway.
So that’s how I met my downstairs neighbor. Can’t make this shit up.