Fully moved into my new apartment (yaaay). There are boxes piled a mile high in the center of my room, but still. Everything I own is in my new, beautiful apartment. I will take pictures later, but last night I was too occupied KEEPING MY WORLD FROM FALLING DOWN AROUND ME.
To begin with, many thanks to my wonderful friend who patiently helped me move everything. I was so excited when we exhaustedly dumped the last of my belongings into the center of my room and will be forever grateful. However, my excitement didn’t last long. I ambitiously set out to assemble my bed together by myself (which I’ve done before) and failed to take into consideration the cramped quarters of my cluttered bedroom. Long story short, I leaned one way to nudge my bed an inch or two…and the bed did not nudge. My bed did not nudge but I did hear my wrist crrrrack! Not a pop, mind you, since several have been asking for clarification. No, it was a crack, like someone cracking all of their knuckles at once. Only in my wrist.
Hmm, I thought, that kinda hurt. I flopped my hand around once or twice. Wiggled the fingers. Felt kinda weak, kinda achy, but otherwise hey–I have unpacking to do! So unpack I did.
Until about 7 PM. I got hungry. Starving. Famished. One of my new roomies, we’ll call her Helga, handed me a Papa John’s coupon we’d received in the mail that very day and it sounded spectacular. Papa John smiled at me and held forth a cheesy, greasy pie of goodness and promised I could purchase one for $8.99. In a minute I was on the phone with the Vestavia Hills location requesting they send some of that magical tastiness my way.
“Uh…we don’t serve your part of town, you’ll need to call either Inverness or Irondale.”
So, I ring-a-ding-ding Inverness and Mr. Pizza Boy stops me short. “We don’t deliver past the Summit, if even that far. If anyone would serve you, try Vestavia or Irondale.” If anyone?? I breathe deeply and avoid hyperventilation by reasoning with myself that pizza delivery joints have every inch of this fair nation covered. And so I call Irondale.
“Yeah…we don’t deliver to you. You’re in somewhat of a dead zone.”
“What do you mean I’m in somewhat of a dead zone?”
“Well, you are in a dead zone. We don’t deliver to you.”
He chuckles, unaware of what I’m like when I’m hungry and denied PIZZA, and so is completely caught off guard when I go on some thinly veiled “polite” diatribe about how it’s not really fair to send coupons to people in the mail when they can’t even order a freakin’ pizza and really, although I know you’re not Papa John or even a real pizza boy because you just answer frickin’ phones and take orders all day, you should know that some idiot bigwig in the Papa John biz is mandating that thousands of coupons be printed and sent out to thousands of people in a “DEAD ZONE” who cannot order a single slice and maybe you should find Papa John and tell him that.
That is a complete and champion example of a run-on sentence, folks, but since that’s roughly how I expressed myself to that poor guy, I stand by it.
What I got for all that?
A chuckle and an “I know, it’s kind of redundant, isn’t it.”
Dominos, it turns out, still loves me and I was able to get over my gimp wrist and being slighted by Papa John enough to go back to my lair to unpack some more.
At this point though, having vented at length about pizza, I will simply sum up the rest of the concerns of the evening in short hand:
-Kill little red roach. Cringe and hope it just got in when the door was propped open for the move.
– Feel wet spot on carpet. Sniff. Contrary to first instinct, it is water coming up though the carpet (somehow) and not pet urine. Small victory in otherwise undesirable situation.
-Deduce AC unit is leaking. Into my bedroom. Sweet.
– Sleep fitfully because, really, my wrist is actually becoming quite painful.
-Wake up with George staring psychotically at the wall above my head. Toss him aside, switch on light to see what he is fixated on.
– GIANT EFFING ROACH ON MY EFFING WALL. Fact: hideous and loathsome insects appear infinitely more horrifying against red wall.
– thisclose to emotional breakdown. Suddenly scared room is infested with roaches. Probably all as freakishly large as this one.
-Simply cannot face battle with mutant roach and leave it to take over my room. Go sleep fitfully on couch in the fetal position. Some tears may have been shed.
And that, in a large nutshell, was my last day of being 23 years old. Which, honestly, was kind of symbolic of much of this last year for me. But whatever.
Today I discovered George stalked and killed above roach during the night (good kitty). Maintenance fixed the AC unit (still up for evaluation, actually, but it seems a little better). My wrist kills–some of the peanut gallery swear I’ve done damage and the everyone else swears I’m fine– and I’ve always been neurotic, so I’m getting it x-rayed tomorrow. My friends made me feel special and loved. And my roommates took me out to dinner so I didn’t have to eat leftover Dominos.
Here’s to hoping year 24 trumps 23 the way today trumped yesterday (not that it was that hard to accomplish).