Adventures in Interior Design: INDEPENDENT WOMEN

Listening to: Taylor Swift, The National, Lauryn Hill.
Drinking: Flat Coke in a glass bottle.
Thinking about: How I managed not to eat any real food yesterday, whoops.
Avoiding: Wearing pants.

In keeping with my new goal of a saner life, I’ve been avoiding the bar scene like the plague lately. And although this has resulted in quite a bit of alone time, it’s also provided just as many doofy stories as the party life has. THANK GOD. Who says that a quiet life has to be boring? Exactly. I shall have nonsense wherever I go; that’s just the truth of Life With Me. So this story is called…


(Rolltop desk from the King’s Suite, Versailles. This desk took fifteen types of wood and twenty years to make, and is still probably not as heavy as the one in the story you’re about to hear.)

Saturday night was INCREDIBLY REBELLIOUS. I found myself at Charlotte’s new apartment, stranded in the middle of a gigantic real-life puzzle–not a jigsaw, one of the ones where you have to slide the pieces around until they’re in the right places. And I mean that: it was like an interior design version of the corn-chicken-fox riddle.

Before we could move the desk–which weighs half a metric fuckton, NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING, but I’ll come back to this–into the study, we had to move the bookshelves (and the books) into the living room.
Before we could move the shelves, we had to move ten thousand boxes into the dining room.
Before we could move the boxes, we had to rearrange the dining room so that everything would fit.
Once we’d done that, we could move the desk from the living room into the study.
Once we’d done all of that, we’d have space in the living room to assemble the coffee table, previously in a box in the dining room.

So you see what I mean.

The other problem was that for some reason Char and I were REALLY hyped up on the fact that we are “strong, independent women” who could TOTALLY do all of this ourselves. “We don’t need boys to move our furniture!” we kept shouting as we pushed another bookshelf through a precarious gap of stacked boxes. And okay, we ARE strong, independent women in many ways–but we have our limitations. Because, in the parlance of ‘The Forty Year-Old Virgin,’ we are two small girls who can’t lift an ipod. And let me tell you about this beast of a desk that we were wrestling with.

First of all, it’s gorgeous. Second, it’s six feet long. Third, it’s solid wood with drawers that do not come out. And it weighs five hundred pounds. FIVE. HUNDRED. POUNDS. And granted, we only had to move it about twenty feet but it may as well have been twenty miles for all the hell it put us through.

We could hardly lift it (too heavy). We could hardly slide it (scratching the wood floors). Halfway to the study we realised that it wouldn’t fit through the doorway, so we’d have to turn it on its side and get it through sideways. Sidewaysing the desk took ten minutes of reversing, turning, puffing and panting, not to mention some serious applied geometry. And to crown it all, when we finally got in into the study we were so exhausted that we couldn’t get it right side up again.

This was when we lost it a little.

“FUCKING BOYS!” Char yelled, ignoring the fact that we hadn’t actually asked any boys for any help.
I had just realised that my palms were bloodblistering, and said something articulate along the lines of “GAAAAAAAH!”

And then with the fire in our eyes, we both said “LET’S DO THIS!”

And with mighty Amazon warscreams, we tipped the desk right way up once again.

And oh, the celebrating! You could probably hear our bellows of jubilation from Guam. I’m also pretty sure we sang the chorus to “Independent Women” at least once, but that’s because we’re secretly Beyonce. Or at least RuPaul pretending to be Beyonce.

After that baloney, nothing else was a problem. We unpacked boxes, threw things away, cleaned and assembled shit with a maximum of efficiency and a minimum of fuss. Obviously the coffee table came with the wrong screws, a problem we handled by philosophically saying “Fuck it,” throwing them away and opening a bottle of wine.

One viewing of ‘Practical Magic’ later, it was time to call it quits. I went home at 5am feeling no pain. Alas, that was just the effects of the wine. Because the next day, this strong and independent woman couldn’t even lift her laptop onto her bed.

All worth it. Now I just have to finish (or start) redecorating my own apartment. But there’s always time for that.

Loves you!


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