I hope that all my little freshman friends read this and
choose not to make the same mistakes that I did.
The past three days have been a set of incremented move-ins.
Monday was the monstrous furniture day, yesterday was the unplanned appearance
at the homestead where I dropped off my water bottle day, and today was everything
else plus myself hastily shoved in the back of the van and unceremoniously
dumped in my bedroom day.
Of course, because my family is so adventure-prone, it’s been
much more than a move in. In my mind, at least, it more resembles what would
happen if someone built a plaza containing Bed Bath and Beyond, Forever 21, Target
(always), and a used book store on the top of Mount St. Helens, and it went off
in my house. Which wouldn’t happen, of course, because Mount St. Helens is in
Washington, and most contractors know better than to build shopping complexes
on active volcanos. BUT. It is done. Regardless of volcanic activity, it is
done. We just need to go to Target (again) for some minor omissions, but the remainder
of my existence is organized in a set of plastic shelves and six drawers, and I
am currently sitting in the very comfy blue armchair with my laptop and my lap
desk, typing away this beautiful story as I soak up the air conditioning that
WE DON’T HAVE TO PAY FOR BECAUSE WE DON’T HAVE A UTILITIES FEE! WEEEEEEE!
I’ll just tell you the story before I start jumping around
like an idiot.
Monday, as I mentioned, was the shippin’ of flippin’
ginormous furniture day, but it was also Mommy-goes-to-work day (as it is every
day, and yet we still have not learned to cope) and Big Little Brother’s first
day of junior year at his old school, and Baby Brother’s first day of eighth
grade AND first day ever at the aforementioned school. Naturally, transport of
oversized furnishings was second priority. That morning, I got up at whatever
ungodly hour was required to get them to school on time, brushed my teeth,
drove that stupid route for the millionth time while realizing being around that
school still makes me sick to my
stomach, dropped off two boys, two backpacks, ten thousand sets of football
gear, forty million books, and America’s stock of writing utensils, and spent
the drive home bawling over how old they are now. (As you can see, emotional
instability is going to be a theme of this post.) Exhausted, I came home and agreed
with my dad that we shouldn’t leave until eight-thirty. I woke up at
nine-thirty and didn’t care. But finally, with everything stacked tetris-style
in the back of his vehicle (a.k.a., the baby monster truck, to give you an idea
of how much crap I have), we migrated towards the mod, passing the time with a
nice, awkward discussion about how holding hands leads to pregnancy. Don’t ask.
(For reference, a mod is basically a mobile home, split in
half between two living assignments and their corresponding ant colonies, and
built with walls that threaten to fall over when you hammer into them, but
probably won’t. Ours is blue.)
Everything went off without a hitch, because I had Daddy,
and Daddy has chosen to ship our family across the country with twenty times
the amount of boxes before. Twice before. We’re experts. Really, if we’re
honest, it was easy because all we did was set down boxes of stuff in the
respected rooms, put a few bottles of cleaning supplies under sinks, and mutter
about where the furniture should go. He offered to help move a couple of
things, but I said no thanks, because we didn’t know what other furniture was
coming, and if it did, we knew boys that could help us. Looking back, that wasn’t
the best idea, because Daddies hate not helping their daughters almost as much
as they hate when they know boys.
He doesn’t need to worry. I moved my desk myself, and apparently
all the boys we know have done is leave the toilet seat up in our bathroom and
comment on how our apron defines our societal role.
I wasn’t actually planning to come back yesterday, but it so
happens that after I had to get up at another ungodly hour to drive my brothers
to school again, my roommate (Camille) and I were asked to be makeshift caterers at
our other roommate (Kelly)’s grandpa (Earle)’s funeral reception (may he rest
in peace; from what I heard, he seemed like a really boss grandpa), and I ended
up driving her (Camille) home. Lo and behold, she already is in residence at
our modular apartment. Instead of driving home from there, though, I thought, “Hey,
why not make this move in a hundred times more complicated than it has to be?”
Seeing as my mother works at my university (no, I’m never going to get away), I
figured we might as well save gas, and she could take me home and then drive me
and my avalanche of belongings in her van the next day. I left my water bottle
in the fridge, so I count that as a minor yet necessary step of the relocation
process.
I just want everyone to know this: waiting until ten at night to pack
when you’ve been up since seven and have been on a bogus sleep schedule since
May is probably the stupidest thing you can do, not only because you’ll move
more slowly, but because you’ll spend a lot of time staring at the floor,
wondering why you can’t just get up in the morning to do it, convincing
yourself you can stay up, deciding to take a shower, doing the world’s tiniest
load of laundry, walking outside to unlock and start packing the car, and realizing
that the moon is really pretty and you should sit in your driveway and journal
about it instead of looking for your philosophy textbook. Sometimes I tell
myself I think more clearly at night than most people. This would not be one of
those times.
This morning, I woke up at the most frighteningly early hour
of them all, with none of my boxes or bags or multicolored, dorm-section-of-Walmart
storage units in the car, and (shocker) made my mom late for her carpool,
because we still couldn’t find my philosophy textbook (my dad took it and then put
it back and then my brother did his homework on top of it or something). She still
bought me coffee, which I spilled on myself and the parking lot and the twelve
napkins I accidentally pulled out of the dispenser. And we actually still got
her to work on time…holla! All I had to do from there was drive to my little mod
and voila! The story is over!
But you see, the story is not over, because despite the fact
that I have several friends, even guy friends, who vouch for my driving
abilities, this week has not been very good for my self-confidence or my car’s shocks.
Of all the trips I have made this summer, the worst trip I have made was from
WEST TO EAST CAMPUS OF MY SCHOOL, in which I went the wrong way out of a
parking lot, realized it when I was approached by another car containing my mom’s
coworkers, ran into a small wall to avoid them, ran a red light (barely) to turn
onto a street, and bumped the car next to mine’s mirror with my door. Worst. Drive.
Of. The. Summer.
Aside from yesterday, when I was almost flattened by a truck
driver on a cell phone.
And had to cross the double line of the carpool lane to get
to an exit.
And drove into the curb.
And ran another red light.
…
I’ve spent the rest of the morning with the car parked, trotting
back and forth between the mod and the vehicle in an old T-Shirt and gym shorts,
hoping no one comes by and realizes that I’ve given up on life. But really, if
you can’t organize and unattach your hangers with any sort of poise or control,
you really start to wonder what has made you think you could even come close to
passing Organic Chemistry.
I have found myself thinking things like, “Wait, why did I
pack this sweater? I decided I was not going to pack this sweater. I didn’t
want this jacket either! What’s wrong with me!? WHY AM I SO STUPID!? HOW…hmm…actually
I might wear this.” Or, “I really don’t think I can bring these pictures from
high school to decorate my wall, because…wait…who are these people.” Also, “How
the heck am I going to fit all these pants in this drawer if it’s so dang small?”
(for your sake, I edited my thoughts, and for my sake, I folded them) I have searched
high and low in the car for razors that were actually neatly packed in a jar. I
have realized, that despite all my roommates’ efforts to make their work and
living spaces creative, fun, and pretty, all I brought to decorate was a wooden
frog and a poster of Katniss Everdeen. I have debated on whether or not I should
set up the giant mirror, and of course, chose to err on the side of narcissism.
I have brought a few things that I didn’t need, like bubbles, play dough, season
one of Royal Pains, four pairs of converse (I know, right? I was supposed to
get another one for my birthday, but everyone forgot), and measuring cups that
are shaped like turtles, but have forgotten a few vaguely important life
implements, like band aids. And socks. Somehow, I have miraculously organized
my desk, but only with the help of an entire drawer dedicated to nonacademic, “fun”
things, namely, every movie that every girl brings to college, ever. I even threw up a little (that was weird, and I'm fine now). Now I’m eating Cheerios straight out of the box.
Something is wrong.
But all the same, all is well. I am here, finally. We have
some great chairs, some great appliances, and one too many bath rugs. Our roommate
painting is unfinished, but for an unfinished painting, it looks pretty dang
good. We have a vinyl couch, which is good, because bed bugs don’t like vinyl
(they are the classiest variety of parasitic insects). I have a giant pillow I can
jump down onto in the mornings so I don’t wake all my roommates up when I crash
to the ground from the top bunk. We have a guitar that no one can play and wind
chimes that play themselves. We have an apron that does NOT define our role in
society and magnets on our fridge that almost spell out our names. We have four
different air fresheners, because at the moment, we are more comfortable with
the destruction of our ozone than our closest friends knowing what we actually
smell like.
I am home.
WE are home.
Well, once Nicole gets here. And Kelly.
Until then, Camille and I are home.
Actually, Camille's gone.
...you get it.
fin.
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