Travails of shopping over the past few days, all with the installation of hardwood floors in mind:
Home Depot
Wikus and I made a quick run to the Home Despot (ha, we're so lame) to get a copy of his key, so I would have access to his apartment while my hardwood floors were being installed (I have President's Day off, so I couldn't avoid the dust by going to work).
The particular Home Depot we went to is shiny new and everything is out of order from the Home Depot that was closed down a few blocks up the road to make way for this one. We were good and asked where the key-making station was at. Once found, it was unattended, and I was scrutinizing the machines, and was saying out loud that I was pretty sure that I could make a key in under three attempts. I looked up to see if Wikus found this to be a good idea (he is way taller than me), and I see this Home Depot clerk totally lurking behind Wikus and giving me the stink eye. I stared at him, expecting, oh, I don't know, perhaps a "can I help you with something?" He totally wasn't going to bite, so I finally said, "Yes, we'd like a key made." I said it rather politely, if not a little pointedly, and he grunted, rolled his eyes, made some gestures at some other Home Depot clerk who just passed him to go down an aisle. It was this pantomime that suggested, Don't you know that I don't do keys, gawd. Then he scampered off and retrieved the other clerk, who was very polite to us and made the key. Gawd!
Einstein's
Shit, I've become one of those women. Someone who is totally creating a traffic jam at the cash register, because she doesn't have shit remotely together. Ugh. I was at Einstein's to get The Boy a coffee and bagel, since he is locked in the house all day while the floors are being installed. I do not particularly like Einstein's, and really hate the lay out of the place. I am also a crazy ninny who does not like going places by herself. Yes, I am in my mid-thirties and totally need my hand held, or at least let me sit in the car while you go in and get things for me (or us). However, this was something I obviously had to do to be considered a nice and good lady friend. Then there I was, struggling to find something to pay the cashier. Nothing in my wallet. Fish around in my bag some more and found my debit card and driver's license floating freely. Pay the lady, then I felt the need to put the cards back in my wallet but was having difficulty for whatever reason accomplishing this. Bag kept slipping off my shoulder, was trying to hold a cup in one hand while forcing my license behind the plastic window of the wallet, while totally freaking out over what a poor job I was doing, and was anyone annoyed, because dammit, I'm totally annoyed with me. Jesus. I practically ran out of there. The cashier was very nice and just stared blandly at me the whole time. I appreciate that. If I had been her, I would have said, "Ma'm, do you mind doing that over there away from the rest of the paying customers?" I've done my time in retail, I know how horrible I was as a customer today.
IKEA
The Boy has a totally different way of looking at bookcases than I do. I like them to be messy with books all which way, and decorated with various items, like toys, cards, small and large figurines, whatever random shit I put on them. This gives The Boy messy brain, and he feels it enables him to be messy with the rest of the house (oh, the piles of papers he can create). The bookcase I had in the living room was not very conducive to a neat orderly style. It was totally open--just boards on metal braces. It is very pretty, but also very easy for books to fall off the sides, especially when the cats would get up there and knock them over to the ground with kitty glee.
I decided to go to IKEA and drop some serious money on enclosed bookcases. I came up with a pleasing design (different widths and heights), and got over my ridiculous anxiety of shopping alone. The nice thing about IKEA is in the warehouse section, they have computers that help you locate the aisle and bin number of the furniture, if you do not feel the particular need to walk the whole maze to find the items, and write down this information. That's my style of shopping--the dash and grab (and pay). Since I do not enjoy meandering about browsing while avoiding the dumbfucks who standing in your way, as if their ass is the only person allowed in the store (breathe...), I felt staying in the warehouse was the best way to go. I looked up my items, one was in stock but not in the right color. Which was sad for various reasons, but then I decided to not let this foul my plans. I got the item (two) in white, and plan on spraying painting them a lovely turquoise blue (the walls are red, and turquoise and red is such an awesome color combination).
The next part was a hilarious dance of me struggling with a cart and the various boxes I needed. Some were totally easy to grab and maneuver on to the cart; the others, um, well, it took some thinking and a working knowledge of physics. I managed to finagle five of the boxes on to my cart without causing any serious injury to my internal organs (I do expect bruises on my groin and thighs). The last box was the heaviest at 74lbs. It was also around 7' long. There was a lot of tugging. A lot of sighing. A lot of wishing I wasn't wearing a sweatshirt and a coat. There was some desperate glancing around with my eyes to see if I could find a yellow-shirted IKEA employee. Finally one came by and he looked me up and down in my struggles--he totally was not planning on coming my way, he had more important places to be, and I understood that, but this thing weighed 67% of my body weight (I did the math!). I vainly tugged some more while staring deep in to his eyes with my sad, help-me face, and he turns on heel, walks over and says brightly, "Need some help there!" Oh, that's the way you want to play it, young man. Fine. I'll let you totally do that because I am out of energy to get sassy with you. Obviously I need help--look at me, look at that box. I don't give pathetic eyes out to anyone. Luckily, it took him some effort to put it on my cart.
Then self-check out. My scanner wasn't working. The cashier lady (who stands at the self-check out to make sure none of us steal anything) had to come over and futz with the scanner to get it to work. Finally we got it all together and off to my car I went. Yes, car. No truck or van. Car. More shoving, groaning, pushing, finagling. More physics using the cart and floor of hatchback as leverage. And, dammit, I got all six boxes in there by my little self. When I left, I was told there would be IKEA employees outside to help load cars. Bullshit. And since I am such a strong woman of pint size, I did it. All. By. My. Motherfucking. Self. Two of the boxes were about 2" too long, and therefore I had to twine the hood to stay down while I drove 70mph down I35. I totally made up the procedure on how to do that. I used a lot of twines and knots. I own a beautiful knot book, which I sadly did not bring with me. So my knots were probably pathetically wimpy; yet, the held the 20 miles to get home.
The Boy, a bit begrudgingly (he does have an upper-respiratory infection) helped me unload the boxes to the backyard. Why the backyard? Because the flooring people just didn't expect that 1968 linoleum to be really that hard to scrape off the concrete. I did. Which is totally why I would not let The Boy do this as a DIY project. The flooring people now have to come back tomorrow to finish. Fuckers.
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