The alternate title to this post was going to be "Somebody put me out of my misery", but at the critical moment I remembered that Kelly just used that a few weeks ago, so I thought I would be more original.
You will remember from my last post the importance of a baseball bat in the life of a single woman. Today we will be addressing another important issue -- in order to survive as a single woman, one must actually be a man.
You see, men normally come attached to certain...equipment. No, not that, you dirty-minded fiend. I am talking about things like tools, and cordless drills, and big man-muscles that can lift stuff that, y'know, needs to be lifted. Not to mention, with some guys, all that body hair can come in useful when when it's cold and you want to knit a sweater.
For the past two months I have been entrenched in a pretty major home-improvement effort -- I had a room that was completely full of random crap, and I have been cleaning it out, then repainting, moving all the furniture, etc, etc. Cleaning out and painting I can do all on my own. Even the stuff that requires tools I can manage, since I have managed to aquire a respectable collection of those despite my ovaries. Unfortunately, it is a bit more difficulkty to go to Sears and purchase lifty-thing style muscles.
I have managed to move most of the furniture on my own, thanks to a specially designed program of pushing, muttering obscenities, and shouting those same obscenities. As long as all the furniture stayed in one room, the system worked bee-yew-ti-fully, if a bit R-rated.
My big obstacle arose in the form of a bed. My lovely, magnificently comfortable, pillow-top full size bed. It may not sound like much, but trust me, to a 30 year old (almost) woman who slept in a twin bed until last year, it is a magnificent thing to have a full size bed. Until , of course, you need to move it. When faced with the daunting task of moving it from one room to another, my first thought was to try and borrow an actual man from one of my many, many married friends. But I am not known for my patience, and not knowing the availibility of said husbands, and not being able to locate rent-a-dude in the yellow pages, I decided to move it myself.
Now, two hours after making that decision, the bed is moved and set up in the new room. I have further perfected the push-grunt-swear ritual, managed not to dislodge the toilet (I had to go through the bathroom, my house was designed by a crack addict), and I am pretty sure my foot is not actually broken. Do I qualify for my penis now?