In any case, it was quite a to-do, getting the enormous boxes of mettle into my car, out of my car, and then putting the whole thing together. On the first page of the instruction manual was a picture like this:
and I began to feel trepidatious but determined. My housemate is moving in this Sunday, and she is having family and friends help her move in. I thought about the difference between us. She was relying on the power of friends and community to help her when help was needed. I was stubbornly trying to do everything on my own and would probably end up with a hernia or concussion, unconscious on the floor, with no one to help me or call the hospital. A bitter, self-imposed isolation, like some love-child of Thoreau and Oscar the Grouch.
Anyhoo, as I was banging around, trying to hold the seven foot mettle guardrail perfectly level and guide it into place with one hand while attaching it to the bedposts with screws at shoulder level (I wonder what my upstairs and downstairs neighbors thought of the hours-long deafening sounds of metal crashing against mettle and furtive grunting.) I had a brilliant artistic and business revolution:
Xtream Ikea Assemblies!
The show would feature professional or amateur assemblers, taking on, by themselves, projects that instructions say require two, three, or, in the elite rankings, four people. Contestants would be ranked on speed and efficiency, with extra points for style. The professional assemblers could do some truly remarkable things, rigging up pulleys out of the cardboard boxes to hold things in place and remotely adjust their position. The amateurs would be hilarious as they sweated, tried to hold up things with one leg while screwing something in elsewhere, and cursing themselves for missing a step as they struggled to undo things with similar levels of acrobatics. (I was practicing the amateur version as I assembled my bed.) The whole thing could be a promotion for Ikea, who would likely never agree to the idea because of the legal ramifications of endorsing utterly unsafe assembly practices.
The other brilliant entertainment idea I had came while thinking about how to overcome my stinking, toxically mildewy carpet. Apparently, it had already been gone over with a carpet cleaner, but if that's true, it must have left the carpet wet and then re-mildewed in the process. In any case, I was thinking about getting a dehumidifier. And then thinking about how ironic it was, that in the summer we try and dehumidify, and in the winter we try and re-humidify. Then the idea hit me:
Consumer Reports: Blood Sports
Instead of namby pamby point by point comparison and standardized stress tests, machines would be pitted against each other in a single elimination round, no holds barred fighting tournament, similar to battle bots:
except with common household appliances.
For example, humidifiers would be pitted against dehumidifiers, put into a small, sealed room, and run continuously until one of them broke down or (hopefully, for ratings) exploded like a knocked over fire-hydrant.
Finally, I'm staying with my parents at a nice b&b, with a porch I can walk out onto. However, the second door is one of those giant glass ones, with nothing but a huge pane of glass surrounded by a kind of three-inch frame with a door handle. Except there's no glass in it, so it's simpler to just step through the opening. Despite having tested it with my hand, every time I step through it, there is a clenching sensation in my lower torso, as if it's tensing for impact. My eyes refuse to believe my mind. Perhaps the situation is calling up previous times I've banged into glass not-portals in the past and looked like a prat.
So I took advantage of the situation and now step through the door with gusto, fully intending to crash my way through a glass barrier like some kind of crazy person and/or action hero.
Up, up, and away!
-Isaac
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