conquered

Ahh, moving. Brings out the best and worst in everyone, especially me. I get cranky and sullen when things don't go according to my clockwork plan; I get irritated when people who are "helping" make a mess of my newly painted walls; I get sad when, after 14 days of having the keys to my new place, I still haven't spent the night. But after all this passes (and yes, this too, passes), comes the moments of happiness.

The Closet of No Studs: a battle. Two grown men who claim to be handy were defeated by this beast. There were holes and drag marks all over to show their vain attempts at taming the closet into something useful. But, eventually, they had to give up. I walked in yesterday, drill in one hand, four foot level in the other and said to the Closet: "it's either you or me. And I ain't backing down." Boy, did it try. No wooden studs to be found, but plenty of metal ones, so most studfinders were rendered useless. The studs themselves are tricky little buggers, spacing themselves out with no discernible pattern, ending at varying heights. I didn't care: I made as many holes as I wanted, for I knew the glory of PolyPutty. Yet, I measured seven times, before making my marks. I even got into a tug of war with a stubborn little wall plug (that bitch didn't have a chance). An epic 210 minutes later, the closet bellowed its last protest (drowned out by my mighty drill) and I stood, victorious. Special thanks to my sidekick who held things in place like a pro.

After that, what else was there to do but hop about in glee? Well, I did a few other things, but nothing quite like the closet. Now, only a stubborn leaky showerhead stands in my way. I diagnosed the problem yesterday as well (all that drama over a ten cent gasket. honestly.)

Key lessons I have learned?
- If you want it done right, do it your bloody self.
- A drill is a girl's best friend.
- Nothing - not even metal studs - can stand between a woman and her clothes.