 |
 Full version |
RU ENG |
Some Assembly Required
I should have known as soon as the UPS guy asked me to help him move the packages into the house. I should have told him to turn around and bring them back when the two of us had trouble lifting the box and sliding it into the room.
I should have packaged it back up and made a phone call the second I opened it. I should have run in fear when I noticed the instruction manual was the length of a novel.
But I did not. No, I thought. I've got this. I can handle this.
Four-and-a-half hours later, my house was in ruins, and I had two children running around with bed parts and tools--like a hammer and a screwdriver. It was all very safe. That's when my husband came home.
"Don't come in!" I shouted. "Turn around, go back! Before it's too late! It's bad here. Real bad." And I burst into tears. I'm nothing if not dramatic.
But, seriously, what was I thinking? A bed frame, in my mind, is a few pieces of scrap metal that pop together and hold a bed up a foot off the ground. The end. When did I decide I needed a base with drawers in white wood? Clearly, I had lost my mind.
These frames had 414 parts. The directions were unreadable. I did a lot of guessing.
One instruction that was crystal clear, however, was that I should put plastic dowels into some of the holes. I didn't understand why, but I was happy to have a simple step.
Of course, then I was told to place long screws in past the dowels. Impossible.
I couldn't figure out a way to get those screws beyond the dowels I'd stuck in the holes. And I couldn't get the plastic out. The back of the hammer couldn't get it out, a screw used as a lever couldn't get it out, tweezers couldn't get it out.
So, being the brainiac that I am, I went after those puppies with my teeth. I mangled the plastic, I hurt my pearlies, and keep in mind, this was a step undoing a step that was supposed to be done. I was in over my head.
But still I continued on. I haphazardly nailed boards into place. I figured it would be good enough; it must be good enough.
Finally, I got to a section where I absolutely could not find two pieces that I needed. I snapped. I was done. That's when my husband walked in, finding me disheveled, sweaty, and on the brink of hysteria. I could take no more.
I found those two pieces on the porch the next morning, by the way. Thanks, girls.
I paid the company to take them back. I hate those bed frames. I never want to see another cutesy white bed frame in my life.
Don't ever overestimate yourself. You'll ruin your entire day.
I should have packaged it back up and made a phone call the second I opened it. I should have run in fear when I noticed the instruction manual was the length of a novel.
But I did not. No, I thought. I've got this. I can handle this.
Four-and-a-half hours later, my house was in ruins, and I had two children running around with bed parts and tools--like a hammer and a screwdriver. It was all very safe. That's when my husband came home.
"Don't come in!" I shouted. "Turn around, go back! Before it's too late! It's bad here. Real bad." And I burst into tears. I'm nothing if not dramatic.
But, seriously, what was I thinking? A bed frame, in my mind, is a few pieces of scrap metal that pop together and hold a bed up a foot off the ground. The end. When did I decide I needed a base with drawers in white wood? Clearly, I had lost my mind.
These frames had 414 parts. The directions were unreadable. I did a lot of guessing.
One instruction that was crystal clear, however, was that I should put plastic dowels into some of the holes. I didn't understand why, but I was happy to have a simple step.
Of course, then I was told to place long screws in past the dowels. Impossible.
I couldn't figure out a way to get those screws beyond the dowels I'd stuck in the holes. And I couldn't get the plastic out. The back of the hammer couldn't get it out, a screw used as a lever couldn't get it out, tweezers couldn't get it out.
So, being the brainiac that I am, I went after those puppies with my teeth. I mangled the plastic, I hurt my pearlies, and keep in mind, this was a step undoing a step that was supposed to be done. I was in over my head.
But still I continued on. I haphazardly nailed boards into place. I figured it would be good enough; it must be good enough.
Finally, I got to a section where I absolutely could not find two pieces that I needed. I snapped. I was done. That's when my husband walked in, finding me disheveled, sweaty, and on the brink of hysteria. I could take no more.
I found those two pieces on the porch the next morning, by the way. Thanks, girls.
I paid the company to take them back. I hate those bed frames. I never want to see another cutesy white bed frame in my life.
Don't ever overestimate yourself. You'll ruin your entire day.