I think these people haven't heard of Craigslist.
Anyway, none of this stuff interested me because, while I don't have a bed (just a bed frame, not like, a pallet on the floor--it's not quite that bad), I just don't need any of it.
Last night, they dumped a bookshelf.
As a savvy thrift shopper, I can assure you that bookshelves are resale gold. You almost never see them in thrift stores at all, and when you do, they are hardly less expensive than they would be new. Supply and demand, right there. I can also assure you that I am in constant need of shelves. As it turns out, I'm too possesive for libraries. They expect you to give the books back, and I have a real problem with that. Basically, I'd give my left, er, foot for more bookshelves. Because, you know, I don't have a left one of the other thing. Or a right one, for that matter. (I know you were wondering.)
So, after a long day of tramping up and down all three flights of stairs to my apartment (I'm spring cleaning a bit late), I saw this bookshelf, in perfect condition except for a divet in the side that a bit of spackle and a fresh coat of paint should take care of, and I jumped on it. If it weren't weird to make love to a piece of furniture in an alley, I'd have done that. I hauled it over to my building, no problem. It wasn't very heavy, after all, and I'm both stronger than my stick arms imply and stubborn. I did carry my air conditioner up by myself a couple years prior, and that was way heavier.
I got it about halfway up the first flight of stairs when my arms and legs turned to noodles. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the shelves up even one more step. Going back down wasn't happening, either.
It was in the mid-nineties. I was sweating. I was cursing. I was mortified. And I was well and truly stuck.
I did mention I'm stubborn, right? Well, I'm also really proud. So I'd been stuck there almost fifteen minutes (or possibly eons) when I finally started thinking about calling for help. Phil on the first floor (which is actually the second) is a helpful, friendly guy. Of course, he usually has at least two guests at his place, which meant his guests would get not just dinner, but also a show. So instead of calling out, I just dithered a while longer, until even just balancing the shelves on the stair they were resting on was hard, wobbly work.
And then my neighbors from the second floor came in, wanting to go up, and my choice was made for me.
"Er, I'm stuck," I said.
"Are you coming down?" Second Floor Guy asked.
"No? I'm just a victim of my own harebrained idea to haul this up by myself."
"Don't you live on the third floor?"
"Well, yeah. Yeah, I do."
"But you're not even to the first floor," Second Floor Girl said.
"I did mention the harebrained part, right?"
And then Second Floor Guy helped me carry the bookshelf all the way up to the third floor, and we all lived happily ever after if you just ignore the part where they think I'm special and I'm so embarrassed I'd happily throw the shelves and myself over the damn stair bannister--if only I had some help with the heavy lifting.
(True: In my previous apartment, I wrestled my monster desk into my bedroom all by my damn self. It took three people to get it back out. So it's not like I don't know my own [lack of] strength.