Allow me to begin this rant with the night before I left New Jersey for West Virginia:
The last of the items that needed to be packed all pertained to the kitchen. Thus, I was neatly packing my beloved Ninja Blender so that it would efficiently fit between my protein powder and wine glasses when my right hand became enveloped in bright red blood. (Apparently the Ninja is more stealthy than I anticipated.) I naturally walked myself to the bathroom to drown my blood in the cool water of the running faucet. (I cut myself way too often to be too severely alarmed by gushing blood. Here's a fun fact: I wasn't allowed near the scissor wall in 5th grade because I stapled my shirt to my arm. So that's that.)
Our travel day was interrupted by frequent re-bandaging and thunderstorms so severe that I probably would have had blisters on my hands if my wounded thumb hadn't prevented me from gripping the steering wheel tight enough to cut off circulation. 13 hours later, we arrived in Huntington.
12 hours after that, my Mother was on her way back to NJ after helping me move-in illegally (Loverboy had the keys to the apartment even though I technically did not check in for my key.) Three hours after that, the leasing office for my apartment complex asked if my mother was available because they lost her signature as my guarantor. They wouldn't give me my keys until the next day when she was not in a moving vehicle and was able to fax her signature once again. Off to a good start, right?
Saturday morning, I got my keys to the apartment. Saturday afternoon, I locked my car keys inside my car. My spare set is at my parent's house in NJ.
After a reasonably smooth-sailing Sunday, I was pumped for an agreeable first week of classes. I decided to make a hot dinner for Loverboy and I to enjoy when he got home from work. I preheated the oven, and before I even got to put anything inside, the fire alarm went off. I tried again ten minutes later, same thing. No problem, I had chicken in the fridge I could cook on our George Foreman. Well... as soon as the raw marinated chicken hit the pseudo-grill the fire alarm went off. Sorry Loverboy, no hot supper for you tonight.
I'm having trouble accepting the fact that the transition to total independence and adulthood isn't going to be easy.