Picture this: an unseasonably warm winter day which sets the stage for my moving (long past ~ thank goodness). So I’m trying to figure out how in the heck I’m going to deal with: a) a moving truck which was smaller than I expected b) a hired hand that was neither handy nor cooperative c) independently moving with little-to-no-help (See “b”).
I began trying, in vain, to move small boxes which I made the fatal mistake of overstuffing with random everyday items like pots, pans, books. Thus, the boxes wouldn’t close shut making the stacking process for the van near impossible. Not to mention that the shape of these aforementioned boxes were all sorts of weird and inconvenient. Think oblong rectangles and loose (like prepared for recycable bins). Argh!
*Note: In my defense, this was my first and (hopefully) last move for a very, very, very long time.
Okay, so I’m still attempting to over-stuff already heavy and complex trapezoidal Chinese origami-like boxes to prepare them to be further stacked, shoved, and squeezed into a mini-van. You get the picture. Not exactly smoothe sailing…
It is decided that since the small stuff was getting to be worrisome, that the bigger stuff would be saved for later on. Among the larger items? You guessed it: my bulky futon.
*Note: I was and am not a futon fan. Ever. The reason for the purchase had to deal with Sara moving in with us. We needed a place for her to sleep.
I am so glad to be able to say that out loud: I AM NOT A FUTON FAN. Being an American in America affords me that right. But onto the futon…
It arrived in the second run of our move. By then, our “helper” decided to bail, bums were offering–you heard me–BUMS were offering to help move us, which resulted in frustration for all involved. It did however give me a giggle when one of the bums kept repeating to Sara over and over: “Stay in school and get an education. I’m serious. Don’t end up like these bums here.” I don’t think he included himself in the same breath as a bum (even though that’s what he was) because he kept mentioning how he was a Vietnam Vet and all. I think all bums in Jersey City have used this excuse at least once in their lives to justify their reasons for being bums. The funny part is?! They’re still–that’s right–BUMS!!!
Trust me on this one.
I grabbed hold of the one end of the futon and Carlos had gotten a rather big and tall friend to help pick up the other end. The problem was that it was hard maneuvering it through the doorways. A split-second decision was made (which in retrospect was THE WORST DECISION EVER) to disassemble a portion of the “dang” futon to get it to fit. Well, we moved it in two pieces; ever mindful that eventually we would have to re-assemble the monster.
Later on that evening, while Sara was whining about it being late and having to get to sleep or whatever, Carlos had said that I should wait until he returned in order to assemble it. I, however, have never responded well to orders, suggestions, or the belief that I am not every woman and that it’s not all in me. This proved to be a mistake, of course. With Sara’s aid, I still could only manage getting one of the sides to fit in the base of the futon. Whenever we tried to manipulate the other side, a series of banging, pinching and pain began. After trying it out for a solid hour, I realized that I’d been bested. By a futon. Ugh.
Needless to say, Carlos had to offer his delightful help the next day. If it weren’t for his manly-man strength, I swear I don’t know what I’d do. Only I can’t ever directly admit to that and if someone presents this blog entry as evidence, I will deny, deny, deny. Hey, it’s worked for The President…