The entire purpose for buying a new house was accomplished over the weekend- my new! red! couches were delivered Saturday morning.
But first. We had to move the old couch. BLAST.
Getting that couch IN my house in the first place was nothing less than a triumph of superhuman prowess. I admit that as Phillip, Sean and Neighbor's Husband stood in the entry way arguing over how to slide the couch up the stairs, I was secretly hoping it was impossible, thereby speeding up the arrival of the long awaited red couches. But because they are brilliant, with bulging biceps and great skill in yelling "PIVOT!", the old couch finally heaved its way onto the second floor. CURSES.
Getting the couch out of my house was fairly easy, considering the brawn and skill it took to move it in. I shed no tears. So long Phillip's Old Parental-Hand-Me-Down Bachelor Apartment Couch!
Getting the couch into my Explorer for transfer was fairly simple as well. Lift couch, slide in. However we were then confronted with the issue of how to secure the couch to the car as it stuck out about a foot. The door wasn't going to close and I wasn't going to let Phillip DRIVE like that, was he serious? So commenced the search for the little piece of rope to tie the door to the bumper for couch transportation. It wasn't anywhere in the Explorer. "What'd you do with it?" Phillip asked accusingly. "I have nothing to do with anything involving rope," I snotted. As IF.
"Well," said Sean, "I have some Velcro in my car."
"Velcro?" scoffed I.
"Maybe we can try that." Phillip scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"VELCRO?" I repeated. Sean shuffled off to his car to retrieve the velcro. "VELCRO?" I said again, as Sean and Phillip slid the two strips of velcro between the door handle and the bumper and PRESSED THEM TOGETHER.
"That'll work!" Phillip said brightly. And got in the Explorer and took off before I, his wife, who is SANE and NORMAL and does not believe that velcro is the new DUCT TAPE, could say anything.
I rode in Sean's car and kept my eye on the velcro the entire way.
And Internet? It never budged. We secured a giant couch to a giant car that drove up a HILL with a piece of VELCRO and it WORKED. VELCRO. WHICH IS ONLY STICKY LIKE RUBBER CEMENT NOT KRAZY GLUE AND IS USED FOR BARBIE DOLL CLOTHES.
Then we had to get the couch into Sean's apartment. Which is on the third floor. Heh.
It was quickly determined that the couch? Was too tall for the elevator. Neighbor's Husband was not particularly thrilled about this turn of events. (Let us also note that Neighbor's Husband was the only Couch Mover not getting something out of this- Phillip was making space for new couches and Sean was finally getting some furniture. Neighbor's Husband was... just being a Nice Guy. Someone should make him some cookies.) This meant angling the couch around a couple of right angles and somehow making it into the stairwell- all that before they could even think about carrying it up three flights. Several attempts were made, all of which involved potential smashed fingers, broken ankles and concussions. (I was holding the door, by the way. I am an EXCELLENT door holder. Also an excellent exclaimer of things like, "Oh THAT'S not going to work!" and "I wouldn't do it that way" and "Why don't you do it like THIS?")
And still? The couch would not go. The couch was all, "I LIKED the potato chip crumbs and the spilled cereal milk and the dirty socks all over me at the last house. I WANNA GO HOME." I felt compelled to remind everyone that the couch could not go home. It had a new home. The couch MUST fit into the new home. THERE WAS NO OTHER OPTION.
"We can leave it in the garage," Phillip sneered.
"No!" cried Sean, he of nothing to sit on while he watches Season 1 of Lost back to back. "It has to fit!"
With Sean and I keeping up the rallying cry, the Couch Movers rethought their previous stance on the elevator. They hesitantly carried the couch back to the entrance hall and stared at the elevator door, as if it would magically open offering a couch-sized dumbwaiter.
"It'll fit," said Neighbor's Husband with the stubborness of someone who just really wanted to go home already.
"I don't know..." said Phillip chewing thoughtfully on his lip.
"IT HAS TO FIT," said Sean, who immediately entered the elevator and TOOK OFF THE CEILING. Granted, the ceiling was a plastic tray type thing that prevented elevator riders from the slow radiation death of the flourescent light tube, but still. He dismantled the elevator! Then Neighbor's Husband unscrewed the light tube thing which, apparently, does not get hot and, apparently, only stupid people like me don't know things like that and screech in horror, "WAIT! YOU'LL BURN YOURSELF!" as someone reaches up to remove it.)
"Better not tell the manager!" I joked because HAR HAR, Sean IS the manager. I crack myself up. That gash in the corner and the Exit sign hanging by one cord? Oh yeah, the manager'll fix that for ya. He's pretty good at vacuuming too.
So anyway, they stood the couch up on one end and slid it into the newly lengthened elevator (nearly crushing Sean's knees, by the way. Way to freak me out there, Sean.) Extricating the couch from the elevator and depositing it in Sean's living room was an easy task and quickly accomplished. There was much rejoicing as Neighbor's Husband got to go home, Phillip and I were free of the Great White Leather Scratching Post and Sean finally FINALLY had somewhere to sit.
We did that Thursday night. Friday night? I had nowhere to sit. It was horrible. It is impossibly to enjoy your television shows when there is nowhere to sit. We had to actually eat dinner at the TABLE. I do not wish this on anyone.
Saturday morning I ate my breakfast sitting on the counter and held my breath until the delivery guys came. The loveseat was no sweat. They had a little blanket thing that they dragged the couch on until they got to the stairs. Then they just picked it up and twisted it and because they didn't speak English I spoke slowly and loudly and did a lot of hand clapping. You want to be nice to the men in charge of carrying large heavy things through your delicate freshly painted stairway. The three seater, however, was too tall to slide so easily.
"It won't fit," said the one who knew the most English.
"No no no," I said.
"No no no," Phillip said. "We got a BIGGER couch up and down these stairs already."
The guy who didn't know any English shrugged. The first guy shrugged in reply. And with Phillip's expert Couch Mover direction, they found a way to tip the couch just so and haul it up the stairs. (With one yellow gash and one red gash in the walls, so I'm kind of regretting that congratulatory hand clapping I treated them to once they'd set it down AND the big glasses of water I distributed afterwards. Honestly. Now I might have to wield a paint brush again and the Internet does NOT want any more painting stories, I know it.)
So now I have them. Two gloriously red couches. That are, um, puffy.
VERY VERY POOFY PUFFY DANGEROUS FOR SMALL CHILDREN TO JUMP ON BECAUSE OF THE TRAMPOLINE-LIKE BOUNCINESS COUCHES.
My sister was over Saturday afternoon and we spent most of the day leaping on and throwing our full weight into the cushions in an effort to depoofify. (You catch that? De-poof-ify? I'm copyrighting that word.)
But maybe my old couches were so low and flat and BLEAH that a normal couch experience is completely foreign. They are not the deep sink-into-the-fold couches I've always wanted (like the one at my in-laws'- I LOVE that couch) or a big comfy sectional like the ones my folks have, but they are RED and they are BEAUTIFUL and my head and feet prop up perfectly on the love seat. And amazingly enough, we have not messed them up yet. (But I'm kinda looking forward to that because, apparently, you can DRAW on these things and just wipe it off with soap and water, such is the wonder of Microfiber! Crazy!)
(Perhaps I will have Sean write a guest post in which he defends the Old Couches, the Comfiness Of. Wouldn't that be fun?)