Now that Astrid and I are making a home together, we both immediately acknowledged our need of a proper couch. There were too many nights of Buffy watching forced apart, each of us sitting on our respective old stuffed chairs, separated by what seemed like miles (picture me in full dramatic pose, forearm on forehead, to cover my tragedy-stricken brow.) Anyhow, we needed one.
Astrid did some fine legwork on Craigslist and found a full-sized couch that we both really liked, which lived with its gay boy owner not three blocks away from our place (although I don't name objects, I clearly have no problem anthropomorphizing them). We made an appointment to look at it, loved it, and paid the deposit. A few days later, we ensnarled DJ into our very flawed plan to transport the couch atop Astrid's automobile and move it up the very narrow, steep stairway and into the apartment. This was to be accomplished inside a window of an hour and a half or so, after which we were supposed to go see the new Simon Pegg movie, Hot Fuzz.
DJ and Astrid sweated and grunted and shoved the couch in as many angles as they possibly could, for the better part of an hour, and the bloody couch would not get through the door. Our friend MJ, who showed up to join us for the movie, tried a few Rubik's Cubish (Cubist?) maneuvers as well, and even I made a couple token attempts, but when it comes to manual labor, I'm pretty much useless (I've never done a single pull-up; glad they didn't flunk me outta school on account of those Presidential fitness tests!) We'd measured first and everything, that was the bitch of it, but the couch simply couldn't get passed the funky door angles to have a chance to be dragged up the stairs.
In a last-ditch effort, Astrid and DJ tried getting the thing into the alley on the side of the house, so's to move it up the equally physically impossible back stairs; unfortunately, the couch got caught in the narrow corridor, snagging under a slat of fence, and in the dark, there wasn't a way to figure out how to pull it passed that point and onto the patio even to be able to make an attempt at the stairs.
Sigh.
After that, we sent DJ and MJ away to meet Bob for the movie. Sitting on the couch, which was relegated to the sidewalk in front of our apartment, Astrid and I fell into despair and frustration.
I went upstairs and brought down some beers and A's computer (yes, so we could watch a Buffy episode.) We ordered a pizza to the couch. We asked passersby if they'd like to buy it. Some of them sat down and chatted with us: it was a happenin' scene.
At about 1:30 am, we decided to surrender the couch to the fates, and dragged the cushions upstairs in hopes that the bare springy frame would be less attractive and thus less "scoreworthy" for the would-be takers. I still had hopes to re-sell it on Craigslist to someone with a bigger doorway; Astrid held out for the impossible dream that we'd be able to get it upstairs if only we tried hard enough. The night passed, and the couch was still there when we woke up. There was minor forensic evidence suggesting someone had made it their bed for the night. Astrid had a study group that day, and I was around at home, peeking through the window periodically to see if anyone had claimed it. No one had. When A came home, she utilized CL yet again to procure us some movers who showed up in the evening and managed to get the couch through the alley, and up the back stairs. They strained, walked on top of the railings, lifted the couch clear over their heads to maneuver the tight corners, and did contortions to their bodies we had no right to have asked of them, but by god, they got that fucking thing into the apartment.
After we paid and handsomely tipped the movers (nearly doubling our expense for the couch), Astrid escorted them downstairs. When she came back up, we embraced. I was so in awe of Astrid's persistence, so relieved and extatic to have the couch we wanted sitting in our living room, so fucking in love, and, quite honestly, slightly terrified. The feeling welling up in me in that moment may not have been unlike Ceeb's when she suggested that the 'Flix account she shares with Dax felt like a real commitment [though I'm certain my comment was less "couched" (groan!) in sarcasm than was Ceeb's.]
Standing next to our new couch, I looked at my beautiful girlfriend, shook my head, and said, "Baby, you know this means we're married, right?"
xo
Bree
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* Though this is totally irrelevant, it might also be acknowledged that I've never been one to name inanimate objects like cars or favorite gadgets, much less crappy futons, though I did name my menstrual cycle as a teenager, at the behest of my Jewish youth group cohorts, all of us agreeing on the ritual as a counterpoint to the guys naming their penises. Among our group's cycles were "Amethyst" and "Wawona;" mine was "Marguerite."
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