Yesterday the plan was to write about moving our couch, right? I had a great lead-in picture that looked something like this:
Way to pique the interest, right?
Then somehow that turned into a litany-history of sorts in which I began to detail my complicated couch past, and I never really resolved the whole recent couch debacle. Starting with one idea and forgetting what I started out to do? Welcome to my life. However, I did leave off with a great cliff-hanger.
So did it make it? In an extremely anti-climactic turn of events, the couch made it to the ground perfectly safely with the help of numerous willing friends who generously donated their time and muscle to our moving effort.
However, when you look at that picture, it makes you wonder how in the world we got it in, right? Blood, sweat and tears are the answer to that question, my friend. Well, not so much the blood, unless a stubbed toe counts. Not so much the sweat either, considering we moved in January. Not so much the tears either; the Barefoots aren’t much for the waterworks. Plus in all honesty it wasn’t that dramatic. More like a little humiliating. But answering a question with “blood, sweat and tears” sure sounds a lot more dramatic than “well, a little humiliating”. But I digress.
We had been back from our honeymoon for a day or two, and were somewhat kind of but actually not really moved in, and decided to take up my parents’ offer to buy us a couch. We had been checking Craigslist, but the couches were either apparently previously owned by the Rockefeller’s (judging by the price they expected to recoup on their second-hand sale)(although I don’t know why the Rockefeller’s would have the slightest need to recoup any expense on a couch)(Are the Rockefeller’s a dated reference to use? I tried to think of someone rich and they came to mind, but I can’t recall hearing them mentioned lately? Are they no longer in vogue? Maybe the Waltons?)(Anybody still remember what I was talking about?) or too strongly resembled the last floral couch I bought and I wanted to leave those memories where they belonged, bonded to the floor in a house in Chico.
However, Costco had a good deal going, so we bought one, loaded it ourselves in the back of the same pick-up (the ease of loading boding well for future moving we figured) and brought it home. And then up the stairwell. But not all the way up the stairwell. This stairwell was designed with the sole purpose of frustrating moving families and creating marital discord. Or so I opined when I was sitting on the steps halfway up with the couch elevated in the stairwell. Elevated because it was stuck. Stuck as in wedged. Wedged as in not moving. Stuck, wedged, and not moving, not on the ground, but in an exciting and inventive combination of wall, railing and ceiling.
Yep, ceiling. You could duck under it and continue on up the stairs. That’s what we told the neighbors to do as they tried to venture up the stairs to their apartment. “Don’t worry about us,” we told them, “We’re just spending some quality time with our elevating couch. Look, it can do tricks! We’re thinking of taking the show on the road.”
We considered calling Mr. Barefoot’s parents, who were a mere 20 minutes away and most likely eager to help. They could have been there quickly, and it would have been fairly easy. So, of course, we didn’t. Eager to maintain our independence, we tried calling anyone else we could think of who might be willing to come help us tame our rogue couch, but were either unable to get ahold of them or they were busy. Finally, after no small amount of arguing, we agreed to admit defeat and call the parents. Who were naturally happy to help. FIL Barefoot showed up in a matter of minutes. Lesson Learned? Leaving and cleaving is important. So is accepting help.
With the third person to help, we managed to pull the couch out of the stairwell and over the railing in short order, leaving no permanent scars on anyone but the couch, who still has a small 1-inch tear on the back to remind her of her glory days in experimental levitation.