Saturday, May 19, 2007

adventures* in furniture delivery

I just got a new futon and they delivered it today. The delivery guys called me because they couldn't find my apartment building. To be fair to them, they had been given the wrong address, 1 street over. Still, I think this conversation is pretty hilarious:

Delivery guy: We're by the Starbucks, do you know where the Starbucks is?
Jocelyn: Yes, my building is one block east of there.
Delivery guy: East? [confused pause] What colour is your building?
Dear delivery guy: if you don't know what direction east is, maybe you should consider a different line of work.

So the futon was delivered to my apartment in two wood framey pieces and 1 big rolled-up mattress. So far, so good. I looked at these components and fit them together the way they needed to be fit together, where they will be held together some day with two huge bolts. And, with great difficulty and sore hands and tiny metal shards on the carpet, I managed to get one of the giant bolts in. But the other is eluding me. I HATE this moment. I have used my brain to figure out how furniture should go together, I have the appropriate tools, I have an above-average level of physical strength because I am a giant, and I still can't get the blasted thing to go together. And my tempting, automatic response is to sit down on the floor and cry. Futons should not be allowed to make me feel like a girly girl. With willingness, resolve, and the high-quality plyers my father gave me when I moved into my first apartment, I should be able to assemble anything. Instead I have to call my boyfriend like a sissy and say these words: "Can you come over and help me put my futon together?"

Grrrr. I try to be independent women, but the world is screwing with me. People who know me know this: I lift furniture and other heavy objects, I assemble IKEA furniture, I hang my own pictures and shelves, I sand my old furniture before I re-paint it. I'm handy with a utility knife. I took my freakin' drain apart, remember that? I lifted a car once.* I'm not that girl. Except, apparently, today. My futon is all like, "Get back in the kitchen, woman!" Maybe when James gets here, and assembles these mammoth pieces of pine in one smooth manly action, I can bring him a cocktail and rub his neck.

**Actually, this event is mythology founded in truth. I helped two guys lift a car, and before I started helping they could not lift it on their own. Also, it was dusk, so the task may have seemed more impressive because of a trick of the light. It would be more true, though less impressive, to say that "I played a crucial role in lifting a car once."


Kristen said...

I felt the exact same, and laking a manly boyfriend, or any manly friends at all, my futon remains in two pieces. I draw great comfort though in the fact that you ran into the same problems.

so angry said...

A cocktail and neck rub! I didn't receive either of these things!

Though, later in the weekend I DID receive pita and hummus... I suppose that's a fair trade.