Sometimes the littlest thing turns into a drama, or so it seems. I’m sure that getting new lawn furniture for most people is not a big deal. At my house, it played out like a script for a TV sitcom.
I must admit times have changed since we last bought lawn furniture 19 years ago. My memory is that we went to a store, saw what we wanted and they delivered and set it up. Not anymore. In today’s world, we never actually saw the pieces, but ordered them on-line. Fed Ex delivered it all this afternoon in huge packing boxes that the guy stacked in my garage. It reminded me of the pyramids at Machu Pichu.
But I’m never one to shirk hard work. And I had Gela cleaning for me today. She and I tackle all kinds of things. I was sure we could unpack and move all the furniture within an hour at most.
The box the table was in was huge and unwieldy so I asked the Fed Ex guy if he could move it to the front door. He got a hand truck and wheeled it over.
“Could you bring it in?” I asked naively.
As he shook his head, his long curly hair (which I was envious of) bounced. “I’m not allowed to go into a house. It’s against regulations.”
“Oh,” I said. “Does it seem heavy?”
“Probably,” he said.
Probably? Gela and I tried to pick it up and it wouldn’t budge. We tried to move it aside—couldn’t move it an inch.
Oh my God, I thought. What are you doing? You’re 67 years old. Why are you moving furniture?
My next thoughts were inspired. Who could I hire to do the job? I’d pay them my next five social security checks (I don’t get much). I’d need someone big and strong, I thought. Ah ha! Into my mind’s eye, Jack sprang forth. Jack is so tall he can change light bulbs without a ladder.
I ran into the house (no exaggeration) and called Jack. It was my lucky day—he answered on one ring. And he had some time later in the afternoon.He came over with two strong young men to help. It took all three of them to move the table, which then had to be assembled. Three hours later, the furniture was unpacked and moved onto our deck. But not without one further incident.
Somehow in the chaos, our little Havanese took advantage of the open doors, and ran out onto the main street where he was almost hit by at least two cars. I know this not because I witnessed it. (I’d taken a moment to surreptitiously go to the bathroom.) No, the reason I know is because two of the drivers came to the house to tell me how they’d had to swerve to avoid him. Then they’d tried to catch him, but he’d already headed for home. I explained I thought Bogey was in the house, and I’d been in the bathroom. After I groveled enough, they seemed mollified enough to go on their ways.
As I finish writing this, I am also finishing a glass of wine. I’m contemplating eating dinner at the new table. If I have enough energy left.