The other night the Mr. and I were watching “The Amazing Race”, which was conveniently stored on the DVR, because we can never watch shows when they are actually on because then you can’t fast forward during commercials. Sha.
One couple, Rob and Kimberly, were having some serious issues with bickering, not agreeing, shrieking and generally being only one more “don’t talk to me like that” whine from ripping each others faces off.
I made the comment that we could never ever be on that show because there is no way we would work well together. I have a temper and he does not ever want to listen to my suggestions whenever he thinks he already has the correct solution for something. He disagreed and said that he thought we would do just fine. (See? See what I mean?)
I believe I proved my point last night, however. We purchased a new couch on Saturday. (Yay! A sectional! That reclines! And is leather! Black! Cue cheesy porn music!) In order to prepare for delivery, we had to remove all of existing living room furniture. This consisted of an old recliner, an old couch, one hand-me-down coffee table, and one futon. Goodbye dorm room, Hello I’m thirty and my living room will show this fact.
I insisted that I was able to assist in the furniture removal when Mr. suggested he call his dad to help. The recliner was removed with little trouble. Down the steps and into the basement. Next was the couch. OK. A little heavier, a little more awkward. After briefly expressing my frustration (You are not listening to me! It has to go this way!) we were able to get the couch down the steps to the landing. Our house is a bi-level, or split-level – whatever, I can never remember which. You know, the kind where you go down like six steps, face the front door, turn and go down six more steps and you are downstairs. In another hallway, because the laundry room has been walled in with a door. This is important when considering how to remove a couch from the living room to place in the basement. This was not something we considered. Well, I did, but sometimes I am wrong, so we tried it anyway.
And the couch got stuck.
“Stand it up.”
“We can’t stand it up, it will hit the ceiling.”
“No it won’t.”
“I am at the top of the steps. I can see. If I push it up, it will hit the ceiling.”
“Just try it.”
“OK….See?!? I told you!” (Oooh, he really hates when I say “I told you.”)
“Well what do you suggest?”
“We are going to have to go throught the front door.” (I had already suggested taking it out through the sliding door upstairs, but nooooo, that was stupid.)
“It won’t fit.”
“Then how the hell did it get in here in the first place?” (Note: When I start using mildly bad swear words, it is time to remove me from the situation, hand me a cold beer, and call your father for assistance, otherwise an explosion is imminent.)
He let it go.
“Ok, if you think it will fit, we will try. But I don’t think you’ll be able to lift it over the railing.” (Insulting my strength, eh?)
“I CAN LIFT IT.”
So we shove the couch back up the steps, and I guide it partially out the door, where it promptly gets stuck on the stair railing, inside the house.
I try to explain the angle at which Mr. needs to move the couch in order to get it unstuck, and he was SO not listening to me and I have not idea why because I’m sure I was BEING VERY NICE AND MAKING PERFECT SENSE AND NOT SPEAKING IN LOUD CAPITAL LETTERS AT ALL.
It was not working, and I decided that, um, yeah, I so cannot carry this thing backwards over the outside railing if he did get it unstuck so we should switch positions.
“OK, let me get outside.”
So, the Mr. goes outside and I come in and he lifts and I try to lift and he pulls and “THAT IS MY FUCKING FINGER YOU JUST SMASHED MY FUCKING FINGER.”
“j. Be quiet. There are people out here and they are staring.”
“OH YEAH? WELL THAT HURT. AND I GUESS I WILL JUST DO WHAT YOU ALWAYS SAY AND SAY THAT I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK WHAT THEY THINK.”
Notice the now bad bad swear words? And the all capital letters? Call thy father before my head spins around, k?
“I’m going to call my dad now. You do not have the temperament to work with me on this.”
He calls his dad, who says, sure, yeah, he can help and he was on his way.
In the meantime, after many failed attempts and dropping the couch on his foot (“OH, waaaaaa. You dropped a couch on your foot. With a boot on. MY FINGER WAS BARE AND YOU SMASHED IT!”) we got the couch out. And down the yard and around the truck and into the garage to get into the basement. Mr.’s dad arrives. I remove myself from the moving situation.
Mr. took off the basement door, the couch went in, the futon came down. The futon was also dropped on Mr.’s Fatboy, scratching the fender, and, even though I think I was probably more pissed off about it than him, I only yelled “don’t push it any more!” and then he kicked the damn thing. At least it wasn’t ME that dropped it. After an awkward silence, I stormed off into the house and told him not to speak to me for A WHILE.
Because you know, I was a total bitch and I was embarrassed that I yelled in front of his dad and moving sucks.
And see? We so totally could not be on the Amazing Race.
I TOLD YOU.