Monday, June 22, 2009

The Second Worst Day of My Marriage, Part 2

"You can't drive a truck on this street," the cop tells the DNB. "Turn right and go down to the truck route."

The DNB is two blocks away from our house and unfamiliar with the neighborhood. The cop is not understanding.

"If you don't turn right immediately, I'm going to give you a ticket," he orders.

Fifteen minutes later, the DNB pulls up in front of the house and we begin to unload. I feel twinges of pain in my knee as I carry box after box up and down the stairs. The DNB feels it in his knee, too. He calls it something-tendon-ligamentitis-ocityishness-ly. The guys we've hired are scheduled to be done in 30 minutes, and the truck has to be back in an hour.

Sheldon, Cuz, and the Freaking Maniac are charging us an extra $100 to move our piano, even though it's the Smallest Piano Ever that was Free On Craigslist. But we get the last laugh because they didn't know that the DNB's shop is full of the Heaviest Items in the World: a homemade workbench made of solid lead and inlaid with uranium, a table saw, a jointer, and a drill press. Suckers.

The guys agree to stay until we reload the truck at the old house. There, Cuz and Sheldon begin arguing. Sheldon accuses Cuz of being on his phone the whole day and threatens not to pay him. Cuz walks off, the n-word flying, nursing his bad shoulder.

It's 9pm before we pull up to the new house again. We've been up since 6am, and the move has taken ten hours. The DNB and I will have to unload the final truckful by ourselves, but we decide to wait until morning. I manage to yank our mattress and box spring out of the truck, and we carry them up to our master suite. Except we don't, quite. The angle of the stairs and the walls and the floor makes it completely impossible to get a queen-sized box spring to our bedroom.


At first, I'm not convinced. "Maybe if we just push it like this and try to bend it some...." I say. The DNB shakes his head. "No, it'll work!" I insist, crying tears of exhaustion and frustration and tugging on the box spring. "It has to work!"

It doesn't work.

Defeated, we drag the mattress upstairs and somehow find sheets and pillows for it.

"Did you know that Cuz has a bad shoulder because he got shot?" the DNB asks me as we collapse into bed. "He showed me the bullet hole."

"WHAT?" I holler.

"But don't worry," he continues. "He was just minding his own business."


Anonymous said...

Terrific blog. Found you linked on another blog and i've read everything you've posted in the last two years. Hilarious stuff in there!

S said...

Thanks, Anon. Hope you'll stick around. It only gets worse from here.