Sofa City, Sweetheart

I answered my cell phone with “Whyyyy” face down into my pillow, hoping at least my annoyance level wasn’t as muffled to the receiver. It had to be one of max 5 people on the other end of the line; all of who had probably already forgiven me for my brat-tastic hello.

“Miss Hurl…Hu…Errrrrrly…ly? Ly? Ley?” That’s my favorite; when the caller who can’t pronounce my last name just gives up except for the last syllable. I usually let it go on longer than I should before I save them with “Yes, this is she.” And because it was Friday morning and I was dangerously hung-over for a weekday, I couldn’t pull it together in time before I heard “We are here to move your couch in. Can you let us up?”

F. “Umm yes, hi there, you are early! I wasn’t given a time frame for your arrival so I assumed it was noon. Sorry, I’m just waking up—what time is it?”

“8:40 Miss.”

“Ok great so noon was way off. Ok well I can be there to let you in, call it, half hour or so?”

(Silence)

“Miss we need to get inside within the next 10 minutes otherwise we have to leave. It’s company policy.”

“Sir there is literally no shot of me getting from Lincoln Park to downtown in 10 minutes. You’re setting me up for failure, here.”

“Oh ok Miss. No problem. We leave at 8:50, ok?” (Click)

It’s not until I’m sprinting down the steps of my Lincoln Park apartment that I realize I’m wearing my white pj pants, covered with red lipstick drawings and the words “kiss me” all over them. My mom had gotten them for her kindergarten Valentine’s Day party about 10 years ago and I nabbed them from the house—needless to say, they hadn’t been missed. Also, who just assumes ‘noon’ as the right time to move-in a couch? Like it’s some commonly accepted rule? Idiot, Meggie.

I don’t know how, but I get there just as the massive moving truck with my new couch in it is starting to pull away, and I start to panic that I’ll never see it again. I’m running through my downtown neighborhood during commuter rush hour yelling for them to wait--thankfully, the red lipstick drawings on my pants must have caught the glare in the giant review side mirror because suddenly they are back at the condo building. With me. Looking like I just lost the lottery at the Salvation Army.

I reach up to the truck to shake the hand of the driver. As he backs into the loading zone, I turn to start to figure out how to prop the doors open to bring the couch in. I turn around to ask a question, and find myself looking down far enough to where my neck actually hitches to bend and meet my view. Those big men up in the truck turned out to be pushing 5 ft tall. I literally said “Oh”; that was my reaction. I never got the gene that allows your face to hide what you’re thinking, but it usually takes authentic shock for words to come out.  They did. As luck would have it, though, both of their backs were turned—probably to avoid looking like they knew me, and my pjs—and the drone of the embarrassingly huge Macy’s truck washed away my moron outburst.

I need to backup a bit: the reason behind my shock is because I knew the size of the couch that these guys were responsible for bringing upstairs. Jeff and I, upon couch shopping, opted for the Godzilla of couches; the kind that’s a sectional plus a chaise lounge. As much as we loved that we were moving in together, it was realistic for us to get a couch that was deserving of it’s own area code. It was perfect for us, my  our sanity, and for the condo. Evidently, the idea of them being physically capable of moving it into our place baffled me.

How wrong I was. The movers made it look like I asked them to take my purse upstairs. I excitedly danced around them in my pjs, looking certifiable while trying to help, when we hit a roadblock. Well, an elevator block—the pieces of the couch were too big to fit.

“We can take the stairs—my condo is on the 5^th floor”

“Miss sorry but we can’t. We can only walk a max of 3 flights of stairs for this kind of move. Company policy.”

I stopped myself from saying something regrettable like if the person who wrote their company policy was Badger from Breaking Bad. Instead, we cut a deal that involved me going to the ATM after the couch was upstairs.

I take the elevator up to floor 5 and am waiting (read: praying) for my movers. Before I know it, they’ve made it. At this point, both had lost their shirts, somewhere—so now, I had two shirtless movers who on tiptoes are 5 feet tall, loudly struggling to get the couch pieces in my door frame. “Please, please don’t open your door” I silently whispered to my across the hall neighbor—and just as soon as I completed my thought, the door opened a crack and let out a huge, gray rat.

Ok, it wasn’t a rat. But it sure as hell looked like one. I screamed, of course—until this scraggly, gray haired, long tailed possum opened its mouth and barked—or whatever the equivalent of a bark is for this dog breed. “OH Myyyyy gosh a…dog!” I tried to feign excitement and eye-swallow the tears that had welled up in sheer terror.

“I’m so sorry, is he barking too loudly?”

Um no. Are these shirtless tiny movers bothering you?

“Tobyyyy, it’s ok! He only likes girls.”

Toby. The ratdog’s name, I gathered. I felt badly for screaming so I turned my attention to him gyrating on the ground like a crack induced rabbit when I felt his teeth sink into my ankle.

Toby had secured his under bite into my leg, to which I replied with the polite “AhhHHHhhwwww he’s…cute. Lot’s of…energy…” while I did that “I have to pee so badly while I’m standing here so I’m going to wrap my legs around each other and bend to the left” pose in an attempt to gently shake him loose.

“Ohhkay, come on Tobes let’s go on our walk.”

She tugged on his harness. Toby released his jaw. Might as well be a straight jacket, I thought.

 “I’m Tony, by the way” she called walking down the hallway.

“I’m Meggie—nice to meet you…both.”

Did she say Toby twice? No. They don’t have the same name…do they? No. Tony. ToNY and ToBY. What the hell kind of bizarre psych experiment is that? Quite the imagination you’ve got there.  “Hi! I’m Meggie and this is my dog, Maggie.” I’m left befuddled and in pain. I looked at ToBY’s non-existent legs scattering down the hallway. He looks like a beetle in pond water.

“Rata,” murmured one of the movers to the other one, who smiled. I chuckled too and caught the look of surprise I often get when it’s discovered I know Spanish.

After the couch was completed and my movers had re-discovered shirts, we all three stepped back to admire it. The first big piece in our new condo; it was a beautiful start to our new home.

We parted as friends; them with a hefty tip in hand, me with Valentine’s pants on and a swollen ankle.