couching my statements

*side note -- I just finished the column on Pete's Web site. Wow. I feel super petty now. So, disclaimer -- this is one woman's self-absorbed, pointless-in-the-long-run tale. Pointless, as most of blogs are anyway, points out The Brick.*

I need to expand on something I said in an earlier post. I guess my expression was accurate -- BUYING a couch might make one feel like an adult -- but RECEIVING the couch is really the part that's important. Kinda like Seinfeld and his making, and holding, of car reservations. *sigh* I mean, don't most things in life eventually boil down to Seinfeld sketches?

So I took yesterday off, because (we're told) in Prince William County, couch deliveries -- from Jennifer Convertibles, at least -- take place only on Mondays and Tuesdays. So I slept in, took a walk, bought a latte, did some cleaning. Even managed to scrapbook a bit, which is what I told Matt I would be doing all day. Hee! The couch dudes swing by at about 4:30. They're a couple of very nice guys. But they took one look at my entryway, and say, "I hope you have a backdoor entrance." Which we don't (to the basement, where the lush new couches were to go). So I try calling Matt to get his advice on what to do. He's out of his office at the moment. The guys go ahead and start assembling our side tables. I'm standing there, trying not to look like I'm trying to supervise them, but also attempting to demonstrate that I am trying hard to come up with a solution to our dilemma. That Matt's phone call will magically shrink the couch, or expand our hallway ceiling, or something. (I wish I'd taken photos of him and me getting the old couch out the night before. Lizzy was quite amused. She still doesn't quite understand what it's doing in the backyard.)
So Matt calls back in a few minutes. He's not too thrilled about the situation, either. His solution is to not believe me -- he asks me to measure the old couch, the new couch. He wants me to tell the couch movers something -- I'm not sure what. That they'll have to take back the couch, I guess. I suggest we ask what our options are. No! He says. I TELL them what the option is! Um, okay... So these very nice men, who have refused a tip because "we haven't actually delivered anything," kindly allow me to measure the stupid couch. Which is several inches bigger than the old couch. Their supervisor, equally distrustful, tells them to attempt to take the couch into the house anyway. Just so we all agree it doesn't fit. They try. It doesn't fit. She talks to me on the phone. I agree. It doesn't fit. We all join hands and let our voices swell in one mournful accord: THE COUCH DOESN'T FIT.
So back it goes. To make an already long story short, we went to Jen Converts and the lady there said that if we paid $200 to dismantle and 'remantle' the couch, she would waive another delivery fee. Whoopee. And we get to do it all over again, when we move. The saleslady joked about how we could have the couch convey with the townhouse when we sold it. Ha-ha.
Here comes another (carless) vacation day lounging at home for me. In a few weeks, of course. Because there's "red tape" to clear up. At least I'll be able to ensure that I have some cash on me this time, to tip these extremely nice men. (they even commented on Lizzy's baby pictures! It just doesn't get nicer than that.) My friend Mr. Mike has given me several lessons on how to stash cash on unwilling recipients. Not that I can do it nearly as well as he can.
Current count: Deliveries, one. Vacation days wasted, one. Couches, zero.
On the positive side, I might just get that Alaska vacation photo album done yet...