I was that kid that didn’t actually play with my toys.  I just set them up in perfect order, and then starred at them.

I felt satisfaction knowing that every G.I. Joe man was ready for battle, and thus I didn’t actually need to pit them against the evil Cobra Forces…

A new condominium is sort of like that, if you are as obsessive-compulsive as I am.

Ever hear the construction saying: “Measure twice, cut once”?

When furnishing your condo, it’s “Plan twice, buy once“….

The Brick

Leon’s

Ikea

These are the three staples of home furnishings for first-time buyers.

And I’m ashamed to admit that I went to all three places, multiple times.

When I purchased my condo, I was treated to a Saturday afternoon with a friend of mine to go shopping.  I needed a woman’s input, design, flair, mind, and ability to shop for eight straight hours despite being partnered with a man that is dragging his feet, crying, and bleeding from the eyes and ears…

We started with a store called Jysk and then made our way over to Home Outfitters and Home Sense, which are like the Sweedish-twins of modern home design.

We hit up Structubeand then mosied on over to both of the barns: Pottery Barn and Urban Barn.  There was a serious lack of pottery in Pottery Barn, and Urban Barn was just waaaaay too urban.  I can’t justify spending $22.00 on a toothbrush holder…

We stopped in to EQ3 for a bit, and then dropped into Leon’s for just long enough to be followed around by an annoying salesman that might as well have been wearing a shirt that reads “I work on commission.”  Yes, the irony, seeing as I’m also in sales…

I refused to go to Bed, Bath, & Beyond simply because of Will Ferrell’s famous movie quote in Old School that will forever be used to slander our pantsless, whipped buddies for the rest of time…

After three hours at Ikea, we quit for the day, and I went home and cried myself to sleep…

Fast forward six weeks, and I’m now living in my condo….with no furniture.  My new flatscreen TV (every man’s gift to himself) is on the wall, and my mattress is being used as a couch/bed for now, but my furniture from G.H. Johnstons is three weeks overdue.

Here is a story that could only happen to me:

June 19th was a sunny almost-summer morning, and I awoke like a child on Christmas knowing that today was the day my couch would arrive.  But unlike Christmas, where you pounce on your parent’s bed at 7AM to get them up and opening gifts, I began to wait, and wait…

…and wait.

At 2:00PM, I get a call from security at my building, er, “concierge,” telling me to come down as I have a delivery.

YES!

The concierge informs me that I haven’t booked the elevator, therefore I’m not allowed to accept my delivery.  I begin to tell him that I can book the elevator NOW, and he says I need 24 hours notice.  I sarcastically suggest that I should just tell the delivery men, who have my couch out back, that they should go away and come back another day.  “Yes, that would be the best possible course of action,” he replies.

“HOGWASH,” I exclaim.  “POPPYCOCK!”

“We have rules here, Mr. David Fleming,” he says as if I’m a young man at a foreign boarding school getting lectured because I took a second helping of desert.

But fortune smiles up on thee (thee, in this case, being meee), as the elevator is already booked by Ma & Pa from unit 1401, as they are also awaiting a delivery from G.H. Johnstons.

One full hour later, the knock at the door reveals two young tattooed men, who stand there shaking their heads at me.

“The good news is: we have your couch.  The bad news is: it ain’t gonna fit through your door.”

“Huuuuuuuhhhh,” I say while scratching my head with my arm perpendicular to the ground like a cartoon character.

“We’ll be back in a bit,” says the young man with the Black Sabbath t-shirt.

Ten minutes later, the door swings open to reveal: my couch cushions.  Yes, they brought me eight decorative pillows for my viewing pleasure.

“This will have to do ya fer now,” says Black Sabbath’s partner-in-crime, who sports a pair of sandals on his feet as if this is his first day ever moving furniture.

So now I have couch cushions, but no couch.

I contemplate, for a moment, just nailing the cushions to the wall and creating an insane asylum for myself while I live in a condo with nowhere to sit down.

“Hold on a sec,” I say while trying to be nice.  “You guys are telling me that my couch, that is already three weeks late, is sitting downstairs in your truck, but that is as close as it’s going to get to my apartment?”

“Yeah, that sounds pretty accurate,” says Sabbath.

Sandals then offers, “You could always get G.H. to send over an upholstery guy to take the arms off.  It’ll run ya about two-hundred, plus costs.”

“PLUS costs?” I shout.  “What costs?  What is the $200 for then?”

They look at eachother blankly and take turns scratching their asses, literally.

“Weelllllll,” says Sabbath as if to suggest “We gots to get goin’ now”…

“Forget this,” I say, as if I’m taking control of the situation.

“You see that terrace out back?” I point out to them.  “We’re bringing the couch over the ledge.”

Eyes Hazy.

“Sorry, what?” asks Sandals.

“Yeah, no way dude,” says Sabbath.  “We don’t get paid to bring couches over balconies.”

“Well, to be honest with you guys, I’m not paying G.H. if I don’t get my couch in my apartment today,” I reply, forgetting that these are outsourced employees who have zero affiliation with G.H. whatsoever.  They just stare at me blankly, arms-crossed.

“Okay, well, it will be a challenge, but it will give you two guys a story to tell this weekend when you’re out with the boys for beers.”

“F*ck it,” says Sabbath.  “Let’s bring this bi-atch over the ledge!”

Then, as if a crack-team of professional writers is penning this screenplay as we act it out, the door opens, and it’s my buddy Wes, who is the guy that knows everything, does everything, and just plain gets things done.

“Hi Wes.”

“Hi Dave.”

“We’re going to bring a couch over my balcony.”

“Cool.”

I don’t ask what he’s doing here, and he doesn’t seem surprised at all to just show up and find me doing something absolutely ridiculous.

Welcome to my life.

I run around to The Eggplant Restaurant on King Street to ask them politely to move their trucks in the back alleyway that runs parallel to my balcony, while Sabbath & Sandals back the truck down the same alley.

One car is moved, while the other remains.  Then a lady comes out and uses a keyless remote to open the truck door and take out some shopping bags (Prada, D&G, and Guess….I would guess), and then begins to walk away.

“Hey LADY,” says Sabbath about as polite as he can be, “Are you gonna move that f*cking truck or what?”

Wow, the way he talks to women is like a sweet opera.  He is the reincarnation of Don Juan.

“I don’t have the key, just this door-opener-thinga-majigee….it’s my husband’s truck,” she says, as we all breathe a collective sigh of disappointment.

Wes takes a long drag off his cigarette and calmly says, “Stand on the hood of her truck then.”

We all laugh and shake our heads….all of us except for Wes.

“I’m not kidding.”

So Sandals and Sabbath get the couch out of the truck, and Wes and I stand on the ledge awaiting the spontaneous formation of some sort of plan.

“Stand on the dumpster” says Sandals as Sabbath holds the couch firmly against the wall.

They switch places, for no apparent reason and accomplishing nothing in the process, and Sabbath’s foot sinks in the dumpster as the couch tips on its side.

“Maybe, I dunno, try closing the LID,” says Wes.

What a novel idea!

Now we have the eight foot long couch propped upright on top of the grimy dumpster, and just about a foot off the ledge where Wes and I patiently wait.

“On THREE,” says Sabbath.

“On three, what?” asks Wes, like he is talking to his kid brother….his adopted kid brother….from Romania.

“Um.  On three….uh….well…..um…what do you think we should do?”

“Okay,” starts Wes.  “First, you move around to the right, and hold the left side of the couch with both hands.  Then he stands on top of the dumpster and pushes the couch flush against the wall.  Once this is done, Dave and I will hold the couch for a few seconds while you guys get off the dumpster, and move to the ground to both push upwards.  Once it’s on the ledge, you can get back on the dumpster, and push it over.  Got it?”

The two delivery men, reduced to boys by Wes’ manliness, look at eachother in unison.  “Got it.”

A few seconds later, the couch is teetering on the ledge of my balcony, and Wes pulls it with one arm down onto my patio.

“PHEW” comes a four-way sigh of relief.

“That thing is YOUR problem now boys,” says Sabbath as he and Sandals make a break for their truck.

“Hope it fits through your back door,” adds Sandals.

I look over at Wes in pure fright.

Wes smirks.

“Trust.”

A half hour later, I’m sitting on my brand new couch in my living room at 230 King Street.

Once the patio set gets air-lifted in by the Armed Forces, I’ll be good to go….