Adventures in furniture moving

It's taken me a few days to update this, mainly because my boss has returned from vacation and it's hard to post entire blog entries while furtively glancing around every 0.03 seconds. He hasn't arrived yet, however, so let's see if I can bust this out.

Last Friday, I found an adorable 50s style deco-ey formica table on craigslist for the bargain price of $50 (see left, not in my apartment). We need a table in our new apartment (we have room for a table! A real one! No more eating on our laps or sitting on the floor to use the coffee table!) so I arranged to pick it up on Saturday morning. The seller assured me, "Sure, it's light enough for two people to carry on the subway from the UWS to the East Village," and "It might fit in the trunk of a cab." We arrive in the very nice doormanned neighborhood of 89th and West End, and go see about the table.

It is not light, enough, or otherwise. It is not small enough to fit in a cab. But it's too late. I want this table, I want its swoopy metal legs and drop leaf capabilities. We find ourselves standing helplessly on the sidewalk, as a torturous subway ride looms before us. Just then, a Lincoln Towncar pulls up and the driver sets about trying to instruct me on how to angle the table into his trunk, while screaming "DON'T touch ANYTHING! LIFT THAT ONE! LIFT THAT ONE!" Meanwhile I have no idea what "that one" is, since we are currently only holding one, and only one, table. Finally, he bums a screwdriver off the super across the street, and unscrews the legs from the top. The top goes in the trunk, and the legs, all in one swoopy, art-deco-ey piece, are crammed into the backseat with us. I have the job of making sure that none of the four feet of the table touch ANYTHING! DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!

As I'm involved with the table in the back, Mr. Driver proceeds to wax romantical about why he helps The Ladies. "I help all The Ladies. I help The Ladies because you never know--that lady, or that lady, could be your wife or your girlfriend someday. Eh? (suggestive eyebrow wiggle in the rearview mirror) Are you Russian?" This last question was addressed to me, and I figure it must be part of the marriage interview process. I'm not one to ethnically pigeonhole, but I can categorically say I do not look Russian. Red hair + blue eyes+ freckles + transparent skin= "Uh, what? No, I'm Irish."

"Oh. You Jewish?"

"No." I have yet to meet an Irish Jew. Not to say they don't exist, but to my knowledge, my clan is all about the Jesus-lovin' pope. "I'm Catholic." Sort of. I haven't been in a church in forever of my own free will, besides the occasional Christmas when my mother begs me to be a part of the family for once and stop being such a goddamned rebellious heathen.

Mr Driver: "You go to church?"

Me: "Not really." (As I am nearly brained by two table legs simultaneously)

Mr. Driver: "You should."

Me: "Maybe." (Chair leg violates me momentarily)

And then the logical conclusion from Mr. Driver: "If you're not Jewish, you should go to church."

When we arrived at our apartment, he made a U-turn in the middle of Avenue B, jumped out of the car, inspected the plastic seats for any indication that I had been faulty in my seat-protecting chair-wrangling, and reassembled the table for us on the sidewalk. I could feel the bemused hipster stares as Louie (we were now on BFF terms) jumped around the sidewalk, screwing legs on, righting the table, dusting it off.

And then he was gone, back to the UWS to return a screwdriver, and I have a lovely table, fond memories, and a fresh serving of religious guilt.