Right now, our bedroom looks like the back room of a furniture warehouse. It started like this: Saturday, the first of our current hot spell, Real Life Romance Hero went out for some fresh air, while yours truly flopped in front of the fan in pajama shorts and t-shirt. RLRH returns after a curiously short time outside. Not a full return, as he calls up to me from the landing to ask if I can “put on some clothes real quick and help (him) with something.
Public service announcement: do not say that to someone with anxiety. Please be specific about what the something is.
I don my Reasonable Adult Human disguise, casual version, and bop down the stairs, reminding myself it’s not always a crisis, okay? It wasn’t…mostly. There is RLRH, surrounded by desk parts (one big, two small) and a tall dresser. There is also a futon frame with cushion. RLRH informs me that Neighbor is moving out and said we could have the furniture he doesn’t want to move to the new place. I am not going to look a furniture gift horse in the mouth.
How, though, are we going to get all that stuff (minus the futon, because although we are reasonably sure there are no b-e-d-b-u-g-s involved, we have been down that road and are NOT taking any chances on an encore. Sprft stuff must be new, or from someone we know personally. RLRH says that all we have to do is get the big pieces inside gthe front door, into the entry, and we can close the front door and figure out the rest later. There is a brief discussion as to what this would mean for our in-building neighbors, a group which includes the owners, but the absence of the canine alert system, aka Barkhemian Rhapsody, satisfies us that this is a weekend neither neighbors are in residence.)
I still have my doubts, but A) I have known RLRH longer than I did not know him, and I know when dissuading him is a lost cause, and B) determination looks darned good on him. Also C, it’s good furniture and costs nothing. Okay. We get big desk part mostly inside the vestibule (and a little on the stairs.)
Here enters our third player, whom I will call Superdude. Superdude is a gentleman probably a little older than us, and is possessed of a muscular athletic build. He sees RLRH preparing to haul big dresser part up the outisde stairs and asks if we would like some help. It’s okay, he says, he cleared it with his wife. We thankfully accept his kind offer. Bim bam boom, a few minutes later, Superdude and RLRH have all the big parts upstairs. We chat for a few minutes, about how friendly neighbors are around here (they are) and how it’s important for community members to look out for each other (which it is) and social privilege (we all agreed that, by appearance alone, RLRH and I would have certain privileges that Superdude would not, baed on the amount of melanin in our skin.)
Superdude, as it turns out, lives two blocks away from us, which puts him on the same block as the hospital, so RLRH and I suspect Superdude is most likely some sort of professional. We will probably run into him again, and I hope we have another good talk.
Yesterday was a hot day, and as I do not summer well, my best way to get through the worst of the day was to sleep through it. I wake to Housemate’s return from work, and her question of where we got those lamps in the master bedroom. Huh? I told her she knows where we got the lamps in the master bedroom. We got them from her mom. She was there. But no, Housemate insists, the floor lamps. Oh. Well. When I went to sleep we did not have floor lamps, but I had told RLRH we needed some. I take a look. There are indeed floor lamps. I wait for RLRH’s return and ask him if it’s Moving Out Neighbor. He confrims that it was. No Superdude needed this time. Lightbulbs, though, those we need. I will add them to the grocery list.