File cabinet of doom.

One of the things I love about my partner, J., is how we move furniture together.

This is not cutesy or trivial. We move furniture together really well. By which I mean we spend a lot of time laughing at the absurdity and difficulty of the tasks we are attempting to perform. Witness today’s effort: the file cabinet.

N.’s wardrobe and dresser are in the office now, you understand. So the file cabinet had to go . . . somewhere. J and I had determined that if it was going anywhere, it was going to the basement. So step one was to stand in the basement and stare despairingly at the overwhelming stacks of furniture and stuff. Hmm. Perhaps if we moved the bin of roaches over next to the worm bins, the file cabinet could go in front of the utility sink? Next to the bin of blankets? No, no, that won’t work — J needs to be able to reach the shelf behind the utility sink. Well, how about we move the exercise bike over by the tool shelves and the treadmill over where the dirty laundry pile is? No, the floor under the exercise bike is horribly uneven. The cabinet will tip over. How about we move garden hose bin over by the furnace, move the bins of games to the place where the garden hose bin was, move the shelf of games out to the aisle, and slide the file cabinet into the space the shelf was?

Perfect!!

This merely meant we had to get the file cabinet out of the office and down the stairs. I began removing all the files out of the cabinet. This caused a brief flurry of angst in J. as she noticed my carefully labelled files of loan and banking records for the past three years, plus all my labelled tax returns, plus my insurance records. I tried to comfort her by mentioning that I’m not certain one needs to keep all these things anymore.

I wanted to move the cabinet without taping the drawers in place. J. insisted on some tape. We put a strip of tape across each drawer, and I casually asserted that I was sure that was good enough. The drawers surely wouldn’t fall open. Two minutes later my yelping could be heard upstairs, “I was wrong! I was wrong! Where’s the tape? Tape!” J. soon thereafter won genius points for suggesting we slide the whole thing on a towel and shove it across the house to the stairs that way. Genius. Pure genius.

After much muffled profanity the cabinet was relocated to its slot in the basement. J. hauled files and folders down for me to refile, and the deed was done. I was just pondering, though, how tedious and irritating and difficult jobs like that can be, with the wrong person. Pondering how pleased I am to have the right person with whom to own a house.

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