If the tracking on FedEx is to be believed, the base to my new bed should finally arrive tomorrow. In anticipation, I told my foster daughter that it was coming, and I'd probably be able to have the old bed delivered to them today. (The old king still has years of life left in it; it just wouldn't have worked with the split king adjustable base.) Without verifying this morning that we were ready to move, her husband moved out their dead-dead bed, and cleared space in their room for it. By default, that lit a fire under my butt to get ready here.
The Mr was in the mountains all weekend, so I was left to my own devices to prep for the switch. I stripped all the sheets and mattress cover off to wash, and tried valiantly to lift the mattress to lean it against the wall. Well, that never happened. I pushed and pulled and eventually got one of the box springs out and into the living room. Then I died. It was just too heavy. It stayed there until early evening, when he came home and wrestled the big stuff into submission. He loaded the bases into the truck, and we set out for the kids' house. I got to hold the baby some while the two men went back to the house and put the mattress on top of the truck, Beverly Hillbillies style. As they were leaving to retrieve it, I noticed both of them were wearing the same shirt, a Firefly-cosplay thing I had made years ago. "You're twinkies!" I yelled as they left. They didn't seem as amused as I was.
Once I got home, I swept and steam-mopped the floor under where the new bed will go, and I set down one of the new mattresses to have someplace to sleep tonight. Man, if this doesn't harken back to college, on a mattress directly on a floor. Get me some big, baggy clothes like we wore in the 80s, and crank up the Thompson Twins. It's a flashback night.
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