It seemed insane. Assembling things? As a couple?
Then I thought about it: Mrs. Brad and I have spent many years assembling things, establishing a solid working relationship. Most furniture in our house and all the electronics have been assembled on site. I once (kind of) built a shed. She's an engineer.
Could we do what the IKEA couple does? Could that be an early retirement plan for us – a way to pick up extra money and do something together?
(Harp music plays, revealing Mrs. Brad and me in someone's living room, preparing to assemble a box of furniture parts into a beautiful IKEA product.)
Me: OK, I'll open this box and we'll get going. LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!
Her: That's not the box! That's a table. Put away the box cutters.
Me: What? Oh. Sorry, I was thinking about getting my phone to stream the Giants game. Is this the box?
Her: (Taking away the box cutter) I'll do it!
Mrs. Brad opens the box and lays out the parts. After struggling with my phone for several minutes, I grab the instructions.
Me: This doesn't make sense. It's in Spanish. Or French. Something.
Her: Find the English version. It's on there.
Me: Are you sure? Oh, here it is. Thank goodness. I thought there was eight pages of instructions. OK: Assemble the parts.
Her: I did that.
Me: OK . . . um . . .
Mrs. Brad begins assembling parts. She pulls out a tool and connects two parts.
Me: WAIT! You are supposed to attach A1 to B2. What are you doing?
Her: That's what I'm doing. I'm putting together the base.
Me: Speaking of that, the baseball game is about to begin. Do you think these people have a Bluetooth speaker for my phone?
Her: Don't worry about that. Can you hand me the wrench?
Me: (Looking through her toolbox) Is this a wrench?
Her: That's a screwdriver. A wrench looks like . . . here it is. This is a wrench.
Me: That's what I thought. I just . . .
Mrs. Brad continues to put the furniture together as I watch.
Her: Can you move? You're blocking the light. I need a Phillips screwdriver.
Me: This?
Her: No. That's a slot screwdriver. A Phillips looks like a star.
Me: That's weird. Because J.R. Phillips played for the Giants and he wasn't a star.
Her: What? Could you just get me a Phillips screwdriver?
Me: Why are you mad? He wasn't a star. ARE YOU SAYING J.R. PHILLIPS WAS A STAR?
Her: (Moving me out of the way.) Never mind. I've got it.
Me: I'm hungry. When will we be done?
Her: We just started. How can you be hungry?
Me: Why are you getting mad at me? I'm just trying to help. I had no IKEA you'd get so upset! Get it? Ikea?
Her: (Deep sigh) Can you hold this board while I attach it to the crossbeam?
Me: (After holding it for 30 seconds) How long is this going to take?
Her: The project?
Me: No, me having to hold this. My arms are tired.
Her: Poor baby.
Me: Is this still about J.R. Phillips? Because he wasn't very good. Ask anyone!
Her: Can you do me a favor?
Me: I guess so. I'm already doing all the work.
Her: Can you go outside and wait in the car?
Me: I don't understand why you're so mad about J.R. Phillips. I had no ikea a you liked him so much. Get it?
Her: GET OUT!
I slink out, secretly happy to listen to the game in the car.
I guess it wouldn't work. But it would be weird that she'd be so ignorant about J.R. Phillips, right?
Brad Stanhope is a former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.
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