The little absurdities of life seem to be some of the few things that can make me laugh these days – and those that get filed under “ridiculous” are at the top of that pile. To wit:

Our office space at home (aka our former dining room) is perfectly laid out for maximum efficiency, thanks mostly to B., and maximum creativity, thanks mostly to me. The fact that everything is easily within reach, that we’ve made the most of the modest space, and that the art on the walls is a mix of fun, color, and whimsy, makes it a comfortable and comforting place. Here is where B. teaches via Zoom, preps for class, and grades exams, while I write, play Wordle, write, browse for books (yes, and beauty stuff) online, and write (also draw, doodle, and dabble).

For almost three decades of living in our apartment, a mainstay of said office space has been two file cabinets. You know the kind – two-drawer, lateral, metal, taupe (okay, that’s being too kind – office beige). Functional, yes; fabulous, far from it. Side by side, the cabinets have held about a million files over the years as well as a plethora of office supplies inside and a printer and lots of other necessities on top.

But things don’t stay the same, even in the life of a file cabinet. First, we started with the tops showing quite a bit of wear. Not a game changer, necessarily, because of all the above-mentioned office paraphernalia kept there, but still, not so pretty. Then, however, came the breakdown. I pulled out the bottom drawer of one cabinet one day and the door kept moving even when I – and it – should have stopped. Result? One drawer off its worn-out tracks and one writer knocked off balance and on her ass. The drawer was irreparable, the writer okay, albeit annoyed. (Note to self: kicking a metal file cabinet drawer out of frustration while wearing your bunny slippers – not so much).

For a couple of weeks, as an interim solution while B. was in the midst of a mountain of exams, we band-aided the situation by moving two cardboard file boxes into the space where the bottom drawer used to be and filled them with that drawer’s files. A brilliant idea by B., although short-lived at best (can you say eyesore?). That’s where those online “browsing” skills of mine came in. I located replacement cabinets, although the price has certainly skyrocketed since last we purchased them.

This time, we went with black instead of beige – chic, sleek, and a big step up in how the office would look. I picked the free overnight delivery date (guaranteed!) so that we would be able to make the change while B. had some time (a Saturday). Now all we had to do was wait less than 24 hours for them to be delivered. And there’s the rub.

Even though I had ordered them from a major retail chain – always dependable – the delivery service used by said chain in our area is a bit tricky. For one thing, it’s not one of those services anyone has ever heard of. For another, the tracking number supplied by the retailer is not in the format used by the deliverer, which means you have to contact the service to get the correct number. And third, there is no way to contact them other than by online chat. Which, I didn’t realize until much, much later in what was to become a painful saga, is manned (and I use that word ironically) by bots.

Cabinets ordered and tracking deciphered, we waited. And waited. And waited. Long past the promised overnight delivery date. Good news – I was able to track the cabinets. Bad news – for three days they were lost between being on a truck at a warehouse five minutes away and making it to our apartment. Hours spent communicating with the delivery service resulted in the same “don’t worry, they will be there today” broken promise. I finally cancelled the order with the retailer and the delivery service. And pouted. And kicked the cardboard file boxes. (Note to self: don’t do that. Cardboard caves when kicked.)

A dozen emails from the retailer and the delivery service (plus updates on their websites) all assured me that the order was, indeed, kaput. Over. Not going to be delivered. Refunded to our credit card. In a word, finis.

A day later, on a not-good-for-B.’s-work-schedule weekday afternoon, as I went back online to find some other retailer, we heard a horrendous scraping noise from the lobby (our LA building has outdoor corridors and an open-air courtyard). Combined with grunting and groaning. Looking out over the railing from our upper-level unit, we saw a delivery person with, you guessed it, our cabinets, which were packaged in huge cartons. He was working alone and struggling – how he got them up the front steps of our building, into the elevator, and into our apartment foyer is a mystery. How we were going to pull this one off (we had to get the old ones emptied and removed and the new ones in place and filled – stat) was going to be interesting.

Suffice it to say that our place was unrecognizable for several hours. Piles of files everywhere. Old file cabinets emptied and dragged into the kitchen (in order to get them to the front door) using the flattened cardboard cartons to help slide them. New cabinets waiting in the entryway to be slid around the old ones in the kitchen and into place in the office. And then.

We had to find a way to get the cabinets – 80 pounds each when empty, by the way – downstairs and into the garage trash room. The first step was to remove the drawers. Except that the one drawer that had removed itself so easily when it broke and started this whole fiasco had three brothers and sisters who insistently refused to come loose. Finally, after much struggle, B. managed to get two of those three drawers out; the fourth one was just a bridge too far. Three drawers successfully made it into the dumpster. Last step – getting rid of the cabinets themselves.

And that is where the ultimate comedy came in. We brought the file cabinets down using our mini hand truck that I have affectionately dubbed “Chuck” (rhymes with “f**k,” which is particularly apt, as you’ll see). We managed to lift the drawer-less cabinet up and over the edge of the dumpster, where it crashed inside (a very satisfying sound).

But now it was time for the second cabinet, the one that still had a drawer stuck inside. Which meant few places to get a grip. Also apt. Because as we lifted it up, it slipped out of my hands completely, threatening to crash back down on our heads and, less horrifying but equally potentially painful, our feet. “Motherf***er!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I lost my grip, both literally and figuratively. B. managed to summon that extra adrenaline and strength to push the cabinet up, up, and over the top. Score. My hero. Let’s face it, we’re getting too old for this kind of stuff.

The clean-up and the cabinet refills ensued, followed by two very exhausted, very worn, and very achy people falling into bed (“achy” being the operative word here). The good news? We were back in business the next morning.

File closed.

©2025 Claudia Grossman