Where the #@%&!!! Does This Piece Go?

In the new Santa Cruz digs of the eldest, furniture assembly took just a little longer than we'd hoped.

                                        A father and son moment

The instructions in Chinese did us no favor.  Neither did the toothless delivery guy we paid $30 to help us along.  Dude left midway through the job, after putting the wrong size legs on the coffee table.

                   Twelve hours later (slight exaggeration) victory!

Hugs and kisses and goodbyes, and we headed back to Sherman Oaks with the youngest.  On the 46, somewhere past the James Dean Memorial Junction, we hit major fog.

On the road again

We're talking no visiblity, people. I turned to my husband, who gripped the wheel and fixated on the nothingness. "Where the #%&! are we?" I asked.  "I have no #%&!-in' idea," he said.  In the back seat, the youngest grumbled.  "Why the #%&! did we leave so late?"  It was a rhetorical question.  We'd given a TV cabinet power over us.  There was no need to spell it out again.  "What the #%&! does it matter?" I said.  "It matters to me," said the youngest.  "Will the two of you please shut the #%&! up?" our driver said.  And we did. After all, he did say "please."  Five hours later, we turned down our bumpy street.  "That wasn't so bad," I said.  "Piece of cake," said hubby. "You guys are insane," said the youngest.