I am a ninja. Where is my couch?

What a frickin' morning. Clearly kismet does not want me to have a good night's sleep. Got up a little before nine this morning, since the couch was supposed to be delivered by 10 o'clock. Checked my email, got a rather apropos email from Big D (who, of course, was up an hour earlier than me). Heard a bit of a racket outside: there are some guys doing work on the exterior of my building and they started at nine. I am wearing my cool new yoga pants, which are black, along with a black long sleeved shirt. I bet they think I'm a ninja. A lazy, book reading, bagel eating ninja.
Then I look outside: it's a sunny and glorious day. I can't go back to bed when it's like that! And I have a six kilometre run to get in. Oh, now the people outside are scraping something. And the scissor lift makes a run sound like a cake mixer. I'd like some cake. Where's my couch? Here couchy, couchy.
So I read a little, have some coffee, try and ignore the people working directly outside my windows and it's 10 o'clock. I get a call and oh! they're running late and will likely be here at 10:30 or 10:45. Well thanks. I'm so glad I got up at nine am for this. I have ONE DAY per week to sleep in and they blew it for me. I'm napping today, I don't care. Don't question it.
Anyways, the woman is confirming my address and I give her my suite number and she says, "So you have an elevator and all that?" and I say, "No, they'll have to carry the couch to the second floor," and she scoffs, "They? It's me and my husband". Well, cry me a goddamn river! Not all apartments have elevators and the 106 year old on the third floor seems to be able to handle it. Plus, I've moved my gigantic couch up and down those stairs. Okay, I didn't, but I did a damn good job supervising it and therefore I know it can be done. Ninjas don't move couches.
Where is my couch?