DP and I moved into a new flat in April. We'd been renting a one bed furnished flat in the posh bit and bought an unfurnished four bed place in the shit up and coming area. I'm not on the deeds or the mortgage because DP is an accountant and, according to the bank, a proper person. I'm a lowly postgrad with no job security or taxable income, so all my savings were to go for the furniture budget and I pay him half the mortgage every month plus bills so it's about even.
As our first flat was getting sold by the landlord, we packed up our stuff and put it into storage and moved into my best mate's place for a few weeks. Then when we moved in, I was away at a conference then he was away, plus I work opposite hours to him.
During this time, DP argued that there was no point considering any kind of furniture, even a bed, because we didn't know the dimensions. Fair enough, but after nearly two months on an airbed, I put my foot down and we got one ordered for delivery the week we moved in. Bed is a bed no matter how big or small your rooms are! After some stropping, he went and let me buy some bedding. Under duress. Because he figured that a sleeping bag works just as well. A week later, he bought a tape measure.
In the first week we went bed shopping, we back with two Indian chests and a tree trunk for a coffee table. End of discussions. Still no chairs, no clothes storage, no kitchen table. Beanbags instead, and I'm not allowed a microwave because he thinks they're trying to kill him. Cutlery because I told him I'd go without him and pick it for him.
After another month, I shouted at him because our clothes are STILL in boxes and there'd be no movement or discussion on the wardrobe front because the bedroom 'design' means absolutely nothing in it but a bed and two rugs (from the old place). He build a garment rail out of copper piping in the boxes room that's held to the wall with climbing quickdraws because copper piping is fuckingbendy.
Turned a cupboard into a wardrobe with IKEA crates. Shouted and bribed and moaned and he went shopping for chairs. We came back with a Victorian painting easel and a box of medical textbooks from 1890. No chairs. The crates don't fit in the cupboard. He's decided we need more space and wants to build a new rail upstairs. That was about a month ago. It's now the place he hides boxes he wants me to think he's unpacked.
Forced him to IKEA to get the office set up so I can finally do some work. Got desks, which he complained were too small, then we finally got chairs. DP is a ridiculous person and we've got multi-coloured egg chairs. Bribed him to go to a furniture shop and he stormed out because he thinks it's not cool enough and it's the kind of furniture owned by people on Gogglebox he doesn't like it.
Ordered sofas a few weeks ago but they come in July. We've got a table made by some social enterprise that also takes weeks but I had to bribe him with 'urban botanist' plants so he'd buy legs for the fucking thing. Legs are in a box in our hallway. He let me buy shelves so I'd stop shouting at him. There's nothing on the shelves because he wants it to be minimalist.
Our friends think it's hilarious but they don't have to live here. I hate beanbags. We don't have any lights, or proper chairs, and our stuff is all in boxes and this week he spent £20 on a ham stand for the kitchen. I've got 5k sat in a bank account from working ten hour night shifts, it's not like he's got to fork out for any of it! But if I buy things he'll sulk like fuck!
AIBU? Should I just roll with it and accept it takes an age to furnish a place?