Sunday. Recovering.

Overcoming our natural instincts to avoid, deny, and sit on our asses, we rent a car to Take Care of Business. When these rare moments arise, we seize them with alacrity, fighting the little voices in our heads that tell us that nothing good can come from productivity. And so we set out for IKEA.

We take a detour. I want to see the parts of Brooklyn unfamiliar to me - Sheepshead Bay, Manhattan Beach, Brighton Beach, Gravesend. Still in New York City, it is such a different world - or, as our darling reception at work would say, "The best PAHT." We take in the mega mansions with Doric columns and Madonna friezes and the shops with Russian signs. This is the sort of thing we like to do - ride around, explore, marvel at this wonderful, diverse city.

There is a new IKEA in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and we enter like everyone else, full of naive optimism. Our last two experiences with IKEA have been dismal, but we are sure that THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT. We will buy shelves, folding chairs, organizers, baskets, a shower caddy. We will come home and everything will be better than it was before.

Except that IKEA is bewildering and massive and the kind of place I loathe. Nothing we choose is in stock, and the shelves we need are not where they are supposed to be. We end up buying $200 worth of crap we don't really need and speak to each other tartly in the endless line. I develop a case of shopping rage and wonder aloud how many IKEA-related homicides occur each year. As we drive off, I flip IKEA the bird and we vow never to return to that temple of disappointment and frustration.

Bruised and violated, we head to Home Depot, where things seem slightly better, though smell of manure. When we get home with shelves and all manner of toggles, hooks, and screws, Fauxhawk starts to install shelves and I attempt to hang lights. This is where more sensitive readers may want to visit another blog, because what follows is a nasty string of invective.

"MOTHER COCK-SUCKER DAMN IT TO HELL," says Fauxhawk, as the shelves destroy his soul.

"FUCKING BALLSACK JESUS H. CHRIST ON THE CROSS," I say, as the lights erode my will to live.

Finally, we give up and watch an insanely stupid movie to dull the pain. I imagine that without this movie, we would find ourselves in a downward spiral of alcohol, drugs and prostitution.

In the morning, we sit on our couch, in front of a coffee table littered with Camel Lights, toggle bolts, and 75,000 IKEA candles. With a cup of coffee, things seem slightly brighter. Fauxhawk manages the shelves beautifully, and offers to deal with the lights.

All of a sudden, our life seems like Design*Sponge - we are happy, shiny DIYers arranging decorative things on our newly hacked IKEA shelves! We are young, creative people living stylishly in a small space! We are decorating on a dime and WE LOVE IT!

We could totally be on apartmenttherapy, except for the part about the ballsack. But otherwise: yeah.




Photograph from Lolita, my enduring obsession.