I Heart IKEA

Who would not love that store?

Yesterday I went there with Robbie. I frugally purchased only a clock for the kitchen wall, a rug to go under the kitchen sink, a second rug for the bedroom which has that nasty-ass brown flecked linoleum tile, you understand, a full-length mirror so I can better admire what a delectably stylish girl I am, a couple of powerstrips, and a lovely soft poofy pair of house slippers (I'm not used to uncarpeted floors) and escaped for just under $42 - my favorite number, naturally. I love that store!

Robbie bought everything else they had.

After our trip we went back to his place to assemble some furniture, and I suppose I could claim we've taken our friendship to the next level in that we made up his bed together. It might have been advisable not to have done so whilst drinking strawberry margaritas; but we did, with the result that we broke off a chunk of it, I sliced my finger, he hurt his toe, I showed him how to make hospital corners, and within half an hour of being completed, the bed completely collapsed.

It's those IKEA instructions, you know. They're designed not to be language-dependent, so they consist entirely of drawings. The drawings of the furniture and its composite pieces are not particularly humorous, but the drawings of what IKEA apparently thinks you look like when putting together a table are rather humbling. Did you know that when you are hurt or confused, your mouth is a big down-turning wobbly line, and giant question marks radiate from your head? You idiot.

One page showed a picture of the bed rail we were installing next to a prominently displayed bleeding finger. We laughed at the silly picture, and were still giggling when I felt underneath for a screw hole and suddenly yelled, "Ouch!" Lesson learned: Do not mock IKEA. Because IKEA will cut you, bitch.

So now I want to get a wrought-iron bed frame and two wine-red couches, but I think I'd better use some protection this time.