Ikea and the interNOT

This weekend, Mike and I spent a lot of money at Ikea, convinced that the particleboard we were bringing into our house was an investment. We say, “investment,” like we actually believe that the Hemnes Chest will increase the property value, when it’ll only increase the chance of any potential buyer surveying our bedroom and pondering, “How much do you want to bet I can punch through this cheap nightstand?”

The thing about Ikea is that it’s only as good as the person putting it together. The queen bedframe Mike brought into our first apartment was damaged by the movers and so to keep the boxspring from falling through the newly-curved slats and one of us waking up screaming, “What in the holy Christmas!?!” we had to get halved 2×4’s (wouldn’t that be 1×2’s?) to suffice as a ghetto bed slat.

But I did put the dresser together even though the directions called for something else:

A white man. Actually, I needed to be a white man and have the assistance of my Anglo brethren to complete it. Come on Ikea, pony up for the ink and get some of my Pacific Islander brothers and sisters featured.

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There is no internet or television yet. The cable guy was ready to hook it up on Sunday, but the “smart box” in our closet that houses the cable and outlet whoosie-whatsies could not be pried open, so we’ll need to call the developer to fix it while Mike and I fill in the TV void playing a rousing game of, “Why are you hitting yourself?”

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I was not able to install the baby gates I spent $168 on. I did manage to drill vampire bites instead of secure spots for the gates so my son will not fall to his death. Until I get someone with more know-how, or any know-how, we’ll just have to depend on my yelling, “NATHAN GET AWAY FROM THERE!”

We can use that all day for free!

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Nathan’s picked up speed since his first steps a few weeks ago, and now leads with his belly. The kid is fast and determined to walk into anything: the cats, curb, oncoming traffic. I want to get a leash, but only because I plan to teach those fat toddler feet how to walk on my back. If I could only harness that energy into creating the world’s perfect back massager.

It’s worth the investment.

May 29, 2007 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 4 Comments 

why I never work out

I know Mike prefers Frampton Comes Alive to Fergie. But I can’t see how you wouldn’t opt for anything over Fergie. Are you kidding me with that keeping-it-real schitck, lady? Picking up your chalupa at the Taco Bell drive-thru hardly qualifies you as “raw as hell.” It just makes you fat as hell, not to mention, gassy. Fat and gassy: does that sound glamorous to you, Stacy Ferguson?

What was that? Get back to talking about your grandpa/husband, Mona? Okay! I’m used to the onslaught of classic rock filling the interior of our car rides–Jethro Tull and that stupid flute solo and various guitar solos that abuse the whammy bar–and references to Jimmy Carter and Angie Dickinson, but during the move I discovered something that shocked me to the core:

A thigh-master. Do you remember these things? I found this and felt like someone had thrown me into Antiques Roadshow: Workout Fads Edition. How much could you get for something the worst cast member of Three’s Company demonstrated between her legs? Could I get at least reparations for the damage caused by those relentless infomercials?

Mike alleges that it’s for working his arms, but I’m not too young to fall for that.

If it were for the arms, it would be called Arm Master, not the Device Suzanne Sommers Modeled Near Her No-Nos.

May 25, 2007 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 7 Comments 

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