never have to say goodbye
09 August 2004 at 11:15 am

A word about IKEA: IKEA is a supposed to be a place of togetherness, a place where new roommates and relationships blossoming to the Next Level can come together and buy cute, cheap furniture. It's a place to feel stylish without having to worry about whether you really need a $500 lamp to feng shui your life back into order. A place to wax philosophic about dreams of all the love and laughter that will fill the spaces between your SKUBB organizer and your EKTORP sofa -- dreams, lady and gentlemen, that will never come true, because before you leave that store you will be bleeding to death, whether from self-inflicted stabbings of those stupid IKEA pencils, from fellow IKEAnese who, in order to nab the last GLADOM coffee table, bite at your ankle until your foot is dangling by a thread of pulpy skin, or from your significant other who has ripped out every hair on your head in an effort to convince you that the HOL storage cube is a much better match for the theme of your apartment. Somehow, someway, you reach down deep inside and finally make it through the checkout lines and drag your new belongings to the loading zone. You're crawling now, a trail of blood following you, and you sit for a moment trying to recuperate while you formulate a plan to get those As-Is items that seemed like such a good idea into your car. Your significant other trots off to get the vehicle. A half an hour and six phone calls later , he returns, cussing because he couldn't find his way to the second floor loading zone without leaving the IKEA perimeter, getting onto the freeway, waiting three exits to get back onto a side street, and fighting the incoming IKEA traffic. He parks crookedly, taking up two of the precious eight spaces designated for loading and unloading only. You get a few glares but easily brush them off -- you've survived the battle, and if you can make it home in just a few pieces, you'll have won the war. Somehow, in your last breaths before you pass out from exhaustion and lack of blood, you finagle your purchases into your too-small car, cram into the seats at angles not meant for people with joints that bend only one way, and drive away from the hellhole that is IKEA.

So, we bought a new kitchen table and a new tv unit this weekend.

Also, I did laundry.

Before I elaborate on that, allow me to reinforce the fact that I own a lot of clothes. I've gone six weeks without doing laundry and have still had clean clothes to wear. Let me also paint you a picture: I live in a studio. That means that I have a little nook for my bed, a small living space, a kitchen, and a bathroom. It's essentially one big room. It had a walk in closet (which is no longer walk-in, but more of a mountain climb over the piles of clothes), but it only has one bar that's only three feet long. I have one dresser that has three drawers. I keep the clothes I can wear to work in this area. The rest of my wardrobe is either in one of the five giant garbage bags of dirty clothes I've been meaning to sort through for months, hidden in the bathroom, thrown all over the floor, or in one of our three hampers. There are always clothes everywhere.

Every few months, I'll give away two garbage bags worth of stuff that's gotten too big (I don't throw away stuff that's too small because the last time I did that I lost a bunch of weight and had no clothes that fit me properly). I only buy a few things a month -- maybe one dress or a sweater, but I've collected a lot of priceless clothing over the years from various boutiques and thrift stores, stuff no one else is going to have, stuff that fits me perfectly and that I'm sure I'll someday have some opportunity to wear.

Did I mention I also own about 25 pairs of shoes?

And it's not like I have thirteen pairs of jeans and eleven pairs of black boots. All of the stuff I own is different -- I only have two pairs of jeans. Every outfit is distinct for my mood, whether I'm feeling flirty or coquettish or lonesome or homely or fat or skinny or slutty. I wear my heart on my sleeve figuratively; why shouldn't I look how I feel?

Anyway, now that you all think I'm a materialistic slut, allow me to continue with the rest of my weekend: I did six loads of laundry on Saturday night while my brother and Aaron's mom's friend cooked dinner. We ate at the new table we had bought at Ikea earlier that day (nightmare) and enjoyed each other's company. Sunday, my mum came into town and we -- Aaron, Aaron's mom, Aaron's mom's friend, my mom, and myself -- all met at a restaurant in the Marina. It was the first time Aaron's mom had met anyone from my family, and it was a rip-roaring success. We shopped on Union Street (where I picked up a pair of Nine West flats for $10.00) and they dropped me off at home where I continued to do laundry, wash dishes, and otherwise celebrate my domesticated ways.

Dentist appointment today, tomorrow, AND Wednesday, and I've already had two appointments -- folks, this is what happens when you don't go to the dentists for two years. Yikes stripes!

one year ago today: "and there he was and he's so goddamn cute when he sleeps and i don't want to dream about anyone else but him."

two years ago today: "i've said it once, and i'll say it again: why wouldn't you want people to know *exactly* what's going through your head?" and "mostly because i like to throw my money away, but also because i like it when life surprises me." and "here's a lesson i hope you never have to learn: if you ever boil ravioli and don't use enough olive oil and then place them on a paper plate, they will stick to the paper plate. i am now digesting paper plate."

three years ago today: "I'm moody and annoyed and full of myself and I can't help it! I mean, I know I *could* help it but I figure I may as well embrace myself while I can still blame it on hormones."

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.