And now, back to our regularly scheduled shopping
Before anything else, I want to say thank you to all of y'all who commented and emailed over the last few days, expressing your sympathies for Noah's death. It meant the world to all of us, and I can't thank you enough. I appreciate it so much. You are all so awesome.
But, you know, that's...enough of having depressing things on the homepage, is what I am thinking. It is time to talk about something else. And the "something else" I am thinking of, is of course, the fact THAT AN IKEA IS OPENING HERE, IN THIS CITY, ON WEDNESDAY. YES. I AM NOT EVEN LYING TO YOU.
People. Ikea. I have never been inside an Ikea before. And I just read in the paper that it is going to be 350,000 square feet of shopping bliss. I, personally, am like...three square feet. Maybe I am even less! Listen, I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH A SQUARE FOOT IS, but Ikea has A SHITLOAD OF THEM. And all of their square feet are filled with small trinkets and lamps and wineglasses that I am pretty sure that I need.
The store opens on Wednesday (which...Wednesday?). Evidently, they are giving a $4000 gift certificate to the first person in line, or some other similar marketing ploy that ensures that the Insane have somewhere to sleep on Tuesday night, and by "somewhere" I mean "the Ikea parking lot," or more probably, "the area outside of the front doors," which does not look comfortable to me. But then again, I am kind of a snobby snob snob, and will not sleep on concrete.
(But I have to admit, that I am actually kind of...tempted. Four thousand dollars in Ikea gift certificates! I mean, couldn't you, like...buy everything? You could furnish an entire house at Ikea for four grand. That will buy you seven Iksogomehforr beds and twenty-three Truposedpoj coffee tables. Too bad I am too big a fan of "showering," and also, "my job," to participate.)
So anyway. Ikea. Apparently, there are meatballs there. Meatballs AND furniture, AND lighting solutions, AND vases! VASES! To me, this is like a kind of heaven. To Dukay, this spells, "Apocalypse." It spells, "Apocalypse, with meatballs."
But it's fine if Dukay doesn't come, because everybody else in the state is going. We were all talking about this, in the car, the other day. Me and some of the other attorneys I work with, and they were talking about how they had all been to Ikeas, and it was taking on this kind of mystic quality. Like if you have never been to Iceland, and someone tells you, "Oh, I have been to Iceland, and it is wonderful," and they get that faraway, dreamy look in their eyes, and you are overcome by their cultured...ness, and then you ask them questions like, "Oh! Iceland! Is there ice there? Did you wear a parka? Can you buy inexpensive housewares? ARE THE STORIES TRUE?"
Of all of the people in the car, I was the only one who had never experienced the inside of an Ikea. And there were a number of sympathetic looks cast in my direction, and people gently placing their hand on my arm, all, "Don't worry, dear, you'll get there someday," and PEOPLE, SOMEDAY IS WEDNESDAY, and I'm totally going.
Somehow, the thing I know the most about with Ikea is the crazy ass names they give their products, and YES I KNOW it is not supposed to be English, and yes I know that it is a Scandanavian company (I...think. Something like that), but still. I can imagine myself on Wednesday, having completely fallen in love with a Schmorgazobin bedside table, and then getting confused and ending up with a Schmorgenfritzen shower head, BECAUSE THESE WORDS MEAN NOTHING TO ME. Can't it be like..."Table with glass top thing"? "Chair with cushion part"? "TELEVISION STAND IN BROWN"?
I could totally come up with better Ikea names. I have been working on this. I will even keep the fun, unpronounceable thing they've got going! I will respect the Ikea model!
Anyway, my ideas are as follows:
See? SEE? EASY!
That's all I can come up with right now, because I am tired and I fibbed a minute ago when I said I'd been thinking about this. I have not. I just made those the hell up.
Which means, obviously, that y'all can do better. So, in honor of the Wednesday opening, let's see your Ikea product names! Be creative! Entertain me! Or Dukay will Brakurlegs.
And if you've never been to an Ikea? And have no idea what I'm talking about? Well. Don't worry, dear. You'll make it there.
For What It's Worth
About a month ago, our friends Noah and Ash came over for a small, intimate, us-only dinner party at my parents' house, because my parents were out of town, and why throw a perfectly good intimate dinner party at your own house, when your PARENTS' house is just, like, EMPTY AND ABANDONED because they are never in town, and also equipped with such wonders as (a) one swimming pool, and (b) one wine cellar? And you are equipped with (c) one key? WHY WOULD YOU NOT ENTERTAIN THERE EVERY DAY? So off we went.
At one point during the evening, the four of us were talking about Serious Things, when Noah all of a sudden turned very red and started stammering, and looked at Ash, and she was like, Dude, YOU deal with it. So he was the one who had to tell me that my boob had just FALLEN OUT of my otherwise cute sundress, and I had been sitting there discussing THE EUROPEAN UNION as my nipple, filled with childlike wonder, took in the various sights and sounds of my parents' backyard. Hello, world! FEEL THAT BREEZE?
But anyway. Despite my exposed nipplage, we had an awesome time, because it was fun to hang out with them. And we don't get to see them very much, because Noah has been in Iraq, and Ash has been busy setting up their new house. And so we had super big fun, even though Ash didn't much have a bathing suit, and the only store that was open was Target, and the only thing they had was Dregs of Bathing Suits, in various non-Ash sizes, and so she ended up buying one bottom and one top that did not match, NOR did they fit, and she looked kind of like an Olsen twin except with boobs. Finally she just gave the heck up and hopped into the pool wearing a dress, already.
And, I was like OH NO on the pool/water thing, because it is one in the morning and I am tired and a wuss, and ALSO, IT IS COLD, Y'ALL. I tentatively put my toe in the water, and made little shrieky sounds, and backed away. Until Noah saw me, and this strange, dangeorous light came into his eyes, and before I knew it, he had PICKED MY ASS UP and was holding me over the deep end of the pool in a terrible, suspense-filled drama the likes of which I WILL NOT EVEN GO INTO, but FEAR, TERROR filled my heart, and I started pleading like he was about to toss me into a pit of VIPERS, PEOPLE.
So I engaged in negotiation.
Self: Noah. I just fed you. Please do not throw me into the pool.
Noah: YOU ARE GOING IN.
Self: I will give you shiny things. I am sorry I tried to make you eat a crab cake. I now know how you feel about seafood and how you believe that crabs are like insects of the marine world. Please accept my deepest apologies and rememember that I also served you a steak. And also some lovely potatoes.
Noah: INTO. THE WATER.
Self: I will buy you cars and diamonds. Please do not make me wet in such a manner that I will have to go find a hairdryer before I can go to bed. You have short militaryish hair, and I have many long locks. They do not like the wet, Noah. They will turn on you.
Noah: I AM NOT SCARED OF YOUR HAIR.
Self: But, see, Dukay is scared of my hair, and is scared that if you anger the hair, the hair will attack him in his sleep, slowly wrapping around his throat and throttling all of the sweet breath from his body.
Noah: Wait, is this the best you can do? Aren't you a lawyer? You suck at arguing.
Self: Well. I am kind of freaking out right now.
Noah: And for good reason, because IN YOU GO.
And he threw my ass in. At which point, while underwater, I decided to put him in the HAUNTED GUEST BEDROOM, OH I WILL SHOW YOU, YOU THROWER-INNER.
And then I cacked evilly. Cackle.
After emerging, shivering and pathetic from the pool, I wrapped myself up in a very unattractive flannel robe and tried to comfort my hair before it went on an attack directed towards my dinner guests. And then we came inside and drank wine, and sat in the hot tub and made fun of the guys who were whining about how HOT it was, in the aptly named, you know, hot tub, and then we all fell asleep in various (HAUNTED!) rooms. And woke the next "morning," which is a term I use loosely because it was technically one of those "p.m." times, and then went to breakfast and ate barbecue sandwiches and eggs, because SOMETHING IS CLEARLY WRONG WITH US, but man, it was good.
And then we hugged Noah goodbye, because the next day, he was flying back to serve for eight more months.
Early yesterday morning, Noah was killed in Iraq. I don't know any of the details yet. I only know that he is gone, and that Ash called both Dukay and me yesterday so that we would not have to learn about it on the news.
I am so sorry. I am so sorry for his family, and for Ash, and for all of their many friends, who knew him for years longer than I. I feel like this tragedy is not mine; it is theirs, but I am heartbroken for them. I am heartbroken for everyone.
There is a tremendous care package for Noah sitting in my dining room right now, waiting to be sent. It's just...sitting there. It all seems unreal. I don't even know what to do.
And, this is exactly the sort of thing I would not usually write about, because this website is supposed to be lighthearted and funny. But the thing is, all of my times with Noah were lighthearted and funny. Noah always made me laugh.
And it seemed, somehow, that maybe the best tribute I could pay would be to tell all of y'all about this funny, mischevious, giggling guy who threw me into a pool a few weeks ago, who hated seafood with a passion, and who loved his girlfriend with all of his heart. Who never got to be a husband, and who never got to be a daddy. Who never made it home.
He is gone, and he will be missed.
Revenge of the...Something.
So, we went to see that, finally. Dukay and I. But we hadn't seen the other one, the Episode 2 one, so we watched that one first. And there...there is a lot of frolicking in it. In fields.
Frolicking makes Dukay nervous. Frolicking makes Dukay think that people are maybe about to burst into song. Dukay hates it when people burst into song.
But, we watched it, and nobody sang, and so yesterday we went to the movie theater that serves drinks and food (Hi. Yes. And you get to sit in comfortable chairs, and why are all movies not like this?) and we watched the Return of the Sith, and it was...kind of long. And Natalie Portman is glowy. And kind of wearing a lot of layers. That is all that really registered with me.
I am not, in general, a huge fan of the science fiction thing, including the genre of superhero movies. I didn't get Spiderman. And also, I don't care what you say, people, but Tobey Maguire and Jake Gyllenhaal ARE THE SAME PERSON. YES. They have been tricking you all this time.
Doesn't anyone see this but me? It is FREAKING ME OUT. They are never in the same room together at the same time! It is Batmannish.
But, anyway. Star Wars. I am just going to go ahead and tell y'all that my love for the original (Episode IV, apparently) is undiminished and great, and when I was five, I watched that movie PRETTY MUCH EVERY DAY. I did. On Beta. TOP THAT.
I was mostly convinced that I was, in fact, Princess Leia, and had the underroos to prove this. Also, my grandmother made me a white drapey-dress thingy with a belt for Halloween, and I wore that just about every day of my life. And...well. Maybe things got a little bit unhealthy there, just a little, when the pressure cooker got involved, but...you know.
Yeah. I said it. PRESSURE COOKER.
Because, see, the pressure cooker? Was small. And cylindrical. And had a domed glass top, and buttons. And...do we see who that looks like? Maybe? A little?
I will give you a clue.
I mean, sort of. Shut up.
Except the pressure cooker we had was much more R2 like. I swear. I have witnesses.
And, anyway. It also had an extension cord, and maybe it has been alleged that a five-year old Miss Doxie would wander around the house, DRAGGING the pressure cooker by said extension cord, from room to room, TALKING TO IT, and maybe, JUST POSSIBLY, making beeping noises when it..."responded."
Maybe we would have guests over, who would walk into the den, find me whispering to the pressure cooker. Maybe those guests would then...leave. I don't know.
So. Anyway. Now you know.
Also, as long as we're talking Star Wars (or...I am, anyway), I would be remiss not to share one of my favorite Star Wars related stories of all time. And here it is.
So, one time? In college? When one of my friends was in the car with another one of my friends, who had (allegedly) just consumed/inhaled a wide variety of controlled substances? And they were in the middle of Officially Fucking Nowhere, North Georgia? And that is when they got pulled over by the cops? Yes!
And my sober friend, who was driving, and whom we will call Mr. Sobriety, was like, "DUDE. You will not talk. You will leave the talking to me. You will be completely silent and mute-like."
And the friend, whom we will call The Other Guy, immediately responded with: "..."
Because that is about all he was capable of at that particular moment.
So the cop approached, and this is what went down:
Cop: Let's see your license and registration.
Mr. Sobriety: (reaches for his wallet)
Mr. The Other Guy: (lunges across the car, thrusts his hand in the officer's face, makes swirly motions with his fingers.)
Mr. The Other Guy: You don't NEED to see his identification.
Cop: (stares blankly)
Mr. Sobriety: Uh...
Mr. The Other Guy: THESE ARE NOT THE DROIDS YOU'RE LOOKING FOR.
Mr. Sobriety: Oh, FUCK.
Mr. The Other Guy: MOVE ALONG!
You can imagine the fun that followed. Fortunately, nobody was arrested very much.
And...those are my Star Wars stories. All two of them. Don't judge me.
Because, if you'd have had a pressure cooker, you'd have loved it, too.
Directions, Shmirections. (Or...Erections! Ha. That's funny to me.)
Well, I have finally succeeded in buying a new car. This took...time. It took time, because the ASSHOLE who I was purchasing a car from? JAY? Well. We negotiated the deal, and he agreed to get this big ass scratch fixed, and then he turned around and sold the car to someone else who DID NOT SEE the scratch. Possibly a blind person. I don't know. Anyway, there was screaming and cussing involved. Y'all know.
But, so, I found another car, from a very nice man named Tom, and Tom was cool, and was not slimy (as was JAY, EVIL used car salesman whose name I curse regularly), and Tom got me all new tires and got the car detailed, and I finally fucking picked up the car tonight. And now I am inviting all manner of people over to my house to take test drives. The phone calls go something like this:
Self: Hey! Want to drive my car?
Friend of Doxie: Um. No?
Self: Yes you do. Come over now if you know what is good for you.
Friend of Doxie: Sigh. Maybe...not so much at ten on a Tuesday night. Later though! Kisses!
Self: You are a Hater. I shall now write about you on the internet. And my car will throw up on you directly.
And so on. Anyway, Dukay and I went to dinner to celebrate, where I promptly misjudged the front length of my new(ish) car and drove directly over the curb and into a flower garden. Hi.
And then I called my mother, and forced her to come to the parking lot located next to the restaurant, and see my new(ish) car. Which she did do, because she is long-suffering, and then she drove the car in circles and was like, "Well, it...circles nicely, dear."
Also, she said it was pretty. IT IS. It is very pretty, and also it has a computer thingy that tells me where I am. And y'all, THANK GOD.
People, I do not think I have explained to you how bad I am with directions. Ha! So bad! It is one of those things I cannot understand, like that I described last week. Not at all, not even if you promise me shoes and wine, I CANNOT FIND YOUR HOUSE. And then I cannot find my way home. I will have to live with you.
I am perpeturally trapped in a state of almost-lost, which means that on my first day of work at my new job, I had to call my dad and have him talk me through the directions, WHICH ARE NOT THAT COMPLICATED, and pretty much went like, "Go straight...okay, take a right...and, uh, park."
But still. I can't find anything. I have gotten lost between my parents' house and my own. AND THIS IS FOUR MILES. I have had to accept the fact that my directional instincts = always wrong, because otherwise, I end up in a part of town that is strange and unusual and which I have never seen before, and which may, in fact, be Alabama. This has happpened. I am not kidding.
Actually! One time? In college? I was the driver for a trip to Miami of Ohio, to visit our friends there, and my cute boyfriend who possibly turned out to be gay. So, I'm driving, and everyone falls asleep, and eventually I am lost enough to stop and ask questions, AND THIS IS WHERE I LEARN THAT WE ARE IN INDIANA.
And another time! I was named Driver for our trip to Mardi Gras. And again, my idiot friends fell asleep, and I was responsible for navigating our way to New Orleans. And all was going well, I thought, until I somehow ended up on a smaller road, which led to a sort-of paved road, which...led to a dirt road, which led to...uh. The woods. The forest. Where the road stopped. In the middle of Louisiana. Which is haunted.
I woke everyone up, all, "Um, we're...in a forest! Isn't it magical?"
Obviously, everyone was thrilled with me. I am the best driver ever. Who else takes you to haunted forests? NOBODY! Hop in, people!
So. The navigational computer thingy is gorgeous, and it knows where I am, and knows how to get me home, and is smarter than most college professors. And totally worth all the ridiculous money I paid (it IS, SHUT UP) even though the dogs and I will be eating Ramen for the next...sixty months. Give or take.
So, that's that. Car = bought. In the driveway. Waiting for a place in the garage, which must now be cleaned out. (This will be an devastating story, I am sure. Wait until next week, when I discover the box full of REFRIGERATED GOODS that I remember packing back in 2002, but have not seen since. Death waits in the garage.)
And I'm all excited, y'all. I bought a car! It is pretty! Thanks to Tom, for not being a fuck, and for not saying, "You just need to grow up, young lady, and live in the real world like the rest of us," WHICH IS MAYBE WHAT JAY SAID TO ME, when he admitted he had SOLD THE CAR I had already negotiated to buy. Ha ha, Jay! You know, I think we should go on another test drive.
I know a pretty good forest we could check out.