Scary Beach Crime Scene Photos; Pandering; Hello!
That is the only title I could think of for this entry, because that is what I am going to show you, is Scary Beach Crime Scene Photos. And then I am going to pander. And at some point I will say hi. Anyway! People! Allow me to explain.
See, we finally made it out of Birmingham on Tuesday, and started driving to Gulf Shores, because my dad called the Gulf Shores Department of Commerce or Tourism or something similar, but what should actually be called the Department of Big Fat Stinking Liars, Liar Liar Pants on FIRE, because this is what happened.
Dad called and said, "Hello. My family has been trying to get into Gulf Shores for six days, but then, you know, hurricane, and now we can't get in touch with the condo people, and we don't know if we should come..."
And the Department of Lying Lying Dogs lady interrupted him and said, "COME IMMEDIATELY RIGHT NOW EVERYTHING IS FINE BRING YOUR CREDIT CARDS CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU YAY TOURISM."
Dad believed her, and so we all packed up and left the relative safety of Birmingham, and we drove to Gulf Shores. And it wasn't until we were, oh, I don't know, MINUTES from there that the condo people finally deigned to call us back and inform us that, HA HA, you were lied to, and nobody is allowed in to the whole damn city.
So! Now we are kind of in Alabama-ish, and without lodging, and I am getting cranky like I do. So we pulled over to a gas station in the middle of Nowhere, Inbetween States, and Mom and Dad were both on their cell phones, trying to find somewhere, ANYwhere, that would take us in for the night.
We were kind of like Joseph and Mary right then, don't you think? Except not holy. Just irritated.
ANYWAY. They found somewhere. It was 200 miles away, BUT WHATEVER, we have cars and gas at $3.17 a gallon. So, we drove on, stayed in Alternate City (it was lovely), and then this morning, the condo people called again. And apparently they had gotten some lessons from the tourism dirty liar lady, or there had been some kind of meeting of Gulf Shores People Who Live On Tourist Dollars, because they were like, "PLEASE COME NOW WE UPGRADED YOU EVEN KISSES!"
So we went. And we drove all day, because there is traffic of people who are trying to do important things like "find out if their homes are still standing and family members are alive", and I waved out the windows all day at other cars in a manner that I hope conveyed "friendly" and not "prostitute trying to pick up strangers in her car". And as we got closer, we began to see things like:
(1) Houses that were missing key ingredients, like:
(c) both (a) and (b)
(2) power lines all over the place
(3) fire trucks.
None of these things were encouraging. But at this point, the family was like, "WHATEVER, we're going to the GODDAMN BEACH, and we don't CARE if there is no power and no water, ALL WE NEED IS SOME FUCKING OCEAN."
And so we went on.
We arrived in Gulf Shores and pulled into the condo complex, where we were immediately informed by the lady at the gate that they were, in fact, not allowing people to check in today, where EVER did we get such a notion, please go home you IDIOTS, etc.
And this is where mom and I had to wait in our respective cars, because this is also where we both grew fangs and mean long fingernails-claw things and decided we would just EAT the people at the front desk, BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT WE DO IN MY FAMILY when we get really really pissed. We eat people! We eat them whole.
Dad, however, is all "reasonable" (read: LAME) and locked us into our cars and forbade us to leave and went in to talk to the people at the front desk. And he did not eat them, and within three minutes, we had keys to condos and everything was FINE, and something about catching more flies with honey but I wasn't paying attention because I still wanted SOMEONE TO DIE AND I WANTED TO EAT THEM because WHO THE FUCK spends three days trying to travel 200 miles? BESIDES THE AMISH?
But anyway. So, now we are at the condo, and it's great and we even have internet service, which is good because HI, EVERYONE! What we did not have, for the first four hours upon checking in, was:
What we still do not have, and who knows when we will have this, is:
And now is where we actually get to the point of this entry, which is where I show you pictures of THE CREEPINESS that is the beach right now. Shudder! You can close your eyes if you get too scared.
See (and now we talk science), apparently, in a hurricane, the ocean just...gives back all of those things that it doesn't want. And there are a lot of things that people put into the ocean, because some bad people do NOT follow the life lesson of Giving a Hoot, and they just toss in any old thing (mostly these are beer cans. FOR SHAME, Beer Can Thrower-Inners!).
And also, during the hurricane, the ocean also took some stuff that does not belong to the ocean, like doors and windows and other things, because the ocean is a kleptomaniac. The ocean kind of needs counseling.
So, right now, instead of "beach," there is a long line of debris. And I've never seen anything like it. It is...creepy. It looks like a crime scene, especially when you find things like clothes and shoes and boots and almost brand-new colanders, and I am CONVINCED that it is just chock-full of skeleton bits from old shipwrecks (which...yes, I recognize and admit that this makes no sense, but WHATEVER), and it is FREAKY.
The freakiness factor did not prevent me from wandering out into the middle of it all and taking approximately one zillion pictures of the rubble. And here I share with you, because Self = GIVER, SUCH A GIVER.
And here they are.
Now. As creepy as all of that is (SO CREEPY), I am well aware that I am pretty fucking lucky to be sitting here now with a glass of wine, knowing that everyone I love (including the dogs. Oh, y'all, I have called the vet EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR about the dogs and their safety, and the vet hates me SO MUCH), and I am able to update my little web page and say hi to everyone. (HI EVERYONE!). I've got it pretty damn good. So many people can't do any of that, including all of those lovely, classy ladies from Pascalgula, Mississippi, with whom I spent the last several days. They have...nothing. Their homes are fucking gone. Last time I saw them, we all had a cocktail, and they were joking about what color FEMA trailer they would request (turns out, pink is everyone's signature color).
So, let's do something...interesting and different. I'm going to ask anyone who can, to send a donation to the Red Cross for disaster relief. And, when you send a donation, leave me a comment or send me an email telling me that you've donated (of course, you don't have to tell me how much; just let me know that you're in). And I will take all of those names, and I will have a raffle, and someone will win, and that someone will recieve one of my paintings. (Wait! Y'all! Did you not know that I paint? I don't think I've ever posted pictures of my paintings. Anyway, I do. They are...you know. Interesting.)
SO! It's kind of...lame, but what do you have to lose? You may end up with a painting you hate, but THAT IS WHY JESUS GAVE YOU EBAY. And anyway, it's a Miss Doxie original, and surely that will be worth SOMEthing when I am dead. So donate away.
And if you can't, at least send positive thoughts and good vibes to all of those good people who have lost so much.
And whatever you do: stay the hell off the beach. Unless you really, really need a new colander.
This Post Is Brought To You By The Fact That The Power Finally Came Back On In The Fucking Hotel
Well, HI, y'all! Guess where I am. No, wait. Guess where I am supposed to be.
If you guessed, "on vacation," you would be right. That is where I am supposed to be, on vacation in Gulf Shores. And that is where we have been trying to get, my family and myself, only we are not there. Not even slightly! Instead, we are holed up in a hotel in Birmingham, where we have been for, oh, FIVE DAYS, sometimes without power, most times without cell phones. And that was fun.
It's really not that bad, considering the NIGHTMARE of this storm, and how much trouble other poor people are having. I mean, we have shelter, and an operational bar. Plus, we are with awesome people, because we were all here for a wedding anyway. And the wedding people were So Much Fun (hi, Babs!), and it was just a good time, you know, until a big old hurricane came and BLEW AWAY ALL OF THEIR HOUSES, I AM NOT KIDDING YOU. The majority of the other guests here HAVE HAD THEIR HOUSES BLOWN AWAY.
Everyone is handling this remarkably well, because that is just what classy ladies do, apparently. That is not what I would do, because I am, evidently, not a classy lady. If my house blew away, a la Dorothy/Oz/Big Bad Wolf/"huff and puff" etc., I would:
1. Freak THE HELL out;
2. Drink SO MUCH;
3. Yell at everyone;
4. Max out all credit cards buying pointless items like legwarmers and gloves with no fingers, slap bracelets, capelets;
5. Drink more;
6. Pass out in puddle of own tears.
But that is just me. I do not handle adversity well. Did you maybe guess?
Anyway, I'll be in touch more when we are allowed to, you know, leave, and when the internet connection isn't dying out every nineteen seconds. In the meantime, please send happy thoughts and prayers to those good people who are dealing with this DAMN STORM.
And someone? Someone send me a drink.
Apparently, I Just Broke
To begin with, let me just say that I watched the Six Feet Under series finale last night, and I AM NOT OVER IT. No. I have not recovered, and every time I even think of that last epilogue-type closing sequence, I start to CRY, and Y'ALL. I am not a crier. And all I can think now is WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME, because...TELEVISION SHOW! Six Feet Under is a TELEVISION SHOW, and meanwhile, Real Life is like, sitting there, waving at me confusedly, all, "Wait, am I not...enough for you? Why do you never cry for me? Jim never vomits at home!"
(I mean...y'all. Poor Dukay made the unwise and unfortunate decision to call as I was watching the final ten minutes, and I answered the phone, LITERALLY BAWLING, like shoulders-shaking, hiccupping bawling, and after dating for almost four years, a time which has included funerals, Dukay has never seen me in such a state. As a result, I succeeded in thoroughly terrifying him, quite possibly forever. He was like, "WHO DIED?" and I was like, "EVERYONE EVERYWHERE.")
(OH, and then I felt the need to call my mom, while I was still sobbing, and tell her that I love her. Fortunately, she knows and watches Six Feet Under, and even though she had not seen the finale, she understood my little meltdown, and made nice-Mommy noises. Thanks, Mom, for not having me immediately committed! Kisses!)
(...okay, listen. People, I am under a lot of stress right now. And then, that finale, it just...I don't know! It AFFECTED me. Don't judge! Just, you know. Laugh at me! It's healthy!)
ANYWAY. So, feeling neglected by the comparative lack of emotion I tend to display for actual events, Real Life decided that maybe it would FUCK WITH ME TODAY, to see whether it could elicit the same type of emotional response from the generally level-headed, logical, happy-go-lucky me. But HA HA, Real Life! You will not beat me down! Even though you tried REALLY HARD, and for that I give you props, because...y'all, this day? SUCKED.
And I don't know what it was about today (except I am generally stressed and just crazy-like right now anyway) because I have survived MUCH worse days, days that involved things like death or other assorted horror, and yet...AND YET! This day has almost done me in, y'all! SOMEONE COME HOLD ME.
Anyway. Let's review:
7:30: Wake uppish. Bo, in a radical change from his usual morning routine of stubbornly hiding under the covers, is oddly very eager to rise! Can't wait! Turns out, decided priority = pooping, and as such, he does not make it quite all the way to the door. Result: One large, steaming fun pile of poo abooooooooooooout twelve inches from the back door, with Bo running, all four legs crossed, to the bathroomish freedom that is the yard, tiny turds still popping from his backside like so many sands from a small, fat, brown hourglass.
7:31: Paper towels. Very many paper towels. Sigh. Good morning, world.
8:15: Leave to go to work. Pick up Dad, whose car is in ths shop, and whatever because we go to the same office anyway, and Hi, Dad!
8:16: Learn I will also be taking Dad to the airport, circa afternoonish. Okay! Break from work! Also, Dad invites me to lunch. Day is LOOKING UP!
8:50: DAY IS LOOKING DOWN. Arrive at work, and learn that Important Earth-Changing Brief that was due on Friday? NOOOOO! Now due TOMORROW. 50 pages, minimum. Hope you weren't planning to, I don't know. Sleep.
8:51: Begin frantically working on Brief. Coworkers stop in to say hello, nice weekend? etc. Give them the Crazy Eyeballs. They run in fear; cowering occurs.
12:30: Dad takes self to lunch. This is the high point of the day.
12:46: Oooh, lunch is good. LOVE lunch.
1:30: Take Dad to airport. To counteract possible airport-related terrorism, you can no longer drop someone off right outside of the Atlanta airport, OH NO, there is now this odd drop-off system thing going on in the former parking lot, and there is SUCH CONFUSION, and this is where I begin to become: befuddled.
1:34: Drop off Dad. Befuddlement becomes symptomatic.
1:37: Attempt to leave airport. OH, IT SOUNDS SO EASY.
1:39: Heh. Know what I did? I missed the turny thing that takes you out and to the highway. Hee! I'm trapped in the airport! Oh, well, I guess I'll just go in a circle then, and soon I will be out.
1:47: Wait, I...SHIT, I missed it again. DAMMIT. I am an idiot. Okay. I need to go around the cirle-y thing again. This time I get off where the...hey, I just said "get off." Ha! I'm funny.
1:55: OH MY GOD I MISSED IT AGAIN.
2:06: ALRIGHT. I'm OUT of the airport, and I'm on the highway. GOOD. Now I need to just get back downtown, to the exit I always take, though usually I am coming from the other direction.
2:17: Where's the...exit? This is the region where I get off, usually, but...hey, I said it again! "Get off." Heeeeee. Oh! Good song on the radio!
2:23: Wait. SHIT. There went the place I usually go. Huh. Why is there no exit from this direction?
2:25:...because there is no exit from that direction. FUCK. Okay, now I have to exit elsewhere and work myself back through the city.
(Have we talked about my sense of direction? HA HA HA)
2:26 - 3:49: Ridiculously lost. Ridiculously lost. Atlanta is not big enough for me to have been so lost.
3:50: Return to office. I am hysterical. EVERYONE is looking for me.
3:51: Ignore phone. Work on brief.
4:50: Still working on brief.
5:50: STILL working on brief.
8:50: BRIEF! BRIEF! Dinner.
9:15: Arby's drive-thru. WHATEVER. I will be up all night. If you are going to be up working all night, you get curly fries. It is a law. It is IN THE BIBLE.
9:17: Finish curly fries. Still starving slap to death. Think anticipaty-happy thoughts about sandwich. Mmm. Sandwich!
9:30: Arrive home. Set food on coffee table. Free dogs.
9:31: Open door, and am immediately DIVE BOMBED from above by winged insect (turns out to be a grasshopper) that lands deep in hair of self. Self FREAKS.
9:32: Dogs freak accordingly.
9:32: Grasshopper kind of freaks, in insect-y way.
9:33: Puglsey pees on floor in sheer terror.
9:33: Self slips in pee while trying to disengage grasshopper. Toppling. Bruising. Elbow destroyed forever.
9:33: Bo takes advantage of grasshopper-related confusion/freakage/toppling to run to coffee table AND STEAL SANDWICH THAT BELONGS TO SELF AND THAT SELF PAID FOR AND THAT BO DID NOT PAY FOR.
9:34: Self releases grasshopper from hair, and into wilds of back yard. Meanwhile, Bo calmly finishes last of sandwich.
9:35: Must clean up pee. Paper towels. Finish off roll. It has been a long day.
9:37: Self returns to dinner. But dinner is...gone. Bo is licking his chops and looking at Self like, What? BO HUNGRY.
9:36: Self considers crying. Instead Self plugs in work laptop to continue working on brief for the rest of the night, hollowly realizing that because Self has been too busy to shop, there is officially No Food in the house, so, no dinner. Self is beginning to feel veeeeeeery sorry for self.
10:15: Brief. Work through it, self! (Elbow kind of hurts.)
11:04: BriefBRIEFBRIEFBRIEFBRIEFBRIEFBRSelf needs break. Poor elbow. Elbow is starving, but no food, so, TV.
11:05: Self turns on TV. To...HBO. The last channel Self watched last night...
11:05: ...just in time to see the end of Six Feet Under Season Finale. Again.
And that? That right there? Is when I decided to GO TO BED. Now, logically, I know people have worse days ALL THE TIME. That there are people who are sick, or who can't feed their kids, and I know that this, in the long run, is small and silly and petty and ridiculous. But y'all, I am just BEAT.
Good night, everyone, and I wish, for all of us, that tomorrow will be a better fucking day.
Or, at the very least, I hope it is a day that involves a lot less paper towels.
Wardrobe Junction, What's Your Malfunction?
Two things! Both clothing related. (Hello, THEME!)
But did you know that these people have sung songs in my very own living room? Did you know that one of those songs was The Facts of Life theme song? Did you know that you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have...the facts of life? The FACTS OF LIFE?
It is true. We sang that one time! We may have been drinking a little bit.
Anyway, maybe you don't know that the Damn Millionaires are in the process of putting out a new CD, and that they also have a shirt for sale. I am hereby chiming in to note that I have bought my shirt (which I keep typing as "shit," because OF COURSE I do. I have bought my shit, people, have YOU?).
Anyway, I got a girlie shit. You need a shit, too! Go here and get yourself something nice and skeletonny. Go on, and I'll wait.
Did you go? Did you get a shit? Because you only have until the 31st to get one. That is very soon from now.
(You guys, ha ha! That "shit" joke is JUST NOT GETTING OLD for me. I know it is getting old for you. Tough shirt! HA!)
Annnnyway. That's one thing I wanted to talk to you about. The other thing is:
That, guess what I did today? So! We're supposed to wear suits to work, but I am lazy and haven't gone to the dry cleaners, so I just wore a nice skirt and a nice shirt, and figured hey, CLOSE ENOUGH. There aren't a whole lot of female attorneys in our office, and frankly, the men around here are a little confused as to what constitutes "women's office attire" anyway, so I figured that as long as I didn't wear, you know, spandex tie-dye, I would probably be okay. Besides, I looked nice, and put together, and relatively matchy, so whatever. I'm just going to be sitting behind my desk all day anyway! Nobody's even going to notice!
...I thought. I thought this, until the managing partner invited all of the associates, a group that includes myself, to lunch. This has never happened before. (I immediately imagined beatings. It is time for beatings! I thought.)
Immediately, I sent an email to the only other female assocate. The email read, "AHHHH I AM NOT WEARING A SUIT I AM SO FIRED. In happier news, free lunch! Woo! Unless beatings." Despite the...um, INSANE character of this email, she came into my office to review my ensemble (this is what we do all day, Men! We review our clothing choices), and together, we determined that I was probably okay. It was suit like. I was safe. Just play it cool, she advised, and nobody would notice!
And I felt better about things, until I decided to stand up. Now, because there is something Wrong With Me, I always sit on one of my feet. My right foot. I always, always sit on my right foot, and it looks ridiculously uncomfortable, but...it's just what I do! It's how I roll. So, I try to stand up, and THAT is when the heel of my right shoe got hooked in the hem of my skirt, and ripped it the heck out. Rrrrip!
So, now I'm in Not-A-Suit, with a hem dangling down all raggedy, and I must attend a big fancy pants lunch in about...oh, six minutes. So, I panicked. Obviously. I tried taping the hem back, but NOOOOO. Tape = not sufficiently sticky.
So then I started going to assistants, begging someone, ANYONE, for, like, a safety pin, or a needle, or some thread, or SOMEthing, PLEASE.
What was ultimately produced by my MacGuyver-like assistant:
One package dental floss
Y'all. Dental floss.
So, there I was, hysterically trying to stitch dental floss into my skirt before the managing partner came to pick me up for lunch. And as a side note? Y'all, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SEW. How the fuck do you sew?!
Nevertheless, what is amazing, is that I almost did it. I almost made it. What is not amazing is that: I didn't. And, as I was almost done, I heard someone clearing his throat in my doorway, and looked up from my desk -- where I was sitting with my legs spread apart, my head down, and my skirt bunched up in front of my face, trembling fingers wrapped around a length of dental floss (minty!) and a bitty little needle -- and there was the managing partner.
I just stared at him, and he just stared at me, and finally I said, "Just...give me a minute!" in a falsely cheerful voice. He nodded, CLEARLY PETRIFIED, and walked backwards out of my office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Hi. I am so, so fired.
ANYWAY. So I guess what I'm saying? In ever so many words? Is that I think you should buy a Damn Millionaires shirt.
And I think you should listen to me, because I'm clearly a pinnacle of fashion today. I'm a fashion icon. Seeing as I'm wearing...you know. Dental floss.
Two posts in two days? WHAT THE HELL
This doesn't even really count, but if y'all care, I uploaded a zillion pictures to Flickr this afternoon, after spending the afternoon taking pictures of the dogs because...uh, I was avoiding laundry. Yeah, I said it. AVOIDING LAUNDRY.
Anyway, here they are. And that's all I've got.
R. Kelly Made Me Do It
Okay, so I don’t know if you’ve heard the new R.Kelly five-part thing he’s got rocking right now, but I had NOT, until yesterday, and it is...I mean, it is genuinely unbelievable. If you haven’t heard it, this entry will make no sense to you whatsoever, but basically, R. Kelly sings at length (AT LENGTH), and in excruciating detail, about what happens when he goes home with a woman he meets at a club and ends up hiding in the closet when her husband shows up, and the ensuing hijinks that GO ON FOR FIVE SONGS. It is painfully bad. I had heard other people describing it, but nothing brought it home for me until I actually heard some of the songs. I just sat there in slack-jawed wonder.
How can you not be deeply...uh, affected, by lyrics such as these, which he sings after the husband comes home and R (I like to call him “R”) is just, you know, chilling in the closet:
She hops all over him and says “I've cooked and ran your bathwater”
I'm telling you now this girl is so good she deserves an Oscar
The girl’s in the bed he starts snatching her clothes off
I'm in the closet like man, what the fuck is going on?
You’re not going to believe it but things get deeper as the story goes on
Next thing you know a call comes through on my cell phone
I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate
But from the way he acted I could tell it was too late
He hopped up and said “there’s a mystery going on and I'm going to solve it”
And I'm like “God please don’t let this man open his closet.”
And so on. It is...unbelievable. I’ve never experienced anything like it. It is pure poetry, if “poetry” is codeword for “the most painfully embarrassing experience you can have on behalf of someone else.” Or possibly, “the telling of a story that sometimes involves rhyming words, but there is not any discernable beat or concern about syllables, but WHATEVER, because what’s going to happen when he gets found in the closet?!”
So! Because I was inspired (INSPIRED, I TELL YOU) by this...”poetry”, I decided to write some of my own. Oh, I know you’re excited.
In the style of R. Kelly, I present to you:
Thursday Night At Miss Doxie’s House
Today I woke up and to get out of bed, I had to fight
Because for some reason Bo decided to puke all over the place in the middle of the night
And I woke up at four a.m. to hear that Gu-GLUGGING sound and I didn’t miss a beat
And then I’m half asleep and trying to grab him before he vomits on my bedsheet
And so I snatch him and I get him down onto the floor
And then he’s throwing up and I see food that I gave him before
And then I have to clean it up with lots and lots of paper towels
And then he decides that he'd also like to void his bowels.
So then I have to take him out and let me remind you it is FOUR A.M.
And out he goes and he’s just sniffing around now and I hate him.
And then he hears something and he’s totally forgotten that he was ever sick
And instead he runs off to the corner of the yard because he is a prick.
And I have to go after him but I forgot it rained and now I’m covered in muck
And my toes are going all SQUOOSH and it would be fun if it didn’t totally suck.
So I finally catch him and he’s all, “Look, for I have cornered a TREE.”
And then I have to go get the hose to wash the mud all off of me.
And then I bring him back inside, and back upstairs to bed we go.
But now he’s wide awake and also bored, so he’s like, NO.
And then he won’t be still and sticks his cold nose in my face
And now wants to play and run around the whole damn place
And I try to tell him that I’ll staple his feet to the bed
But he’s not scared of me and so he starts to bark instead.
So I just lie real still and hope that he will shut up then
Eventually he does, and I fall back asleep again
But then the alarm goes off and now I’ve got to rise
And I see Bo and he just barely opens up his eyes
But then when I stand, and “Come on Bo, get up,” I shout
That little bastard dives beneath the sheets and won’t come out.
And when I try to grab him he just burrows further in.
He’s just a little lump of angry, and so I poke him.
And so he growls at me and he is saying “GO AWAY.
I’m not done sleeping here. Fuck off and go start your day.”
And I think maybe I’ll just put him in the microwave
If he doesn’t mind his momma and start to behave.
But I gave up and took a shower and just left him there
And he kept sleeping FOR AN HOUR until I had to physically spelunk under the covers as he just dug deeper, creating an elaborate under-bedcover tunnel system not seen since WWII, grab him by…something, possibly the collar, but SOMEthing, drag him OUT from under there while he LOUDLY PROTESTED this action, growling and shrieking in his BoSpeak, while the other dogs went BALLISTIC because MAYBE SHE IS KILLING BO, OH BOY, and then I had to struggle with His Wigglingest down the stairs, where he then proceeded to act like NOTHING HAPPENED, and HEY, CAN I GO OUTSIDE, and THESE ARE THE THRILLS OF DOG OWNERSHIP, PEOPLE.
I’ll be hiding from them all for the next ten years. Don’t look in the closet.
Say it with me, people. SAY IT WITH ME, AND FEEL THE LOVE.
EYE! KEY! YAH!
(Except that is totally not how you are supposed to say it, apparently, as it is truly pronounced Eee-Kay-Yah, or Eye-Key-Yay, or Place-Where-I-Wanted-To-Buy-Housewares-And-A-Pot-For-My-Plant-That-Is-Almost-Dead,-And-It's-Saying-I-Just-Need-A-Damn-Pot,-Lady-What-Is-That,-A-Buck?-BUY-ME-A-POT).
ANYWAY. Yes! I FINALLY WENT! Can you BELIEVE IT? After it has been open FOR A MONTH? Am I capable of expressing my sentiments about this trip without using upper-case words? NO!
And so we went, Dukay and I. And the overwhelming emotion that we felt, the feeling that permeated our bodies and souls, the sensation that rocked us to our very core, was: SHEER CONFUSION. We were confused. This is how it went down.
Dukay: Where is In? Which way to In?
Self: I don't...know. Look! A yellow arrow. Isn't that sweet? It's yellow.
Dukay: Yeah, but, where does it...go? I don't think -- wait, we can't go that way.
Self: Suuuuuure we can, I'll just turn-
Very Important Ikea Guard: NO.
Self: ...around. I'll just turn around! Because In, In is surely...somewhere.
Very Important Ikea Guard: NO.
Self: I can't...turn around? I can't go forward and I can't turn around?
Very Important Ikea Guard: NO.
Self: I guess I...I back up? I go around that car? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
Self: (Backs up. Guard looks at Self like Self is a total idiot.)
Dukay: I'm kind of getting stressed out.
Self: No! Shut up. There is no stress. This is Ikea. This is where Jesus lives, when he is not checking out the Manolo section at Neiman Marcus.
Dukay: Your religious views disturb me.
Self: What can I say? Jesus is such a shoe whore. It's true. That is how I am Christ-like.
Dukay: Did you just hear...thunder? Way to go.
Dukay: Look! Now it's raining. You've pissed off God! Nice one, IDIOT.
Self: Whatever! God knows I'm kidding.
Dukay: And now God is never going to let us find the entrance, BECAUSE WHERE THE FUCK IS THE ENTRANCE, OH MY GOD.
Self: Look, there has to be a way in. We're just...a little turned around, is all. It's got to be SOMEwhere.
Dukay: Wait! WAIT! PARKING GARAGE AHEAD, REPEAT, PARKING GARAGE AHEAD.
Self: Awesome. See? God totally digs me. He digs my irreverent sense of humor.
Dukay: WHATEVER. Anyway, now we find a parking place.
Self: Well, it's totally not going to be crowded, because we are here on, what...six o'clock on a Sunday? In the pouring rain? People stayed HOME today, man. We are the only ones here, I bet.
Dukay: If this is the case, then why are all the parking places taken?
Self: Hmm. It's the employees, I bet. Just the people who work here, ready serve all of my Ikea needs. These are totally not the customers' cars.
Dukay: You're an idiot. Also: we're never going to find a parking place.
Self: Oh, yes we are, NAYSAYER. There's one.
Dukay: We are now in Siberia.
Self: Just a healthy little walk!
Dukay: We are in the outskirts of Siberia.
Self: Shh. This isn't Siberia. It's, like...Guam, or something.
Dukay: HOW INTENSELY COMFORTING. But you know what would make me happy?
Dukay: FINDING THE ENTRANCE. I STILL DON'T SEE THE ENTRANCE.
Self: Well, it must be...somewhere. Huh. You know, they're really not making this easy on us, are they?
Dukay: I just want to go home.
(We eventually made it inside. And then we went up an escalator. And then we were Even More Confused.)
Dukay: Why does it smell like cinnamon in here? It smells like cinnamon in here.
Self: Maybe that's what a lingdonberry is. A berry of cinnamon! That exists exclusively in Sweden.
Dukay: I kind of hate cinnamon.
Self: Well, you are just a party pooper. Look! Little room displays! "Living in 180 square feet with eleven hundred people." Look at all the little beds!
Dukay: Oh, my God. I think I just caught claustrophobia. Can you catch claustrophobia?
Self: No, I think you're born with it. Oooh, I like that vase. I'm going to get it.
Dukay: You can't get that one. It has the store tag on it. You have to get it somewhere else. Someplace called...uh, the "Marketplace."
Self: Are we not...are we not in the marketplace? I can't buy these things and put them in my little yellow bag?
Dukay: You can have none of these things. These are display things.
Self: SELFISH DISPLAYS.
Dukay: Oooh, I like that picture.
Self: QUICK PUT IT IN THE BAG.
Dukay: Sigh. It's seven feet long.
Self: I'LL GET ANOTHER BAG I'LL GET A COUPLE OF BAGS LET'S GO YOU BE LOOKOUT.
Dukay: This store is STRESSING ME OUT.
Self: Where do we go now? I'm so confused.
Dukay: Now is when we need one of those yellow arrows.
Self: Look! LOOK! This way to "marketplace"! Where there are things you can actually PURCHASE.
Dukay: Spectacular. After you.
Self: (Walk walk walk.)
Dukay: (Walk walk walk.)
Self: (Walk walk walk.)
Dukay: (Walk walk walk.)
Self: (Walk walk WALK WALK WALK)
Dukay: (WALK WALK WALK WA-
Dukay: WHERE IN THE FUCK ARE WE.
Self: Honestly, I have no idea. Children's furniture, apparently. That's why the happy colors.
Dukay: Suddenly I hate children.
Self: Suddenly I hate everything.
Random Unsupervised Small Children In Stampede Form: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Eventually, we made it to the marketplace, and there were wonderful things in the marketplace! Glasses and vases and pots and little chairs and dog beds and EVERYTHING. It was awesome. And I bought...nothing. I bought nothing. Because Dukay was well and full in a snit by this point, and then we got VERY confused by the "as is" section, which contained something called a "Handyman Corner," and this contained...pieces of board. And not even real board! Pretend MDF board! FAKE BOARD. BROKEN PIECES OF FAKE BOARD THAT COST REAL MONEY. SO CONFUSING.
Anyway. I did find a bunch of stuff that I plan to go back and buy, sometime when I do not have a very frustrated Dukay in tow (honestly, thinking that Official Non-Shopper Dukay could handle Ikea was just my own personal delusion). And now that I know where the entrance is, NOBODY CAN STOP ME.
Well. Nobody except for that damned guard.