Monday, June 13, 2005

Sitting in my Melker at my Tovik

I fell in love this weekend at IKEA.

Somewhere between the Klippan and the Gorm, around the corner from the Tullsta and not too far from the Humlarp, I saw him. The fact that he was browsing the selection of Lindmons and Varloks with his girlfriend didn't stop my jaw from hitting the Stapp.

By the time I saw my dear, my darling, my love, Kai and I were carting at least a hundred and fifty pounds of do-it-yourself furniture for her new apartment towards the register. We'd walked what felt like fifteen miles through the cavernous, endless showroom selecting pieces for her living room. Technically if I walked fifteen miles, Kai walked twenty; once she'd made her choices, she decided to spice up IKEA's unshakable efficiency by misplacing her order form. I watched the cart and sniffed the Ligonberry flavored Tindra and Jubla while she lapped the showroom one more time.

Anyway, the important part of the story is that fate had us get in line right behind my heart, my soul, my cosmic match. His arms were covered in tattoos, which were only barely visible under a longsleeve black button down shirt. He had that hair, and those jeans, and that face, you know? You know.

I was doing a good job of pining for him mostly under my breath. Then they closed our line. We had to relocate to another cashier. He and his girlfriend collected their Varloks with ease and began to walk towards the only other short line in the place. Kai and I turned on the backup beeper and began to slide her seventy thousand boxes over the slippery concrete floor, around a lawn chair display, and towards the new line.


My Romeo, my Lancelot, he turned around, looked me square in the eye, and laughed right at me.

Whatever, he can go home to his Varloks and suck it.

In the spiralling freefall shitfest that is my life of late, I hesitate to say that I've hit rockbottom, but really, this time, it has to have happened. Barring catastrophe (hit by a bus, sqashed by a plane, spontaneous combustion, really flat hair), I cannot possibly fathom how any day could be worse than today.

Aside from last week's bad news being, I believe, in full effect, my train was a full hour late this morning. Well, that's not entirely correct. My train was actually only thirty-five minutes late. But it was so crowded when it arrived (on the wrong track! So all the latey-late lateys got on first!) that Cortlandt station's caffeinated, irate throng couldn't board it in its entirety. I was stuck on the platform with a couple of other people waiting for the next train to arrive.

The back of my neck is sunburned just from standing at the station.

For those of you who don't want to march in my downer parade, I'll change subjects. To impotence.

If anyone is looking for a great, great song about old Mr. Softee, find "Rusted Guns of Milan" by Art Brut right now. In fact, get the whole record. It's only out in the UK but the inflated import price (for my stateside friends) is well worth it. Their album "Bang Bang Rock & Roll" covers subjects ranging from modern art to enduring grade school crushes, from new girlfriends to rock criticism, from pretentious little brothers to the city of Los Angeles. It's great.

The frontman can't sing a note, and doesn't. Instead, he delivers his half of an average conversation over some snazzy drums and those same three chords they quiz you on at your rockstar final exam. In between lines like "I'VE SEEN HER NAKED, TWICE! I'VE SEEN HER NAKED, TWICE!" and "FORMED A BAND! WE FORMED A BAND! LOOK AT US! WE FORMED A BAND!" you get incredibly sweet lyrics like "I hope this song finds you fame / I want schoolkids on buses singing your name."

That's the kind of love song people should write. I suppose I didn't really care for IKEA guy if all I could come up with was love, heart, darling, Romeo. Anyone could've thought of that. It would've been truly true love if I had seen him and thought I wish we had been kids together so I could've shared the tire swing with you, or You make me like waterslides or Now I understand why movie theater seats are so close together.


Blogger Kunaxa said...

Kathy - we love your blog and we feel your pain ("we" is a term I use for self-endearment ... it makes me feel bigger than I really I am)

Is there anything "we" can do to make the rock-bottom a little deeper? Amazon Wish-List? Send over hot dads? Put foot rests on the back of every seat? Bash Angelina?

9:44 PM  
Anonymous brad said...

amazon wishlist.

10:29 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Here's what my train needs: the Kathy-Only car, with couches (no KLIPPANS! REAL COUCHES!) and HBO on demand, and a waitstaff with an endless supply of mozarella sticks. Can you make that happen?

10:26 AM  
Anonymous insane said...

imagine if you "bashed" angelina and her lips swelled up..

11:18 AM  
Blogger Kunaxa said...

Done. I'll put some concepts down and email them to you.

Does the waitstaff have to be 'hot'? or can they be kinda fat and old?

OR... instead of "bashing" Angleina, how would you like it if she's made to serve you those piping-hot Mozarella Sticks? (With really bad hair, and sans Brad).

4:22 PM  

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