I don’t know about you, but the entries on my wish list seem to have a theme: physical perfection. I realize that some of you are envisioning that to mean Barbie Doll-like proportions, but for me that isn’t quite what I have in mind. (Besides, her feet are just way too small to support such a large set of ta-tas.) No, as much as I’d really like a different body ensemble than the one I’ve got, I covet perfection in my physical world. As in a clean house. No, as in a house that looks like IKEA.
Some days I realize that I’ve somehow managed to get myself into my mom-van and it has taken me to the big blue box where I emerge from my vehicle, breathe in deeply the scent of meatballs and lingonberry sauce, and immediately feel a sense of calm. Those little rooms with the perfectly arranged stacks of books in Swedish and the perfectly spaced two knick-knacks make wish for that world. I mean, if you stuck me in 500 square feet of my house, I’d lose my mind. Heck, the 1900 feet of its current look is driving me cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs as I type. And yet, look at those faces beaming down at me from the wall of that little mock European home. Look how happy they are. How pink their cheeks are. How tidy their daughter looks.
Yep, a trip to IKEA is like nirvana. I mean, you grab one of those carts, meander around a “foreign world” and end up with either mac and cheese or meatballs. How can you NOT have a perfect day? Then, if you really want to send yourself into heaven, go pick up a 50 cent melon-baller and just try to not wet yourself.
Right now, I could use a little “pick-me-up” trip to IKEA. My house is currently under a major renovation and between the chaos of construction dust and the ensuing stacking of all possessions into central locations, I am craving something that looks way less everything. Here I am, living in a 1923 Dutch Colonial, secretly coveting a 500 square foot loft with clean lines and storage options that hide everything with a simple slide of a frosted glass door. We’ve got a few more weeks of this project left and then I am seriously thinking about hiring a high schooler to come hang-out with my children while I systematically empty the majority of my possessions into a dumpster. Someone will have a great time diving, especially if he is fond of Legos that have been stepped upon one too many times.
Perhaps I should just go get myself some meatballs and a slice of apple whatever and take a nap on one of those demo beds. Maybe the IKEA mojo would wear off on me just a wee bit.