Damn Swedes

If you are Swedish, let me apologize as I truly love your fish. But IKEA must be "torture" in Swedish. Honestly, if you really want to break a suspect Jack Bauer style, just hand them an IKEA bed frame and slats and tell them that they have one hour to accomplish the task or confess. I guarantee . . . they will break every single time.

Let me explain (without photos . . . I refer you to the title of this post). The Girls are living in an apartment with a year round lease in Philadelphia. And I decided to turn one room into a guest room and the other into a "den" of sorts. So, a friend gladly claimed the beds - from IKEA, no less - and we were left with semi-empty rooms. Dave felt kind of guilty as his room is basically untouched from the days when he was living with his parents. Mine? Hell, I think Erika moved into that room the day I moved into the dorms at Miami. So, no . . . I didn't feel guilty.

But today, I feel sore. Like someone kicked me a thousand times and then asked me to turn around and kicked me another thousand for good nature. My back is on a tiny little hinge that needs oil in the worst way. I visited IKEA not once, but twice searching for a bed that was "just right" and loaded all sorts of prefab Swedish torture devices in the Pilot. One man was kind enough to help me load the headboard into the back, but he was the exception as most people shot me dirty looks for not being able to control my shopping car with full swivel wheels and the hand truck that was toting the heavy stuff. In hindsight,  perhaps I should have noted that the happy builder man in IKEA's helpful picture directions had a buddy in the picture without the big X over it, but the sad builder man didn't have a friend to go with that big X.

That being said . . . we'll have one sweet guest room and a whatever-the-hell-it-chooses-to-be room when I get done with the one thing IKEA apparently got right: the Allen wrench.