So, I'm moving out. After a commenter on my post last week about yoga declared that I should really get out of my mother's basement if I ever wanted to write about anything other than stretching and poop, I'm more than on it. Not to give this stalker, I mean reader, too much credit -- I was shipping up and out of Brooke's house anyway -- but it just so happens that I visited my new digs yesterday, and I am pretty stoked about them.
But as I prepare for a material shift from one estrogen commune to another, I look at my belongings and realize something: I don't even own a spoon. I have fifty pairs of stretch pants, three guitars and enough beauty products to set up my own trunk sale at a swap meet, but I have no silverware. I have no pots and pans, no toaster, no living room set or even a bean bag or Papasan chair left over from my eight years as an undergrad. So the next logical step, seeing as how I'm white and I live in Colorado, would be to go to IKEA, right? No thanks.
I can't bring myself to go there. Something about that place gives me the creeps. The idea of Swedish meatballs being served in a retail store grosses me out and besides, its out by Park Meadows in Centennial. The only good reason I have ever have to visit that hellish area is to go to Chick-fil-A, and the only time I desire their waffle fries is on Sundays. And God doesn't let you eat waffle fries on Sundays.
This is why there is Target, a place where I have no problem eating a microwaved pretzel dipped in fake cheese while shopping. Long before three weeks ago when IKEA appeared, Target was there. Everyone loved Target -- especially the Glendale location, where on a Saturday afternoon, the beautiful people watching was (and still is) unparalleled. Well, if checking out hot gay dudes is your thing.
When I lived in Brooklyn for a brief time, there was no mall (my true sanctuary) to be found, but the Target at the Atlantic Center on Flatbush was just fifteen minutes away by train. When I was homesick for Denver, I would go there and peruse the almost obliterated shelves, buying up dented cans of Aqua Net and (if I was lucky and there was any left) Palmer's Coco Butter. You see, Target in Brooklyn is like Y2K all the time -- if you don't get there with in the first few hours it is open, the place is leveled. Every four-pack of toilet paper is gone, and you're stuck carrying home a 48-pack of double rolls on the subway.
Now that I'm getting ready to settle into a new space with a different village of women (I think this means my gay husband and I are effectively breaking up), I will be once again heading to Target to find all sorts of furniture fit for only the finest of college dorms. Why drive all the way to IKEA when I can go down the street and pick up paper lantern lamps and a Hello Kitty blender? It's like with Target, you never have to grow up. You can just buy stuff for your first apartment over and over again until you're like 65 and realize that you've never owned any furniture that wasn't put together with an Allen wrench.
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Maybe I will even pick up some new sheets for my bed, because living in this new compound of femininity means I will no longer share a ceiling with my mother's floor (where, every night, like clockwork, I hear the TV remote release from her hand and hit the ground like a bowling ball dropping off a diving board into an empty pool when she falls asleep). This means I can have sex again. With someone else. In my room, without a pillow covering my mouth. Fall is shaping up to be awesome.
But to satisfy the reader who thinks I only write about Vinyasa flows and bowel movements, l'll have him or her know that if I do choose to visit IKEA, it will only be to take a shit in the store's brand new bathrooms. And maybe I'll do a few downward dogs on some cow hide carpets while I'm there too. My intestines could always use the stretch.