Get.Out.

Sunday night, after a weekend of nonstop eating and drinking, I decided that what I needed was a good old fashion bucket of popcorn and a quiet night at the movies. It was only typical and expected that my movie going companions chose "Don't be Afraid of the Dark"- and if you read last 2 posts, you know how I felt about just the preview for that movie. Scared.

But I was intrigued and in the mood to be dark so I went along for the ride- only stopping to panic once we had finally sat down and the previews began- because, scary movies get scary previews and to me, depending on just how scary those previews are will dictate the movie you are about to see.

Anywho, scary was the name of the game.

So, the movie itself- and, as a side, I feel like I have written a lot about movies lately- are you bored?
Please understand that they are such a novelty to me that they stand out as shareable. Are they really? Maybe not- who really wants to read a review from a girl who sees about 4 movies per year and can't bear the thought of sitting still for 2 hours (and yes, I was checking my watch after about 30 minutes- and not for lack of enjoying the movie- just because I am insane).

But here you are reading away so here is my unwanted review.

The movie was good. The End. Just Kidding- not about the movie being good. It was.
So as far as horror movies go, this one was sufficiently scary lots of good creepy whispering etc.

However there were a lot of things that were either more funny than scary or just plain nonsensical.

The creatures who lived in the furnace and haunted the house were just kind of funny. In the preview, they are made to look horrifying- in the movie they are the size of Ken dolls with hunchbacks and tiny limbs. How can you be fiercely afraid of something that you can pick up and chuck against a wall? And, when they finally spoke in non- whispery voices, it was like, shut up creatures.

And, I'm sorry- why don't people ever get out of the fucking house?

Even when they came around and kind of believed the girl who was telling them all along that she was being stalked by creatures- they are like, well, we will deal with it after our dinner party. People, have you learned nothing from horrors of the past? LEAVE YOUR HOUSE or just don't be shocked and awed when you are terrorized.

Like, if your house is haunted, get out.

To me, if I were restoring an abandoned gothic mansion and my child told me that she was hearing her name called out from a creepy bolted in vent system in the furnace in a mysterious basement where someone had died and my mysterious gardener had warned me about creeping around in- I would just sell that shit and move the fuck out.

Please, if I lived in Thornhill Woods and my kid told me they were hearing creepy voices from the vent I would move out.

Moral of the story- if you have the slightest inclination that your home might be haunted- move out.
If you find a creepy basement room- move out.
If someone died a mysterious or horrible death in the home- don't even move in.

Haunted houses- always a bad idea to live in. Unless you are a ghost.

One Day

So last night, after going with my oldest friend to watch her try on her AMAZING wedding gown and enjoying a delicious all-you-can eat sushi dinner with her and her hubby to be I went to a movie.

Have I ever gone on my movie rant? Because, I really hate going to see movies.

First of all, I hate crowds and movies are a hotbed of really crowded lines and intense people.
I also hate that crack popcorn they serve- eat just one kernel, I dare you.

But, last night, anticipating a wonderful experience, I succumbed again and went to the show.
While I was in Florida a few weeks ago, I read only books that are movies including "The Help" (FAN.FUCKING.TASTIC) and "One Day."

So when my best friend asked if I would see One Day with her now that it is out on the big screen, I couldn't resist. See, I love a good sad love story and this one left me sobbing into my sheets pretty much for the whole last half.

Canada Square theatres, which is one of the few places this movie was playing, is a total relic from the past which I both appreciate for its charm and despise for it's lack of modern conveniences.

Yes, you pay only 5.95 to see a movie, but the screens are small and the chairs are all on one level so if a tall person sits right in front of you- you are fucked.
The popcorn is also super cheap- and tastes it.
But then on the flip side, no one really goes to this theatre so we got to watch the movie with only a handful of co-watchers.

Now I have several things to address about the night.

First. What girl drags their boyfriend to see this kind of crap. Even if you hadn't read the book and didn't know what the movie was about- the poster itself speaks to why you should leave you dude at home. And the preview! The preview even made me emotional- again, indicative of a movie to see with your girls, your mom, any female....

I say this because aside from the 2 girls behind us and the girl who was there with her mom (so cute), everyone was a couple. I can only say that my fiance is a sensitive, wonderful man who has indulged me MANY times with the likes of Gossip Girl and I would NEVER make him come sit for 2 and a half hours while we watch the unfolding of an "epic" love story that will inevitably leave me crying like a small strange child.

I can only hope, to all you girls who did get your men to come with to see this movie, that you rewarded them with a lot of sex.

Second. The Previews.
Holy crap do i love previews. Sometimes, shamefully, I spend whole hours watching youtube previews of movies to come. Since I hate theaters and fine movies, even at home, hard to sit through (2 hours of quiet stillness + ADD= this movie had better be fucking amazing)- previews are the perfect thing for me- like a short story.

The first preview was this indie love story to come a la Blue Valentine- so I know I have something to see in the future- the next was for a new action movie a la that movie with Angelina Jolie, when she is the mentor to that guy and they kill people based off of names they take off from a magical loom- and yes, that is a for real movie plot....Anywho- new action movie starring Taylor Lautner- who, in case you live under a rock (or you reached your mid-twenties and just stopped watching teeny bopper films) is Jacob, the Werewolf in Twilight.

So, please explain to me why I would see a stupid sounding movie with Jacob in it where he does not take off his shirt or turn into a sexy beast? Poorly conceived idea, no?

Lastly. The Movie.
Like I said, One Day was a really good book- and a really bad movie.
Sure, I cried, but in fairness, I cry during commercials sometimes so that is not indicative of anything.
And the movie was really really bad.

The death scene- and yes, sorry for the spoiler, she dies at the end- was SO graphic and so out of line with the "romance" of the movie (I made little quote marks because the movie just sucked so bad that I don't even know if there was a romance- but still). You literally see her get hit by a truck as if you are watching one of those cheap horror movies or weird viral videos- you actually see her body smash into the truck and then fling itself onto the pavement to die.

Um, don't these kinds of movies usually make the death scene super sad by NOT making it like that? Should it not be the suggestion of death and not a play by play of the contortions of the body as it spasms to the earth? It was just weird.

Plus, so the movie chronicles these 2 people every years for 20 years on the same date- you got about 5 minutes of action per year making it hard to even follow/ believe.

Anyways, disappointing at best.

But of course, like any chick flick, the sounds of people snorting back their tears while the male character cries in bed mourning the loss of his love was almost in unison- making me feel like far less of a loser for spilling about a cups worth of tears over essentially nothing.

Why you should ALWAYS check under the bed....

Ok, so, I like horror movies. There is something particularly delicious about being frightened out of your skin. I love the way it makes me feel. Of course, I am particular about my genre of scary movie. On principle of it just being really stupid, I won't watch things like the Final Destinations, anything produced in 3D- if I wanted some cheese with my horror, I'd order nachos.

I also don't like movies about really crazy serial killers who target women- Pu-Leeze- I have enough of an active imagination about that kind of stuff- don't need any help thinking of new scenarios where I might die- thanks.
Anything with really demented families and or serial killers- like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre- eek
Anything with really scary kids
Anything where the scary things happen at night, to a normal family- or things under the bed- and yes, I still check there for monsters- judge me.


My favorite movies in this all encompassing genre are fantasy-ish ones (characters or scenarios that could NEVER happen- vampires- bring it.)
Biblical horror- lie, if the devil possesses you body- I am digging thats hit
Gypsy horror- like Thinner.... sppoookkkkyyyy
Supernatural horror- ghosts and zombies and shit
Humorous horror- like Drag me to Hell (intentionally funny) or the Friday series (just funny)
ANYTHING with predator in it
ANYTHING with Freddy Krueger

and I will go ahead and say that Zombie Apocalypse is my number one of these all.....

In addition to loving a good movie, I also freak out for a good haunted house. If you have clowns drooling blood in a creepy ass room with strobe lights- I love you.
So- nutshell- I am not a fraidy cat and like horror.

BUT- Yes, yes, preview that plays far too much for my liking on every fucking channel including HGTV which I like to fall asleep to- or liked to as now I have to resort to news or TSC....I am in fact afraid of the dark.

Why should there be such a frightening preview on TV at all times? How is one supposed to erase the memory of that creepy monster thing that they flash at the end from one's mind as to peacefully fall asleep? And that whispering- that creepy childlike whispering- the second time I saw that preview I obvi turned my head away only to realize that the sound of the preview is almost just as scary as the preview itself. Guillermo Del Toro. holy balls.

Ug, I just watched it again to refresh my memory- the combi of children and something that only attacks you in the night in the dark... I barf. AND, and, I just read the Wikipedea of it and the premise is not only do these monsters try and scare this little girl after hours- but also, no one believes her when she tries to tell on them- yet another huge fear of mine....

don_t_be_afraid_of_the_dark_19954.jpg
PLEASE OPEN THIS......


Good luck sleeping tonight suckers.....

Carrot Common

By default, I have become a pretty savvy grocery shopper. When you live alone and must adhere to a reasonable budget, you begin to do all those horribly lame things that you swore you would never do like compare the prices of grapes at different stores. I have actually had full conversations about the merits of Loblaws versus Sobeys versus Longos. I find myself saying and knowing things like that Longos usually has the freshest produce and then I find myself cursing my own stupid knowledge of things like produce.

So of course, last night while at the Metro (which, I just fucking hate- dear overpriced selection and terrible organic fruit section), while I was running around buying my week's groceries- I was also checking prices.
Over at the baby carrot section (obsessed with carrots is an understatement) there were 4 bags from different brands. 3 small bags, 1 large one- all smalls were 1.99, the large was 2.50- a no brainer!
Pleased with my attention to detail and shopping smarts, I checked out, got home and began munching on the carrots.

Well folks, my attention to detail is just not quite what I wish it were as it seemed that instead of the baby carrots I had been seeking, I had purchased something called baby carrot shaped peeled carrots- which leads me to the point of this blog.
Who in the world created a product called baby carrot shaped peeled carrots?
why not just cut up a carrot? or buy the baby carrot? What idiot (aside from me) would be inclined to purchase a carrot, that has been shaved and peeled to look like a baby carrot- even though it isn't?

They don't even taste like baby carrots- you know how the baby ones are all sweet and juicy? These are dry and bland, like a real carrot- so then why?

I am mystified at this product.

So I googled, as any good researcher would, here is what I found from the carrotmuseum.co.uk- because, of course there is a carrot museum, right??


"Manufactured" baby carrots , or cut and peel, are what you see most often in the shops  - are carrot shaped slices of peeled carrots invented in the late 1980's by Mike Yurosek, a California farmer, as a way of making use of carrots which are too twisted or knobbly for sale as full-size carrots. Yurosek was unhappy at having to discard as much as 400 tonnes of  carrots a day because of their imperfections, and looked for a way to reclaim what would otherwise be a waste product. He was able to find an industrial green bean cutter, which cut his carrots into 5 cm lengths, and by placing these lengths into an industrial potato peeler, he created the baby carrot.
The much decreased waste is also used either for juicing or as animal fodder. Perhaps most important, the baby-cut method allows growers to use far more of the carrot than they used to. In the past, a third or more of a carrot crop could have been easily tossed away, but baby-cut allows more partial carrots to be used, and the peeling process actually removes less of the outer skin that you might imagine They are sold in single-serving packs with ranch dressing for dipping on the side. They're passed out on airplanes and sold in plastic containers designed to fit in a car's cup holder. At Disney World, and MacDonald's burgers now come two ways:  with fries or baby carrots.

So, for anyone out there who was wondering- you are eating the mutant carrots.


Bon appetite!

More-Cheese.

Yesterday, to my dismay, I lunged down to hard and fast and bruised the balls of my foot. (ha, I said balls). Seems that I always injure myself in this one specific gym class- dear universe, thanks for the message. 

Anyways, I say to my dismay because the last few days have been so nice and I would have loved to walk home yesterday afternoon from work. Instead, I got caught with The Cheese Man.

NEVER in life, have I smelled a person who reeked so badly. EVER.

This morning was garbage day in my hood and the smell of 2 week old, heated, rotting garbage juice smelled better to me than this guy. What must you do to smell so fucking bad I wonder?

I couldn't breath through my nose for fear of barfing- and the idea of breathing through my mouth and "tasting" that air made me want to barf too- just another time that I wish I had a non-breathing superpower.

And the guy looked normal enough despite wearing a full Modrobes outfit- pants and shirt combi- and as a side, where do they even make Modrobes anymore? Perhaps that his clothing was potentially 10 years old was the catalyst? 

But seriously, what do you have to do to smell like this guy. Maybe he bathes in garbage? But then again, I have worked in a soup kitchen and even the homeless men smell better- this was be-yond. 

So, as a general note to people, you should shower. If you sweat- you should shower more. Never should your abundant BO be so offensive that your co-subway riders actually lock eyes and nod in agreement about how fucking bad you smell the second you get off the subway and relieve our noses- because that happened, cheese man- we seriously all bonded over your stench.

Anyways- Dear Cheese Man, regarding your smell, gross. just gross.

So of course, having forgotten about him by this morning, I was actually happy to be subway bound again as I ran into a friend on my way down to the platform and had some company!

Short lived people, short lived.

Hey stupid bitch in cheap ugo shoes. When you literally smash your heel into my bare sandaled feet- would be kind of, sort of nice to say....sorry???

But that's ok, really, I was dying to have a swollen, cut and red foot. Not enough that I hurt myself 

yesterday- so good that you did that.

Look, you want to hobble around in your stupid patent pumps on the subway-fine, then hold the fucking poles and balance yourself so that you don't clobber people with your stupidity and shoes.

AND, moreover, if you do find yourself harming those around you- actually bothering to turn around and apologize would be prudent. It would make me wish, much less, that you would not break a heel of your shoe in a gutter- not much, but more.

And so again, Dear bitch, learn how to stand in your own ugly shoes or, do us all a favor and stop wearing them,

Sincerely, the world,

Can't wait to see what this afternoon will bring.....

Food 101

So this past Sunday I had the honor of being thrown the most lovely high tea party in the world. Surrounded by all the women in my family I could not have felt more excited and special and though I barely rambled through an awkward speech of thanks, I was most appreciative.

My family, both immediate and otherwise, really likes high tea- it is our get together of choice for many of the celebrations we have in our group and we have even had casual tea on a weekend afternoon just for the hell of it.

High tea is- not just a clever name- tea. You choose from a box of teas and enjoy the tea coupled with crumpets, scones and mini sandwiches and desserts on tiered platters. It is fancy, and ever-indulgent and everything comes with clotted cream- which, unlike the name, is VERY appealing and delicious (clotted cream- who ever thought of that name? Why not something equally appetizing like discharge cream? just saying).

So sitting there at the head of the table, presented with my tiered platter of food, donned the appropriate tea skirt, folded napkin in my lap,  elbows off the table I proceeded to eat every fucking thing in my sight at lightening speed.


And that, dear readers is why I suck and fancy food things.

I was raised by parents who are the children of WW2 immigrants. This is the only explanation I can think of to justify my family eating every meal as if bombs are approaching from enemy lines (and don't even get me started on the hoarding of canned goods). Formal sit down dinners in my house range in time from 30-45 minutes at the absolute max with most of the table up and about by about 20 minutes in- a normal weekday meal can go in as little as 15 minutes.

So, of course when I eat with people who do not vacuum their food up without chewing first, I am always first finished by a long shot. An embarrassingly long shot.

Like my tier of food on Sunday. 2 smoked salmon mini sandwiches were gone before the lovely server poured my tea- the egg ones followed VERY shortly thereafter and by the time most people were enjoying their first or second mini sandwich I had already sampled all desserts and was picking at my scone.

It was at this moment that I promised myself to try and make my meals last longer (notwithstanding the cheap caf sushi that i just shoveled into my face directly after a grueling workout just now....
I really don't want to always be first to lick the plate.

My only real saving grace is that my fiance was raised in a like family and thus also practices food inhalation. We often joke about trying to "slow down" our dinners out- but without the influence of company, he and I often find ourselves on dinner dates that go at a super speed level. simmer down,


At least he doesn't make me self conscious.

So how do you eat dear reader? 20 chews per bite? sips of water in between every 2 bites (these are the helpful hints I found on google so far)- help me in my new endeavor and share your eating habits- even if you too could eat a whole cake in one serving....

Follow Me, Why Don't You Follow Me.....

Alright people,

This morning, having spent some time stumbling upon various "blogging pages", I have decided to come up with my very own pitch for you to follow me. 13 of you already do. You are my 13 favorite people. The rest of you have this opportunity to redeem yourself and make it off my shit list.

Your reasons to follow me might seem few and far between now, but rest assured that you are wrong.
Here is why:

Reason the First:
I will make you laugh. Really, I will. I promise you that you will read about the fat ass bitch on the subway who smothered me in her arm flab or the elderly man who breathed as hard as a regular at Pancers eating a corned beef deluxe sandwich who, not-so-subtily dry humped my back- and you will relate. Doesn't everyone have people and situations that totally put them off- I write about mine and there is humor in the relatable.

Reason the Second:
Don't you want the potential of having a famous blogging friend? Is being famous for nothing that unattainable? I think that the entire cast of Jersey Shore (see next blog) would agree with me when I say no- it really isn't in fact, it is easier than you think. I could be that next great thing and you could have said you followed me from the beginning. Wouldn't you feel like a mega ass if you found out that I hit the jackpot and you were not around to give your e-seal of approval? My 13 followers will relish in the fame and fortune and you my non-believers, will be SOL and I guarantee you will miss out*
*not actually guaranteed.

Reason the Third:
Don't friends support one another? I have a bullshit number of friends on facebook- bullshit in that I think it is pretty safe to say that I don't socialize or speak or even see over 100 people let alone whatever number of them are on my facebook- BUT you can all serve your purpose now and support me whether I am your friend or "friend"- I always look at other peoples stupid shit, blogs, art, music, movies- so look at my stupid shit- often.

Reason the Fourth:
Desperation is kind of pathetic don't you think? Don't make me into "that girl" always seeking acceptance and attention. Unlike Gossip Girl, you don't have to include me in your upper class circles a la Lonely Boy, just have to hit the "follow me" button. Seems painless and much more painless than watching me plead, nay beg for your attentions.

Reason the Fifth:
The blog I read about how to be a successful blogger said to write a blog about why you would like to be followed. Of course, his suggestion was to use extremely clear and eloquent language in a short pitch- that was obviously not happening- but I am doing the gist of it and, as he said to do, reaching out and reminding my readers that you can and should follow everything I say as if I was your ruler (he didn't say that at all).

So, for the last time* please, hit follow up top of my blog.
*Pending success of "Project Follow Me"

holla.

http://youtu.be/A3cfGzuICzA

MDMA got you feeling like a champion

In true trip-aftermath, I have spent most of my day pondering the events that occurred in the past 5 days while I was in Chicago for Lollapalooza. Although there is much to rant about, only certain subjects are ok for the public eyes and as such here are some of the more ok things for me to discuss, I will share them bit by bit as I imagine this week will be quite slow and the memory of vacations past will keep me up and at em.

Dear Max,
I remember your name because, unlike you, I was not reeling (or was it rolling? I don't remember what you called it exactly- raging?) on MDMA since noon. Do you remember me? You called me the prettiest girl at Lolla- was that a lie Max? Did you wake up sweating out chemicals from your ass and think of my face?

Did you catch a great picture of the sweat on my upper lip and my hair that had matted into one giant dreadlock tucked up into my fedora? Was it the beer on my jeans that got your blood boiling Max?
Max, you should know that while it was hilarious to watch your tall friend carry my short friend on his back to see the show, and while it was nice to meet your other friend from Australia who had come in just to jam out to Coldplay with you guys, that it was not as nice to make your acquaintance.

MDMA? really? At Coldplay? Did you peak out during "Fix you"?

But fine, I allow you to conduct yourself as you see fit- want to do E, oh sorry, MDMA? Go for it. I wouldn't say that just because you did it, it is necessary to tell me and everyone around you 800 times. Nor is it really necessary to watch the whole show through 3D glasses (the show was not 3D) and pass them over to me urging me to wait for a good flash of light. Um, I pass.

There is just something about young American guys that they want to always be wearing beaters and giving everyone high fives. obviously you were no exception to that rule. I was only shocked that you had not popped your collar and whipped out some chapstick.

Oh and just because you are on drugs and don't care, doesn't mean anyone needs to have your arm around them- it is 1000 degrees and we are all rammed into one another- isn't that enough?
But of course Max, you thought you were very charming didn't you? You thought that we were all just hanging on to your every word as you shrieked nonsense into our ears.

I was the opposite of charmed until you puled your final move because nothing says sexy quite like hurling an half full glass mickey of gin at the crowd. MMMMM. I can only fantasize that you gave some innocent fan a concussion. HOT.

Oh Max, you truly represent everything I hate about boys- and I emphasize the BOYS-not men part, and concerts. Is it not possible to just listen to good music with friends without having some sweaty, jacked up asshole in your grill?

Well Max, hope you had a great rest of your time at Lolla- oh and PS. sorry we ditched your ass the second you looked away- not sorry at all.
xo
Jane
As a side note, how good is Coldplay live? I was so unenthused to see them but they are seriously fantastic

Allen Wrench my Ass

When I was in my late teens I used to fucking love Ikea. I would sometimes go just to wander the aisles feeling instantly at peace in the organized chaos that they were able to compact into a Billy Bookshelf.
Our love affair was long and passionate and filled with cheap fabric rugs, ever-changing bedding sets and more paper lamps than anyone could rip through in a lifetime.

In university when I was living off fruit cups and sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a room I painted neon pink one night when I was recklessly drunk and "inspired" (ed note. such "inspiration" also resulted in a neon blue living room, a kitchen with half drawn fruit-people on the wall, a fort in the den built out of pillows and sheets and a pumpkin carved with an exacto knife that led to a trip to the emergency room and a scar on my hand that still throbs when it rains) I dreamt of the days where I would be old enough and rich enough to live in a whole home (apartment) furnished by the items at Ikea that I had spent my youth drooling over. I too wanted to sort my socks in wicker baskets and stack my sweaters in something other than milk crates that I stole from the back of the cafeteria.

So, when I finally got my shit together and moved out with my then boyfriend, now fiance, I couldn't wait to walk through those sliding doors and begin to explore the endless possibilities with fancy Swedish names. Having scoured some of the cities best Vintage shops we had scored some amazing furniture already, I had found 2 art deco side tables on the side of the road (ya, I am totally that girl) and had a couch and mattress (both new) in possession as well- anything else was fair game from Ikea.

We left with; a bed, mirror, dresser, closet storage thing, desk and kitchen gadgets/dishes/stuff galore.

Most people loose their patience with Ikea the second they leave the store- if they manage to keep it while in the store to begin with. Ikea is large, oddly organized, fluorescent lighted, without cellphone service and filled with anything you never knew you really needed- it can be a dubious task for even the finest shopper. The line ups? forget about it. You need the patience of a fucking Buddha to make it through and the self check out things make everything you do longer and more annoying. I cant quite say that I love the line BUT it is usually lined with things like scented tea lights and clothespins in neon purple- I am easily distracted so this time passes by fast to me.

So, Ikea is a build it yourself joint meaning that anything you buy, you bring home and build yourself. I like tools and building so this to me, was just one of the many things I was looking forward to about Ikea. I thrived building the huge closet thing and bedframe while my fiancé cursed all of Sweden building the dresser....

In my Ikea-ized home I felt finally complete and loved running my hands over the fancy dark wood dresser that hate built, putting away shelves worth of clothing in the new closet and serving food on matching tableware. I felt like all my dreams were coming true in my new adult life.

But, like all unsustainable romances, we began to have our differences.
I would want to move the bed over an inch- the bed would want to splinter even though it was brand fucking new.
I would want to wash the plates and they would want to emerge from the machine with unsightly grey scratches on them.

Call it practicality, call it finally making money to care what I spent it on but I just began to resent Ikea and it's stupid fiber filled wood chipped furniture. Instead of rushing home excited ot see my Malm frame, I began to spend longer hours away from the bedroom altogether to avoid the new cracks and chips that formed on it any time it was used.

Where I would spend hours gingerly putting away my clothing into the giant closet storage thing marvelling at my fortune to have such a wonderful unit, I now shuddered at the sight of the newly ducktaped drawers that broke despite it only being a venue to store my socks- because socks can be so damaging right?

Eventually these differences turned ugly and got to the point where I used the word "hate" before "that fucking cabinet" and spent my time dreaming of an even better home furnished with things from Pottery Barn and West Elm. Gone were my days of aimless a gut nd unconditional love for the Ikea showroom and in its place lived a wrenching feeling that something had changed- something would never quite be the same again.

It had been almost a year since my last time with Ikea. When the catalogue came I barely glanced at the ironic printed sheets and lights in the shapes of spaceships and threw it in the recycle bin faster than you can say Karlstad Sofa. I felt sad about the love lost but annoyed and bitter for the years I had spent building and fostering the relationship and confused as to when and how things had changed.

And so, as it were, I found myself this past weekend at my parents new home with every single room requiring full furnishing. As everything in America- there is an excessive amount of big box stores with ultra Floridian furniture offerings. We got super lucky with beds, couches, TV units, chairs, diningestate antiques and vintage wares- stunning woods, intricate mouldings and one of a kind trinkets are everywhere there. Watching a house come together from nothing is a wonderful thing and I couldn't help but recall my joy from when I furnished my own home way back when. I guess it was this nostalgia that prompted me to jump in with an "Ikea will have it" when a super small kitchen table was needed. In fact, Ikea would have a space saving tiny kitchen table- it is like, their specialty- but I think I would have suggested it for anything at that point-I was subconsciously missing that blue and yellow signage.

Even with my parents in tow, that old feeling of instant serenity in Ikea was there. I gazed upon bedspreads I had never seen and throw pillows I didn't need and felt that old familiar flame igniting. I picked up glasses for 4 dollars, mirrors for 2 and, of course, what we came for, the tiny kitchen table- plus of course 2 nightstands that I could not live without and a set of kitchy lamps that went perfect with them. We ate frozen yogurt from their cafeteria, sauntered out the door with no hassles and as we drove home with boxes galore I felt like someone would feel after running into their ex who had become smarter, hotter and was still really into them. I was a smitten kitten.

Well fuck you Ikea and all of your stupid crap.

4 hours of furniture building later, after having to buy a whole fucking tooldbox to make the little tiny bedside tables, after maneuvering through the wonk instructions, chipping the fake wood shaving "mock wood" veneer, and breaking my back I remembered why we went our separate ways.

Because you suck Ikea, you suck giant balls.

Sure, there is a sense of self satisfaction after the fact- but like a quickie with just some dude, it meant nothing. It meant less than nothing and the joy was artificial and short lived at best.

Plus, of course my stupid 15 dollar lamp set came out of the box cracked. And that's what Ikea does, it woos you in with the cheap prices for cute items, you are blinded by how cute they are, you take them home and then BAM- the flaws come out- not unlike a real relationship that sucks right?
AND, for 15 dollars it is so not worth the drive back tot he store, the line up for the returns and the inevitable other things you will end up purchasing, since you are already there....

They trap you and suck you in- but I do declare that I am leaving you Ikea, leaving you for good. Minus your really soft cotton cheap sheets I will never purchase another crappy, seemingly so useful but realistically useless piece of shit self assembled furniture again. It's over, forever.
(or until the next time I get lonely).

Your jilted ex-lover,
Jane