Never Again. Maybe.

Oh how I hate this place.

Years ago, we added a second story to our modest California ranch bungalow, to be honest I don't know what'd you'd call this style. Though with all the modern boxy houses going up around us, it stands out as something more original.

We finally had a bedroom for each of our daughters. Had we been smart, they would have shared a Jack and Jill bathroom, but the hipster architect we hired at the time talked us out of it. It wasn't pleasing to his aesthetic. 

It was at this point that I finally understood what it meant to be a client and to have wacky kids show you their wacky advertising ideas.

In any case, we had two empty rooms and two eager daughters who wanted to sleep in new beds, with new dressers and new desks and new knick knacks that every little girl must have, And so we made a weekend visit to the local Ikea in Carson. 

It was hell. 

Actually, it was the appetizer for Hell.

Because I think I spent the next 48 hours doweling, jigging, and Allen wrenching these Swedish pieces of shit together. A good third of the time included, "Where'd I put that damn Allen wrench?"

I swore I'd never do it again. In fact, on the drive home I rattled off a song:

"Never going to Ikea again,

on the weekend, the weekend."

To this day, my daughters remember all the lyrics and can even mimic the tune.

Like the Cosa Nostra, Ikea has a way of dragging me back in. My oldest daughter, who just got a new job, is leaving the nest. Rachel and her friend have signed the lease on a fancy schmancy apartment in Santa Monica. You can even see the ocean, if you open the window from above and stand on top of the toilet.

And this weekend, in fact right after I conclude this blog piece (written on Saturday morning), I will load up the car with tools and fill up my pocket with Alleve as well as some Petra Cannibis-Infused mints and begin the Swedish jigsaw puzzle once again.

Am I looking forward to it? No I am not.

I am dreading it almost as much as I am dreading the thought of her leaving the nest.

But here's the thing I most appreciate about parenthood, my kid's joy is more meaningful and resonates greater than any joy I have for myself. And admittedly other than a good football game on TV or a freshly toasted Everything bagel with good lox and sharp onion, there isn't much in that vault.

OK, I put it off long enough, time to go make the Grundtal Norrviken.