When walking into Ikea, I envision a perfect world: linear, minimal and compartmentalized as only can be achieved by the likes of the Swedes. Somehow, they have made entire houses fit into small (but very heavy) boxes. The Ikea way is one completely foreign to my personal existence. My daughter, in her quest to find her teenage self has decided that the modern approach is what works best for her. The one wrench in the cog of modern life lies in the fact that we live in a 260 year old house. Ya…just picture it. We have but one room that could play the Ikea role; a converted attic over the new part of the house (if you want to call 1938 new). This would be a nook that my Kate...aka...Judy Jetson would be styling in. It would take three trips to Ikea, to execute the plan. The first trip, I would enter the monster warehouse over-whelmed and leave almost empty handed except for the frozen vanilla yogurt I desperately clung on to for some comfort . The second trip would be prove more harrowing with an idealistic teen dreaming of clean lines and funky modern accents. On the final trip, I would march into the store like a seasoned soldier, sizes checked and measured, ready to tackle bins and aisles and flex some particle board-heaving muscle. But first I had to eat some delicious Swedish meatballs. Unknowingly, I had been preparing for this moment for many years. Thanks to European toy-makers like Lego and Playmobil, dumping out a box of Ikea wouldn't be a far stretch from the much smaller building endeavors of my many Christmas' past. If I could build the Playmobil princess castle in one 5 hour stretch on Christmas day, surely I could build a cherished piece from my daughter's modern dream-room. The game was on as 400 odd shaped nuts and bolts fell from the bag. I chuckled as I noticed that like Playbobil, it came with it's own special tools. In the spirit, I played the Abba Pandora station because Swedish furniture deserves a groovin Swedish quartet. I would go page by page though the manual, laughing at the funny pictures of the frustrated builder. Over and over, I would try to pronounce the name of the piece…TOFTERYD…yet it kept coming out like TUFF TURD. Why didn't they just name it the "Bob Smith" out of compassion for linguistic challenged Americans?
I sat back appreciating the fact that the structure was built and not a single piece was left over. In front of me sat a modern masterpiece. I believe Jane Jetson would have been proud.