Let's just say that our relationship has been tempestuous.  Fun and friendly at times -- cruel and caustic at other times... Mostly, I'm content to leave her alone -- which, of course, doesn't actually seem to bother her all that much.  But then (I'm ashamed to admit this), there are times when I feel that I simply need her:  that siren song of Scandinavia, with her golden hair and deep blue eyes, with her inviting embrance and Swedish sense of style... And one way or another, I always seem to find myself coming back to Ikea.

I can't live with her; I can't live without her.  I hate to love her; I love to hate her... Surely you know the story -- and surely you know how the story ends -- with me chewed up and spit back out on the other side of sweet Ikea's embrace... with me crying in a heap and singing sad songs of paradise lost... with me vowing never to come crawling back again... but with me knowing full well that Ikea is simply a part of my life now... and, perhaps, for ever more.

As you may have guessed by now, I had my latest run-in with Ikea this weekend.

In the beginning, getting back together with Ikea was surprisingly free and easy.  Of course, it took a bit of courage for me to engage in the first place (so many memories of the heartache and frustration getting in the way) -- but after that initial threshhold had been crossed, things went remarkably smoothly.  In fact, I don't know if I can ever remember another time when I was able to so quickly and efficiently make it out to that part of town and get down to business.  Within the space of two and a half hours, we had successfully picked out and purchased two beds, a dresser, and a desk; and we even had time for a absurdly inexpensive lunch of hot dogs, soft drinks, and ice cream cones (not only does Ikea have impeccable taste in home decorating, but in concessions as well!).  Arrival back home was earlier than expected, and the delivery with our furniture was completed by the middle of the afternoon -- so without even thinking about it, the mood was upbeat, and life was good.  We started assembling furniture with a song in our heart and the nimble agility of magic elves turning the hexagonal chucks into screws that brought life and dimension to the pressed wood compound panels.  Before even realizing it, we finished the desk.  We finished the shelves.  But then (wouldn't you know it), turning our attention to the Trömso loft/bed, the idyllic day with Ikea took a turn for the worst.

As it turns out, I had brought home the wrong bed.  So I ended up having to rent the Greenwheels car, drive back to the store for a refund/return of the bad bed, pick out the better bed, pay up, drive back, and find myself back at square one -- with the warm glow of my earlier feelings toward my fair lady in blue long since dissipated.  Finally, after perhaps twelve hours of frustration and effort (spread out over two days), everything was finished -- although I must confess that my feelings for Ikea had descended to a place of cold loathing and embitterment... until my son helped me to remember her beauty and glory.

In surveying the work of my hands (which, let's be honest, are not typically all that mechanically-inclined), the design and engineering ingenuity of good ol' Ikea masked my deficiencies to the point where my boy could proudly beam and gush:  "Daddy, you're a really, really, really, reeeeeeaaally good bed-maker!"  In that moment, my heart once again softened and I smiled:  "Thanks, Elliot."  And I realized that for moments such as this, I will always be indebted to the lovely lady in Blue.