I go into hibernation mode during the winter. I can only conclude that I'm either a) an untouched PC or b) a bear. If I could choose, I'd rather be the bear because no one expects a bear to work between November and April. A bear is allowed to curl up in her cave and live off of her body fat, which is what I want to be doing right now. But I'm guessing that I'm a PC because everyone at work keeps asking me to perform functions like it's my job or something. I'm doing what I can, but I have a memory leak and my processor keeps overheating.

I'm playing Dragon Age or watching Dexter, so you're going to have to settle for this video of my cat molesting a tauntaun sleeping bag.

The premier of Caprica that I was looking forward to watching tonight is just a watered-down version of the DVD pilot I bought last week. I should probably watch 9, an animated movie that my boyfriend bought me for my birthday, but it's on Blu-ray and the Blu-ray player is in my living room, which is filled from floor to ceiling with the remnants of my bedroom renovation. It will have to wait.

IKEA is like an abusive boyfriend who keeps luring me back with promises of inventive storage solutions and Swedish meatballs only to end up socking me in the nose a week later. And when I finally decide that it's over, I have to keep going back because I've left half of my shit at his house.

IKEA looked like a good man when I first met him. He had many things to offer. Modular desk units, 6-foot-tall media towers, memory foam mattresses, and cubed book cases. He promised that he'd be anything I wanted him to be: tall, short, or average; sexy, traditional, or plain; white, black or brown. I knew he'd take some work, but I had faith that he'd be worth the effort

The relationship started out well; abusive relationships always do. In the beginning, he spoiled me with VIKA AMONS, BENNOS, KLIPPANS, and even an EXPEDIT. I ignored the usual warning signs - the slight chips or tears in the black/brown exterior of my new items could be covered up with the stroke of a Sharpie. No one would see the injuries. And it was just an accident. Some underpaid Indonesian worker came to work drunk and dropped the shelf down the stairs. Shit happens when people drink. I was sure that IKEA would send their worker to AA and that he'd be sober enough to stop injuring my furniture. Everyone deserves a second chance.

I kept that in mind when I was shopping for a new bed. I was hesitant at first - my limbs are important to me, after all - but IKEA promised me that he was in recovery. And I wanted to believe him because he had the perfect bed: a sleek HEMNES queen covered in a non-threatening black/brown veneer. If I ordered right now I could even get $20 off and a plate of Swedish meatballs for $2.99.

I should have known something was wrong when he wouldn't let me order it over the phone. He insisted that I come in, pile the heavy items on a cart, and then wheel it all over to a third-party delivery service. The delivery service wasn't one of his associates and thus he couldn't take any responsibility for its service, but the service was a really nice friend of his from the bar - y'know, back before he started going to AA meetings.

My items came two days late, one of them with 3 inch gash on its side. But no worries: it was an inside piece that was damaged. Everything looked fine when it was constructed. The night tables I'd purchased as part of the set were like miniature McMansions, all facade in the front with paperboard backings, but they were attractive and sturdy-ish. The bed was constructed of real wood - no problems there!

Or so I thought until I tried to move it over an inch so I could vacuum next to the bed and the entire frame collapsed into a heap. It never moved, unless you count the vertical crashing that almost broke my right foot. I nudged the fucker and it broke. Not the legs or even one of the bolts that I screwed in myself, but the pre-assembled footboard. And when it came crashing down, it took the aluminum mid-beam and aluminum crossbeams with it. 5 pieces of metal, mangled like they'd just met with the apocalypse, laid at my feet.

The headboard that they'd constructed was held together with two flimsy dowel rods which were "secured" with a dab of Elmer's wood glue.


















I can fix it, I thought. All I needed was four black bolts and replacement beams. I ran out to IKEA, broken parts in hand, and was given new parts. IKEA took a little blame this time; he pointed to part of the wood frame and said "Only at IKEA would we try to adhere two large pieces of wood together with glue." New parts in hand, I went to Home Depot to find the appropriate bolts so I could reconstruct my dream bed. I'd put it together tonight so I could ring in my birthday in bed with a glass of wine and an episode of Carnivale.

At least that's how it would have gone if IKEA wasn't an abusive, sadistic fuck who gave me broken replacement parts so he could get his rocks off by ruining my birthday.

I thought that I'd start blogging again once I whisked through my Battlestar Galactica Blu-ray set, but then I went into a depression because Battlestar Galactica is over forever. And, no, Caprica doesn't count. I'm still looking forward to it, but it doesn't count.

I'm not out freezing my ass off this New Year's Eve. I'm not squished breast-to-breast with hundreds of co-eds mangling the words to "Auld Lang Syne". I'm not even watching Dick Clark mumble his way through ABC's "New Year's Rockin' Eve" telecast. Nope, I'm no fool. No one's going to puke on me this year. I'm bringing the New Year in my own style. And my style happens to be a George Carlin t-shirt, a pair boxers, and a Hello Kitty robe.