The Devil Wears Ikea

I hope it was my last time in Ikea.

It was necessary to return a mattress pad which didn't fit our bed. Our bed is Queen-sized; the mattress pad was Queen-sized as well. It should have fit. It didn't. I thought of just chucking it, but wasting something brand-new goes against my principles. I was in the neighborhood, so I took it back.

There were only two other people in the returning room. The ticker said #20. I got #52. I called out, "Are you using the numbers?"

A large, angry woman informed me that they were. She reached out and cranked all the numbers between 20 and 52. I'd be pissed off, too, if I had to wear those hideous bilious yellow and blue uniforms that shriek out for sunglasses.

"I have to return this because it didn't fit our bed," I said.

"You opened it," she snarled accusingly.

"That's how I know it didn't fit."

"You OPENED it," she repeated.

I ignored her lessons in logic. "The package says 'Queen' but it wasn't big enough. It must be marked wrong."

"We can't take back something you opened." She looked as if she wanted to punch me out. She was a lot bigger than I am, but I'm pretty brave.

"I wouldn't have returned it if it had fit. But it didn't."

She said, "Do you have an Ikea ----?"

"What?'

"Do you have an Ikea ----?"

"I don't know what that is," I said. She was making sounds that were beyond mumbling. She was not foreign, just unintelligible.

"DO.YOU.HAVE.AN.IKEA.BED?"

Oh. Where's my damn conversion table? "No."

"Well, that's why it didn't fit. Our measurements are different."

"I've bought mattress pads before and if they're Queen-sized, they fit. This one didn't."

"You should have read it."

"It doesn't say anywhere that your measurements are different."

"I have to call my Supervisor," she said. Right in front of me, she yelled into the phone, "Got a Problem Customer here that don't agree with Our Policy."

Ten minutes later, another woman dressed for a hostile takeover in bilious yellow and blue arrived. I explained the situation. She glared at me.

"You opened it," she said.

"That's how I found out if wouldn't fit on my bed."

"Well, we can't sell it to another customer now. We don't know if you used it or not. It could be DIRTY." Watch it, sister. I'm twenty times cleaner than you are. And so are my germs.

"I had to OPEN it to try it on the bed. I didn't USE it because it didn't fit. If it HAD fit, I wouldn't have RETURNED it," I said.

"We have to charge you 30% for opening it," she snarled.

"It wouldn't work for another customer either Because It's The Wrong Size," I said. I did not add, "You miserable cow. You swine. You lowlife scumbag piece of shit stupidhead." I held my tongue. My mother would have been pleased. Also surprised.

Lucretia Borgia's face turned bright red and her wattles twitched like a turkey. You never want to make a turkey angry. I know we eat them and all, but they're really nasty animals.

"The dimensions are on the package. Right here. Did you measure the bed?"

"No. I don't know how many Inches it is. It's a Queen." (Fer Chrissakes.)

"You're saying The Package is WRONG?" Wattles waggling violently now. Cruella deVille was quivering with rage. A lot of misplaced emotion riding on this. Uh huh. Tell me about your childhood.

"It is not posted anywhere that Ikea sizes are different from normal sizes," I told her. I was right, of course. Not that it mattered.

I was really close to throwing it in her face. My misspent life was flashing before my eyes. Ikea makes me hyperventilate. I held out my arm so she could siphon all the blood out of it. I got my partial refund. I ran for the door.

As God is my witness, I will never set foot in Ikea again.

Evolution

Archaeologists have found a stone snake that was carved long ago inside a cave in the Kalahari Desert of Botswana. It is as tall as a man and 20 feet long.

Scientists believed that human intelligence had not evolved the capacity to perform group rituals until 40,000 years ago. But this discovery of 70,000 year-old artifacts appears to represent the first known human rituals.

"You could see the mouth and eyes of the snake. It looked like a real python," said Sheila Coulson of the University of Oslo. "The play of sunlight over the indentations gave them the appearance of snake skin. At night, the firelight gave one the feeling that the snake was actually moving."

They also found spearheads made of stone that would have been brought to the cave from hundreds of miles away, and then burned.

There was no sign of normal habitation or ordinary tools at the site.

The modern San people of the region have legends that mankind descended from the python. They believe that the ancient dry stream beds around the hills were created by their python ancestor as it circled ceaselessly, looking for water.

"Our find means that humans were more organized and had the capacity for abstract thinking at a much earlier point in history than we have previously assumed," Coulson said. "All of the indications suggest that Tsodilo has been known to mankind for almost 100,000 years as a very special place in the pre-historic landscape."

The scientists found a secret chamber behind the python carving, where the shaman could have hidden himself. He would have had a good view of the inside of the cave while remaining invisible himself. When he spoke from his hiding place, it would have seemed as if the voice came from the snake. There was also a small shaft off the back through which he could leave the chamber.

What is most amazing to me is that mankind has had the capacity for nearly 100,000 years to create rituals involving abstract thinking, but has evolved into a race that ritually watches moronic TV shows while burning out brain cells. Our shamans speak to us from within the large box while the airwaves circle ceaselessly, creating arid places in our minds.

The Wizard of Oz, the Holy Grail, and the Kalahari Python got nothin' on us. With such brilliant beginnings, we could have done better.

Dick & Jane Go To The Hospital

Last night, Flip discovered he had misplaced the manual to his recording equipment, which required both of us to ransack the apartment. We checked and rechecked all the usual suspects. He throws nearly everything into a large, antique trunk of mine, even though I have asked him not to. The Christmas ornaments are in there. They don't do well crushed under heavy mining equipment. I finally wised up and contained them in boxes with hard sides.

I suggested he get down a plastic milk crate which holds a lot of odds and ends and resides on a high shelf in the closet.

He found the manual along with many anonymous rejects from everyday life, then noticed his hand was bleeding profusely. We washed it and poured peroxide over it. It kept gushing. I managed to get his wound in a tight embrace with several bandaids, blotting all the while. He didn't whine too much. I was pleased. I went back to reading blogs.

An hour later, it was still bleeding through several changes of bandaid. I suggested again that it needed stitches, and this time he agreed to accompany me to the hospital.

It was a cold night, but the stores had closed and there wasn't much traffic. I even found a parking space two blocks away. I wanted to hold his hand but was afraid I'd kill him. Or get blood on me. The triage nurse looked at his hand and agreed that it was lucky Flip is left-handed. (When I injure my hand, it's always the right one, too, but I am right-handed. This has caused no end of inconvenience and grief, as well as surgery.)

We were ushered into a curtained area where another nurse, Scott, who kept asking us if he didn't look like "Dustin," administered a tetanus shot. He did, kind of, in an overblown sort of way. Like in "Tootsie." Dustin Hoffman is a great actor. Scott is a great nurse. And they're both male, give or take.

There was a lively debate over whether or not Flip needed stitches. The wound wouldn't stop bleeding, but on the other hand, it was over a knuckle and was more of a divot than a cut. Scott didn't think there was anything to sew together.

Enter the doctor. He looked like Wallace Shawn. He's the one in Woody Allan movies who always gets the beautiful women even though he's short, bald, and astoundingly ugly because he's hung like a horse. The doctor didn't play "Who's My Face?" with us. He was nice. He even acted like he wanted to be there, watching Flip bleed out on the cot.

The wound was sterilized and wrapped in plastic stuff that looked like it used to be a mask in a horror movie. (Again with the movies. Do you sense a theme here? ) We were fitted out with directions for its care and feeding, given several rubber gloves so Flip could keep it dry while showering, and discharged.

I stopped at the drug store to buy antibiotic wash and ointment while Flip visited the liquor store for his own idea of medicine, and we went home. He hit the remotes and I went back to blogging. (I've already seen all the Law & Order episodes at least three times.)

He bled through the bandage again. We blotted him around it and I asked if he wanted to go back to the hospital. He didn't. We wrapped it in gauze and an Ace bandage.

He finally took his injured paw to bed, and is still sleeping. I've checked him for breathing and don't see a pool of blood on the floor, so I'm hoping it finally clotted. I just discovered streaks of blood on the bathroom light switch and around the sink. It looks like a massacre took place in there. His DNA is everywhere. I should probably save it for evidence. Detective Benson will need it when she gets here.

Only the Good Die Young

Today was the birthday of Bruce Lee (1940-1973.) He was not only perhaps the greatest martial artist who ever lived, he was also a great philosopher. In his short life, he learned or intuited universal secrets that were formerly in the province of ancient sages.

He was an amazing man with a perfectly disciplined body and mind. Read these gems and your life will be better.

"A goal is not always meant to be reached, it often serves simply as something to aim at."

"The mind is like a fertile garden in which anything that is planted, flowers or weeds, will grow."

"As you think, so shall you become."

"In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity."

"Knowledge will give you power, but character, respect."

"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them."

"To me, the function and duty of a quality human being is the sincere and honest development of one's potential."

"If you love life, don't waste time, for time is what life is made up of."

"Real living is living for others."

"Love is like a friendship caught on fire."

"The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering."

We remember you, Bruce. And in our recollection lies your immortality. Thank you for the lessons and the love.

Black Mood Friday, Bah Humbug

The day after Thanksgiving is traditionally the busiest shopping day of the year. Black Friday, so-called because if all goes well, shopkeepers begin to recoup their years' losses and edge back into the black, indicating profits.

I wouldn't be caught dead in a store on that day.

Apparently, many of the huge chains like Target, Circuit City, Wal-mart, CompUSA, Macy's, and all the other soulless mercantile entities competed this year to see who could open their doors the earliest. Best Buy was the winner (probably) as they made their wares available at 9:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. Fist fights ensued in many cities as people got quite nasty in their attempts to land the best deals.

The spirit of Christmas is alive and well.

Some of the stores advertised tremendous bargains on big-ticket items, but customers who arrived as the doors opened were told they were mysteriously "sold out." A 250" flat screen TV for $99 is a mythical beast, and yes, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.

Sales clerks were pinned against counters in many stores, eerily reminiscent of rock concerts in which attendees have been trampled to death by hysterical, surging crowds.

Is this really what the season of love and joy is about? Somehow the concept of gifts from the heart has been replaced by this orgy of competitive overspending, but it has to be a bargain, too.

This is insanity.

I love to give presents to those I love, and even on occasion, to strangers. But I am put off by the idea that shopkeepers have decreed that everyone I know must get stuff on the same day. And while I like getting presents as much as anyone, I sincerely hope my family doesn't give me the gorgeous gifts they do out of obligation.

The ghost of Christmases past is with me still. It reminds me of strolling down 5th Avenue to gaze rapturously at the marvelous window displays, followed by skating in Rockefeller Plaza by the giant Christmas tree. How I yearned for a short skating skirt when I was a child. I didn't know how to figure skate, but that was of no concern; the outfit was what mattered.

Years later, I took my own children there. The hot chocolate with clouds of whipped cream was still wonderful, sipped outdoors in air so cold we could see our breath. I bought chestnuts roasted over braziers by old men, my favorite delicacy until my 6-year old daughter noted that the chestnut man had wiped his nose on his sleeve right before scooping our chestnuts into the little brown bag.

I fantasize sometimes about a homestyle Christmas in which everyone gives handmade goods or offers of personal services like a back massage or childcare. And then I visit one of the palatial emporiums with their glorious merchandise piled seductively right at my eye level, the luscious cashmere that insinuates itself into my passing hand, the yummy perfumes, the handbags and shoes so soft and elegant, the jewelry that cries out for my neck, my ears, my wrists and fingers, and I know. I know, deep down, that I will not bake cupcakes for loved ones this year either.

I will push off from shore and brave the rapids. I will risk life and limb. I who hate crowds will become a face in the crowd and do everything it takes to get my family the best holiday gifts I can. Because I really do love the process of sifting through countless items in dozens of stores until I've found the very ones that scream out for my husband, my daughters, my son, the others on my list.

I will lovingly wrap every one of them and barely contain myself until it's finally Christmas and we're all together, the smell of pine and great food is overpowering, and I realize once again that no gifts could possibly express the love I have for these people.

Besides, I don't bake all that well.

Thanksgiving

First of all, the weed eaters have to go. I mean, who does that on the day before Thanksgiving? It's late November. There ARE no weeds. But we have a mechanical symphony going in stereo -- our neighbors on both sides have decided to vaporize those weeds right into the dirt.

I used to attend a Native American observance of Thanksgiving in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Turkey Day is a day of mourning for those who were so royally screwed by the Mayflower riders and their descendants. The pilgrims stole their land, killed as many of them as they could, and imprisoned the rest on reservations.

Indian reservations have the worst schools and medical care in the country, as well as the highest suicide rate. Alcoholism is rampant, which shouldn't surprise anyone considering their entire way of life was destroyed. And then they were "honored" by the dominant culture naming streets in housing developments for them, and wearing turquoise jewelry.

My brother and I once argued about this. His position was that the Indians didn't leave any lasting monuments and deserved to lose their land so it could be improved. Mine was that they slipped through the world without stamping their brand on it. They did no harm but left it as they found it and therefore deserved to remain in charge. This will never be resolved because Native Americans have no political power. A surprising number of people do not even know they still exist, but believe they have gone their way like the buffalo herds that sustained so many of them.

I think this disagreement between members of the same family represents two world views that are diametrically opposed and can probably not be reconciled. Either one is for Indians or one is against them. The rest is what my daughter used to call "excusifying."

Indians from many tribes gathered on a hill overlooking Plymouth Harbor, eloquent speeches were given, and then a few men would walk downhill and piss on Plymouth Rock, which until recently, was surrounded only by a metal chain. (They've since built a mausoleum around it which looks like an ancient Greek ruin in very good condition.) Plymouth Rock should be called Plymouth Pebble; it isn't as large as its fabled presence. But then, all fables are Bunyonesque. Paul, himself, was probably about as tall as Tom Cruise.

After the speeches, everyone would gather in a local church and feast on dishes prepared by women of many tribes. It was wonderful. I was honored to be there, but then, unlike our culture which delights in excluding people, Native American culture is INclusive. Everyone of good will is welcome and judged for himself, regardless of his ethnicity. (Which, of course, is what got them into trouble in the first place.) There is so much we could and should learn from these highly evolved people, but we settle for appropriating their exotic names and discard the rest as irrelevant to our technologically advanced society.

I always prepared the traditional Thanksgiving meal on Sunday so my family wouldn't miss out on chestnut stuffing and pumpkin pie with homemade whipped cream dotted with bits of crystallized ginger.

I don't know any Native Americans in California, so we're having Thanksgiving again. It's a great meal. I love doing it. Of course, any meal shared with loved ones is a celebration, so while I'll always love Pocahontas, tomorrow is about family and food for me.

Happy day to all of you! Eat, drink, and especially, be merry.

A Small Complaint

Does anybody else think it strange that Home Depot features Little People dressed as Santa's elves in its commercials?

While it's highly unlikely that any of these guys will get leading man roles in movies or television,* and allowing for the fact that residuals from commercials are easy money, a lot of easy money, I still wonder why they would choose to capitalize on their particular individuality in this way.

I'm happy to see people get work, but it also makes me cringe since this work depends upon a condition, dwarfism, which used to be considered a deformity but is quite rare now in developed countries as it is readily treatable with growth hormones. Just how does this latest foray into show biz differ from being in a circus sideshow? Is it the fact that "midgets," as they were once called, were openly ostracized in the circus as opposed to being more discreetly ostracized as Home Depot Christmas elves?

The word "midget" is now politically incorrect, having been replaced by "Little People," and has a pejorative connotation. So, now, does HOME DESPOT and the advertising genius who came up with this highly offensive campaign.

* One notable exception is Tom Cruise.