Nesting

For a while now, I’ve been meaning to go to Ikea and buy curtains. I guess it’s a nesting instinct. Winter’s coming; time to make my home a cosier place.

 Portland Ikea: Visible from space

So on a sunny day last week, wanting to get out of the house, I hopped on a bus and then a rush hour train out to the Cascades station, which exists only to serve a brand new, big box retail ghetto. There’s a Ross and Marshall’s and Staples and Sports Authority and, of course, an Ikea, which sits alone in its own sea of parking spaces. The doors of the train used to stay closed at this stop, and you’d look out the glass at vast, empty fields and wonder why we were even sitting here. Now, just two years later, there are streets and lights and banks and restaurants and an all-you-can-eat buffet of American binge consumerism.

And there I was, ready.

 Välkommen

 Träsh

Browsing through the example living rooms at Ikea, it at first seems like an affordable version of that most cruelly named modern furniture store, Design Within Reach. How exciting! Good, modern design actually within reach! But as everyone knows, a closer look reveals that virtually everything in the place is made of industrial glue held together with bits of sawdust. The stuff is cheap in every sense. And what I always forget to remember before I visit is that everything, but everything, is made in China. Basically, Ikea is just Walmart for city people.

Still, there I was, ready.

But first things first. I had actually planned, as part of this little four dollar vacation, to eat at the Ikea cafe. On previous visits with other people, I would look over at the wall of glass with the airport view and sigh longingly. I figured that this time, if nothing else, I could get, I dunno, tea or something. Actually, though, I didn’t have to pinch pennies. I ended up with a fresh veggie wrap in a whole-wheat tortilla with poppyseed dressing, and for desert, an almond cake. Both were relatively wholesome, filling, and enjoyable. Not bad for under five bucks. If I were a sales girl over at Dress Barn Woman, I would definitely walk here for lunch.

 Dinner

 The million dollar view from the Ikea Cafe

At the next table was a young rock hipster, all self-consciously cool, with furry mutton chops and a vintage suede bolero jacket. He was sitting with a much older couple who seemed quite conventional and very clearly Midwestern. I assumed they were his parents and that they would soon be footing the bill to decorate his apartment in a style to which he would like people to think he is accustomed. Later, I saw them all shopping. The son had a big bag bulging with goodies, and the parents walked passively behind him, side by side, saying nothing. I wondered what they thought. Did they get a vicarious thrill helping their son look cool? Or did they just philosophically accept more money down the drain?

Ultimately, I didn’t get any curtains; nothing was right. I just got a blanket (or is it a table cloth?) from the “As Is” section for three bucks. (Made in India.) And I got a box of imported Swedish cookies for one dollar. Clearly food is the best deal in the place; the lingonberry preserves ($3-ish, Sweden) are less than half the grocery store price. I made a mental note.

The trip wasn’t a total wash, though. I got a 2G XD memory card at Staples ($24, Japan). And at Ross, I walked away with a two pack of black Levi’s boxer briefs ($5, Dominican Republic) and a eight-piece placemat and napkin set, much needed, I assure you, and a steal at $7 (India).

(After writing about it just now, I feel the way I felt when I was actually shopping — kind of gross, like I’d just eaten fast food.)

 Ikea bike parking, 100% availability

It was dark when I left. The station was eerily quiet; the train, which was packed full of cell phone chatterboxes on the way there, was almost empty. All the way home, I stared at my sad reflection in the windows.

 Cascades Station

 Empty MAX

 Self-portrait

Back at the house, I knocked on my roommate Will’s door and asked him to give me a hand. With considerable effort, we slid open the dining room table and put in one of the leaves, transforming it from round to oblong. I placed the new placemats, neatened the centerpiece, and put the high back chair at the head of the table. Will and I both stood back and admired it for a while.

Growing up, all of our family meals were taken together at a dining table (and beginning, yes, with bowed heads and a prayer) — no eating alone in your room or over the sink or in front of the TV at our house. That place to sit and eat together has always been for me the hallmark of a healthy and stable home life. I had been wanting a real dining room table for a long time. Now, finally, here it was.

Exactitudes

Think you’re special?

Then maybe you should check out Exactitudes, a website about a book about a portrait series by two Dutch photographers who “provide an almost scientific, anthropological record of people’s attempts to distinguish themselves from others by assuming a group identity.” It’s compelling.

Even though they’re actually from Rotterdam, I found a lot of typical Portlanders — “Ecopunks,” “Dreads,” and “Emos.” Those looks are international, apparently.

I also found my father, my mother, and my sister. One type I couldn’t find, though, was my own. Seems like I really am incredibly unique. But honestly now, wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?

Hibernation

Bad weather is great for my self discipline. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been in a state of social hibernation — staying home, growing a big, fuzzy beard, typing alone all day long. January always seems to go that way. It’s like a decompression period after the eating, drinking, shopping, and parties over the holidays. Plus, it’s gross outside, and nobody wants to leave the house.

I’ve been getting a lot done lately, and on Sunday, I was even inspired (or bored) enough to sew together the fabric for some quilt squares that have been sitting around for months. I’m amazed at how much they look like the “sketch” I did on my computer.

 Denim quilt squares arranged on the floor

 My digital “sketch” of how I thought the quilt would look

My roommate Becca commented that it’s a very “manly quilt.” I questioned whether there actually was such a thing. (If you care to, you can read more about this project here.)

In a desperate attempt to get something vaguely like exercise, I went for a walk yesterday with my friend Mike, and I explained to him how I intended to officially end my hibernation on February 1st. I’d shave my beard and start socializing again. He couldn’t resist making fun of me.

“Oh, you’re so goodlooking that you have to grow a beard to get guys to stop hitting on you? ‘I must hide my beauty to get all these men to leave me alone! I’m so pretty I must cover my face.’”

I think he was just projecting. In any case, he can bite me.

So yeah, February 1st. It seems a little early to come out of my cave. Winter is far from over. But there are big fat flower buds on the Camelia in front of the house, and the tips of the Daffodils are poking out of the ground. Spring is right around the corner.

You Are Beautiful

You’ve seen the stickers. Now see the website.

 Portland

 Philadelphia

If you send them a self-addressed, stamped envelope, they’ll mail you stickers for free. Be the first on your block. Or the tenth. Whatever.

Do You Have a Hat?

Today at the grocery store, I wandered through the cereal isle on my way to the candy bars, and I looked down to see a very special box of Cheerios. My friend Geraldo illustrates children’s books, and one of them was going to be distributed in boxes of Cheerios during November & December. One million copies. would be given away.

The boxes had a windows in the front so you can see which of the five books you’re getting. That’s the one I got there: Do You Have a Hat?, illustrated by Geraldo Valério. Pretty darned impressive, I must say.

Vagina Menorah

In the last couple of years here on Caruthers Street, we’ve been investing in those expensive and ugly compact florescent bulbs. You know the ones; they’re curly; the light is greenish, and they are supposed to last forever.

Except, actually, they don’t. Ours have been burning out almost as fast as the cheap incandescent bulbs, and the kitchen light gave up the ghost a couple of days ago. Usually, out of sheer laziness, we just suffer in the dark for a while, at least in other rooms, but it’s hard to cook that way. So yesterday, I came home to find the kitchen romantically lit with candles. My housemate Becca’s girlfriend had made vegetarian chilli and needed the light.

It was lovely… until I glanced down to see, well, a girl part glowing at me. Becca’s former employer, a gentile potter, had given her a vagina shaped menorah as a gift a few years ago. Made by hand. Uh-huh.

I had heard about it, but never seen it before. (Hey, just like the real thing!) I’m not sure how accurate a likeness it is, but the sight of it inspired me to immediately change the light bulb and put the thing away. Becca said she usually only keeps her jewelry in it because she would feel sacriligious using it for Hanukkah. (Thank Yahweh!). See, it’s not so much the shape as the fact that there’s the wrong number of candles. In other words, it doesn’t have enough holes.