nobody does it better. by carly simon. morgan family theme song:

frankly, i have little to say to you people. that being said, i'm sick of looking at the tirade below. i don't take it back. am just feeling more butterflies and orchids this week.

now, if my mother knew how to work a digital camera (or an alarm clock, for that matter) i might have famously good pictures to accompany this post. perhaps a season from now...

my family borrowed a truck and went to the IKEA in atlanta yesterday. we left at ten and got there at--wait for it--3:15, a mere three hours behind schedule. this is, of course, because we stopped for lunch at murphy's in the virginia highlands. now, i despise atlanta. but if you could get me a house in the highlands and a table at murphy's every sunday: i'm there.

we had a lot of wine at lunch. pinot gris. chardonnay. sauvignon blanc. we hit up more varietals than anyone should in one sitting. we fell in love with randy, our hungover waiter who said too much. as in, "i realize it's taken me ages to get to you guys. from now on, i will be speedy. probably." we watched the poor woman at the bar reading the kiterunner get hit on, like, 8 times. why do men think women sitting at a bar READING want company? we don't.

so, when we got lost on the way to said swedish store, my mother muttered, "at least we're absolutely sure we won't wind up in germany." i have no idea what this means.

IKEA itself is not something i'm ready to talk about holistically. overwhelming. so many desks. and honeybuns. and small people running about unattended.

my father fell asleep in three different makes of rattan chair. and when he said, "where do we get a cart to fill up?" i said, "i think they bring it to our car."

i think they bring it to our car. nothing has ever been farther from the truth. and after hauling boxes of shelves and chaise into our truck, we had to leave my beloved orange poang chair behind.

it was hell. and when i tried to photograph my father, he shooed away the camera much like the person in the limo who hasn't got the final rose after the producers tell her to look into the lens and say how it feels to be rejected. or janice dickinson just before she lashes out at some innocent person.

on the way home, i sat in my mother's lap with my feet on the dash. whenever a cop came up from behind, my father yelled "LAW" and i ducked. we sang "devils and dusk," rufus & chaka khan's "tell me something good" and louis armstrong until i fell asleep. then we bribed my next door neighbor with sierra nevada anniversary beer to help me bring it all in.

finally, after crying through the freedom writers (not a particularly good movie, but still), i tried to put together my left-arm chaise...which turned out to be a right-arm.