Life Lesson #34: Mijn naam is Penny. Ik ben van New York. Wil u naakte Twister met mij spelen?

I find that Ikea, like naked Twister, is in theory a great idea.

In reality, you end up with a sweaty, tangled mess of too many bodies, awkward moments, and painful bruises.

I just moved back into the city on Friday evening. The opportunity to sublet a true one bedroom (as in a separate room that a bed and dresser can actually fit in) in the lower east side fell into my lap. There was no way I could let this pass me by. After living in Manhattan, post-college, in three different apartments, I’m familiar with the nonsense this city tries to pass off as livable.

My all time favorite: A three bedroom that was more like three closets that loft beds were built into. Ok, fine. Welcome to Manhattan, right? Except these loft frames weren’t made flush against the sides of the closet walls, but rather built into the corners. So these tiny ‘beds’ were uneven (scalene, if you will) triangles. I think that only midgets with asymmetrical limbs could sleep comfortably. And the only mattress you could even try to make work in the space would be from those sweet car beds for little kids, after you lobbed off an entire angle.

To top it off, the place was directly across the street from a strip club. Scores or the likes? Ok, I could deal. But these dancers looked like the fabled, deformed Olsen sister that was locked up in the basement for twenty years. And these were just the ladies that were allowed outside to share a cigarette in daylight. Who knows what the others, forbidden to be seen under anything other than a fuzzy, red 40-watt light bulb, looked like?

Needless to say, my new place has a rectangular shaped bed and no gnarly strippers (that I’m aware of) in sight. So I took it.

Saturday consisted of The Cleanup. Which took the WHOLE day. This is what happens when the former tenant is a weird lady who has a very fat cat and very few cleaning skills. Coupled with the fact that I’m kind of a neat freak and recruited Hansel to help, whom I’m convinced is a little OCD when you get him started, and you get a Mission for Hygienic Excellence that can only be achieved through hours of hard elbow grease. By the time evening crept up, I was feeling like the place was becoming more of a home.

And so Sunday was my day to fill my new, clean space. I had to go shopping.

Now, I’ve been to Ikea twice before. So I’m no virgin to seeking “affordable solutions for better living.” I am well aware of what I’m getting myself into on the way to the yellow and blue, not nearly air conditioned enough black hole some crazy Swede decided to conjure up smack in the middle of smelly Elizabeth, New Jersey.

Yet the thought of skipping down the yellow colored, squiggly aisles, the idea of finding great stuff, the hope of making an apartment look totally pulled together and livable, draws me back. The well organized website and phonebook-size catalog, promising miniature pencils and Swedish meatballs if I go to the actual store, are too much for me to resist.

As I walked in the largest revolving door in history that almost took out an entire family and one bewildered looking old lady, I gave myself twenty minutes before I’d start remembering all the reasons why I hated the place.

It only took half that amount of time before I almost lost my sanity.

First, the sheer number of people is enough to give anyone agida. There are children everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Hiding under sofa cushions; popping out of cabinets; using the shopping carts as ramming devices. You step without looking; you’ve just crushed the fingers of a four year-old trying to shimmy his way under a coffee table. Add to that all the grandparents of the world. I guess the parents bring them along in hopes they’ll watch said little ones while they redecorate their entire bedroom for $421. Well, old people, you suck at your one task. Really, the only thing you’ve demonstrated being good at in Ikea is getting in the way of anyone with a shopping cart. For that, I applaud you.

Once I’m able to mentally adjust to the crowds around me and ignore the hot, thick air suffocating me, I try to figure out where the hell everything is I need. I’m overwhelmed with how difficult this is. Probably because the company can’t name anything in a way that is remotely intelligent to me.

Turns out the founder of Ikea, who is dyslexic, decided to name the products by association, which was easier for him to remember. Screw the rest of us, who just happen to be paying customers. And even though the founder is Swedish, he decided to play this word game with Danish, Finnish and Norwegian terms, as well as his native tongue. Great.

Confused? Yea, well imagine me yesterday at about 5:30, floating in a sea of bathroom accessories named after Scandinavian lakes, rivers and bays. Or trying to find some bed linens that run the gamut of terms for music, chemistry, weights, seasons and measures. ‘Cause that makes sense.

As I stood, surrounded by a mound of toilet seat covers, trying to figure out where the hand towels could be, I figured I gave off an air of total confusion and frustration. Apparently not.

“Does this elastic stay? I don’t want this moving around when I’m sitting on it,” some extremely thin, slightly deranged looking woman asked me as she waved a fuzzy, pink toilet seat cover in my face.

“Um, I don’t know?”

“Well, it looks like it might not. Is it soft? I mean, if you’re sitting on it,” she continued.

“Um, I really don’t know?”

Do I look like an Ikea employee? Not that I think there is anything that would make someone look like they did, unless they were wearing, oh, I don’t know, maybe the company uniform that every actual worker around me had on. Which I did not. But why else would this woman ask a total stranger if her bony ass was going to be well cushioned when she sat on her toilet? Isn’t she kind of embarrassed to ask me that? People are just so weird.

For someone as accident prone as me, Ikea also runs the risk of being a giant ass-kicking machine. I can’t reach for anything without ten boxes falling on my head. I walk to the left, someone happens to shoot their cart to the right. Things that look deceivingly heavy wind up being three ounces. And vice versa. I mean, I woke up this morning with more knots in my back then ever before, which I’m chalking up to the huge flower pot I brought home (note I had to move about half a dozen before even finding one that wasn’t cracked or chipped, probably from some child who decided to use it as a bowling ball).

Even beyond the walls of the Ikea warehouse, danger looms. The parking lot is walk-at-your-own-risk territory. Finally made it three flights up with the most cumbersome of boxes? Well, you still have to assemble your new Spanis and Tromso. Try not to get any paper cuts, muscle kinks, or broken nails. And you always run the risk of having your stuff fall apart at any near time in the future.

Life Lesson #34: Although I came out unscathed, minus the small bruise on my thigh, and in the end, did manage to get some cool stuff for my new digs, I have learned that I need to make enough money in life to not have to resort to cardboard furniture. I’m not trying to be a spoiled brat or anything. I just really don’t think I can handle that place again.

I’d much rather face the quick, relatively painless humiliation of falling on my bare ass in a game of naked Twister.