supercalifragilistIKEAlidocious

I am happy to report that the apartment is now more or less fully equipped for your visit, thanks to my prodigious visit to IKEA last week. For example, there are now lots of jauntily colored bins for the purpose of containing The Madness, by which I mean the inevitable, staggering explosion of small, random objects that suddenly surrounds you when you live with a boy. There is a bed for you, with proper pillows and blankets even, but you may have to kick us out because the second bedroom is now our favorite place to hang out. The office has been clearly delineated by bookshelves and I have a semi-permanent sewing area, which is itself beginning to show signs of its own Madness. I'm confident that I can contain it in this case without the need for further jaunty bins. Anyone who came over for dinner to my last apartment will rejoice in the knowledge that it is no longer necessary to use the arm of the couch as a dining-room chair. We have four normal chairs now, plus two folding ones that we can use at the table I bought at a garage sale.

We also added an armchair, a bed, and two bedside tables. Damn you, IKEA! Damn your low prices and clever design and renewable resources in your Magical Scandinavian Furniture Wonderland! You're like Legos for grown-ups! I am powerless against your wiles.

The nearest IKEA store is roughly three hours away, and in case you're wondering how I managed to furnish the entire apartment in a single day, yes, I really did fit all of the above items, plus houseplants and picture frames, in a 2007 Kia Rio 5 Hatchback. I was dubious at first, so much so that I scrapped the idea of buying the bed and nightstands. That is, until I discovered that, evidently, nobody gets hired to work in the loading area of IKEA without a degree in engineering. This kid packed everything so competently that I was compelled to go back into the store and run up my credit card just a bit further. The only thing we didn't manage to get inside the car was the bed rails, which he strapped to the top.

As if IKEA weren't enough of a modular mecca by itself, I dined on gravad lax and sparkling loganberry juice while watching my favorite childhood movie in their cafeteria. I took time out from my shopping extravaganza to watch Julie Andrews tsk-tsk Dick Van Dyke for soaring up to the ceiling on a wave of one-liners in Mary Poppins. I tell you, this place has my number. I fell in love with Mary Poppins at roughly age three; so much so, that I began to feign a British accent. I tormented my father by insisting on watching this movie daily when I was little, and I must admit that the effect has never really worn off. I still get choked up when I hear the innocence mission cover that classic reverse-psychology lullaby, "Stay Awake." The day I heard Julie Andrews go into character on air in response to a call from a listener whose three-year-old had detected Mary Poppins's voice on the Diane Rehm show, I called my mother sobbing just to tell her I loved her. Last weekend, listening to the best nanny ever give a stern talking-to to Jane and Michael Banks provided the perfect reprieve from both the three hours on the highway and the mind-numbing retail-fest.

Never, though, have I more wished for the company of Mary Poppins (or at least of her ginormous tapestry bag) than on the way home from IKEA of Woodbridge, VA. About five minutes after leaving the store, the straps holding my bed rails began to sing like the world's largest coffee percolator. Soon, I heard an ominous ka-ZING smack smack smack and when I pulled over, one of the straps had broken, leaving me 1.) in the dark, 2.) a woman alone, 3.) on HWY 95 somewhere south of Washington D.C. with my hazard lights on, 4.) desperately shoving cardboard boxes around in my already dangerously-, probably illegally-overpacked car trying to make space for just... one... more... thing.

I ripped the boxes off of the bedrails and shoved the rails down the passenger side. Then, chanting under my breath "I..must...not...litter" over and over, I scooped up the torn pieces of cardboard and wedged them into the remaining six square inches of space before driving home on pure adrenaline, vowing never again to succumb to the allure of the one big-box store that I paradoxically forgive.

Unless Julie Andrews says it's okay.