Swedish Death

I just finished changing my home office around, and think I may or may not be experiencing what may or may not be a heart attack. Damn Swedish furniture.

I have this kick butt desk called a Jerker, which I purchased from IKEA about six years ago when I first began working from home. It was the first legitimate office furniture I had anyway – after working on a card table of sorts for a few years prior to that. Boy was I proud of my IKEA Birch desk!

About a year ago I changed the modular thing from a sit-down desk, to a stand up, or sit-on-a-stool work station. The more-vertical, or as the Texans say, “verticaler”, situation worked like a dream for a while. A few weeks ago however, I determined I needed it to be a regular desk again and was going to have to play some Office Twister.

Funny thing about Swedish furniture is that you usually need two more arms than you actually have at any given point, to complete your project. I even had my lovely bride helping me at one point – and since we are STILL married you can assume my desk managed to convert without her jumping on the horn to her attorney.

You know how those Arian nations are though, with their solid wood furniture and blond hair, and leather chaps. Just kidding, just kidding – I’m sure they had the best of intentions. And by best of intentions I do mean entertainment value for Swedish Hidden Camera Shows. Swedish Reality TV must be a blast!

The first time I constructed this behemoth it was a total treat and I was so very proud of my little corner lurking marvel! But the first one is always free, so sweet and free, that’s how they get you hooked! You pay dearly the next time, and the time after that, until eventually you have nothing but Swedish furniture and a hankering for meatballs!

Re-building IKEA furniture is likened to the torture one must have had to endure back when they’d force people to dig their own graves. It’s kind of befuddling wouldn’t you think? Sure you want to do a good job, I mean it’s YOUR grave. You don’t want a bunch of pesky rocks jutting into your scalp. But then again, you’re going to be dead soon, and you probably aren’t going to be getting any last meal requests granted. No conjugal visits. No magic finger bed things that eat up your fitty cents and you’re left staring at the water stained stucco ceiling.

At least you hope that water stains.