Swedish engineering is still subject to the limitations of aging rubber and fiber

We have a Swedish washing machine in our house - a front-loading, water-conserving machine by a company I've never heard of (Asko). The other day it stopped working, leaving a load of laundry soggy but unwashed. I initially blamed the power outage we'd experienced over the weekend, but putting it through another wash cycle only made the clothes a bit soggier. A bit smellier, too, since the load had now been sitting for a couple of days. And we're talking workout clothes and underwear here, so I imagine 300 bacterial Spartans had now become 300 billion, preparing not only to defend their territory but establish a vast empire.

Ordinary people might call the landlord or a repair shop at this point, but not I. No, I inherited my dad's DIY mentality, which generally means If I can't do it myself, I'll at least get to the point where I'm sure I can't.

Being an avid diagnostician - and feeling a special bond with this machine born in the land of my ancestors - I was pretty sure that there was a problem with the drive belt. Sure enough, it had snapped and lay coiled neatly below the drive motor. Our neighborhood hardware shop somehow always has what I need (Car battery terminal? Yup! Programmable thermostat? Sure! Hollow-point torx wrench? YOUHAVEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME!) to look for a replacement, but my luck was sure to run out sooner or later. I can't find a local supplier for this brand to save my life, so I went online to find somewhere to order a replacement. As luck would have it I found a place, and they'll even do same-day shipping. Even better, you can order online and pick up in their store!

But they only have one retail store for local pickup. And where is it? Canton, Michigan. Five minutes from where we used to live. Figures.

Separation anxiety

This morning we stopped by the local elementary school to register Ben for kindergarten. I know - it seems like just yesterday he was running around the yard fighting with Ian over toys, making us cut the crust off his sandwich, and getting frustrated putting his sandals on. Oh wait - that was yesterday.

Anyway, Sarah ran in with a bunch of paperwork while I waited in the car with the boys. Ian wanted to go inside, but I explained that we weren't going to kindergarten quite yet; Ben would be going there at the end of the summer. Ben broke the news to Ian gently:

"I'm sorry, Ian. I'm going to kindergarten, but you're staying at my old school. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, Ben."

I'm not sure Ian fully understands that his big brother won't be nearby anymore. All I know is that it will be a sad day when reality sinks in.

Ikea's tap runs dry

Being of Scandinavian descent, I appreciate Ikea's approach to selling furniture. Every aspect of furnishing a home - from manufacturing to shipping to the retail stores themselves - has been thoroughly examined in the effort to bring good design to the masses at low cost. Sure, I've been let down a few times by quality issues, like the folding chair that wouldn't unfold, but for the price I paid I could hardly complain. It's like getting Wal-Mart's Every Day Low Prices without the Every Day Low Standards.

And those meatballs! With the gravy and lingonberry sludge, I just can't help myself.

The Woodbridge, Virginia Ikea has become a recreational destination for us. It's only a short drive from home, and the boys actually nag us to go. Without family nearby, Småland (their supervised children's play area) offers our only respite from parenthood that doesn't cost $10-12 an hour. There was that one day we both called in sick after we dropped the kids off at preschool, but we really were sick, so that hardly counts. We don't have any room left in the house for even the smallest disposable housewares, but sometimes we'll just browse the labyrinthine floors and dream about being able to afford something that doesn't come packed into a flat box.

But this past weekend Ikea disappointed me. We went to the Ikea Cafe for a bite to eat before setting the boys free in Småland, and as I had done on prior visits, I grabbed a glass for some icewater. When I told the cashier that it wasn't for a soft drink, however, she informed me that my only options were soft drinks or bottled water. So I could buy something that's bad for my health, or something that's bad for the environment. Chagrined, I decided to take one for Kermit and headed for the lingonberry juice. When in Rome, you know. Or Stockholm.

Right there next to the lingonberry juice fountain was the Dispenser Formerly Known as Water, now stripped of its label and actuating lever. They didn't replace the water with another drink - they just disabled the water dispenser.

I would hardly consider myself an enviro-nazi (I've only seen Al Gore's movie once, figuring he would argue that repeated viewing would just waste energy), but I can't help finding this offensive. I didn't really want lingonberry juice. But I really really didn't want to send yet another unnecessary plastic bottle into the ecosystem. Even if Ikea recycles, energy and materials are still invested in the process, and it's better not to consume them at all. Reduce comes before Re-use and Recycle, doesn't it?

I can only assume that Ikea is attempting to pad its bottom line by closing a gap in its Cafe revenue, requiring customers to pay for any and all beverages. But is this the right way to do it? According to the New York Times, even upscale restaurants are switching from bottled water to tap water for environmental reasons. Whatever benefit they reap is surely outweighed by the bad karma.

Is a simple glass of water really too much to ask for?

15 seconds of fame

So there's this ridiculous internet fad called lolcats, where photos of innocent cats are given absurd captions for comic effect. Most of them imply that cats have horrific spelling and grammar, which couldn't be further from the truth. I'm guessing a dog started this whole thing. I mean seriously, can you imagine a cat uttering such nonsensical gibberish?


Considering how difficult it is to add text to an image, someone was bound to create a website that would help people with the process. Sure enough, about a month ago someone did. All of a sudden, anyone and everyone could create lolcats, and the fad snowballed. Even I succumbed, digging through the photos of our cats for promising candidates and giving them appropriately butchered captions.

Lolcats have become so prevalent that today the Houston Chronicle even published a story about them. And what should I find among their cited examples? None other than my very own lolcat, featuring our very relaxed Beatrice:


You know, I had hoped to be cited in the newspapers someday, but this isn't exactly what I'd envisioned.