Maura and The Do-It-Yourself

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Today I build a bed.

I go to Ikea with Emma, walk around the bedroom area and after evaluating the various models by pros and cons, stability, size and color of the structure, we choose a wonderful MALM. White single bed that is always fashionable, high headboard really comfortable for young readers, two beautiful drawers for keeping all the “secrets” which I promise to never open.

After the bed section, Emma dives on all the mattresses in the furniture exhibition. She bounces, stretches out, tries to get to the side and then to her favorite sleep position, belly down with the butt up. I never understood how she can sleep like this. In the end, the choice falls on a semi-rigid foam mattress, MAURANGER, I did not understand if it was really the most comfortable or if it was chosen by association with her mother’s name.

We steer diligently toward the shelves-24 place 9. The bed structure is made up of two boxes, one super heavy rectangular and one two feet long. With fatigue, risking crushing Emma under the boxed headboard of her bed, we  load the two packs on the trolley.

“Emma read the leaflet and tell me where we can find the mattress.”

“Shelf 26 place 12.”


The only problem is that at the shelf 26 place 12 there are just double mattresses.

“Maybe we wrote the wrong code. Or they moved them. Let’s take a ride on these two lanes Emma, see if you find the Mauranger sign somewhere.”

Obviously we do not find it. Finally a young boy with a t-shirt yellow-colored and blue-striped appears, we chase him with the trolley full of boxes and find out that the mattresses are to be asked to him. Actually I knew it. When Emma was jumping on the beds I read the sign somewhere and removed it at the speed of light. Not bad, we have everything we need. Before going to the cashier I ask smiling:

“Sorry, you’re an expert, do you think that l can push all this stuff in a small car like a Fiat Panda?”

The young boy with a t-shirt yellow-colored and blue-striped looks at me as if looking at an old stoned lady, then looks at the trolley, then sighs to me, his face shakes and in three seconds he changes his expression twenty times, it seems to slide fast the Whatsapp yellow little faces.


In the end the Emoji speaks:

“It should.”

Emma and I perplexed steer to the cashier, we are not at all quiet now. For a double check, we decide to ask another yellow-colored and blue-striped young human Emoji. I remember once that my friend Laura Posadino told me that if you ask kindly, with a soft but needy voice, smiling and raising your pointer finger, nobody can tell you NO. So I go to the office, I change myself into the Emoji with Durban’s smile but with my sad eyes, I raise my pointer and say:

“Excuse me, kindly, could you give me a hand? I would need an expert advice, if I am not disturbing you. I would like to know if you think these things can fit in a Panda. Thank you. Please. You’re very kind. Excuse me again.”

The Emoji with a shit-face, not even looking at the trolley and with a Friulan accent (for those who did not know about this kind of accent, just read the underlying sentence with Yogi Bear voice) mumble:

“Try. If it does not fit, you can return the goods.”

Welcome in Friuli girl.

We arrive at the parking lot. I push the mattress in the trunk with fatigue, the super heavy and rectangular box structure in the rear seats and the long one embedded from the rear window to the front one. I feel like Wonder Woman. There is only one small problem, I don’t have any free spot left for Emma.

The poor girl crawls under the box with his head bent at an angle that reminds me of Linda Blair in the Exorcist.

Thank God we are happy people, we start laughing about the situation. We turn on the radio and shout Bruno Mars’ songs out loud laughing like crazy girls and moving our hands as American rappers:

“Players, put yo’ pinky rings up to the moon
Girls, what y’all trying to do?”

When we come home I immediately notice a small detail, there are no secret drawers (which had to be taken apart) and I forgot that in a bed also the bedside net is needed (I’m born brunette but I’m definitely blonde).

Hurray. I go back to Ikea, this time alone. Buy. I greet my friends Emoji and speed home.

I open the boxes and decide to follow the instructions to the letter, not to do some crap. I take screwdrivers and hammer, put the carpets under the wood so as not to ruin the wooden floor.

Now, keeping in mind the instructions, at this point I would need a friend to share this wonderful DIY experience. I do not have a friend at hand. They should sell it. A nice Buddy-Do-It-Yourself, could be called YSTÄVÄGAN, would be useful.

I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.

I begin to imbed, screw in, “allen-ing” I’m getting into it. The smell of plywood fills the room. Now I understand how men like it so much. Every screw you put in the right place, every piece you add, every beam that stands up, raises your self-esteem. Lots of testosterone. I have it hard.

But two hours have passed. I’m far from the end, the evening approaches, I’m all sweaty and the stench of wood mixed armpit is not for me, I’m still a woman.

I go out to take a breath of clean air and I see it. My friend. My Buddy-Do-It-Yourself. My YSTÄVÄGAN.

Marco, my neighbor.



He comes with the electric screwdriver. A wonderful object. I’ve got it. I try it. Testosterone flows around my veins. Now I want to buy a tool box as it should be, full of drills, electric screwdriver, allen keys of all kind, wrenches and everything you need. I want to make it into the race of those who have the biggest drill, who pees farther and who has it longer.


I’m ready for the next step towards sex change: THE BARBECUE.


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