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Ah, one of the great joys of moving – the classic right of passage: the obligatory trip to Ikea. Which, in our case, involved a two-hour drive to Northern Virginia on our first relocated Sunday. Clearly, we want to assemble some furniture – and we want it bad. And now that we've bought it, eventually we will.


I kind of hate to admit it, but I love Ikea – the goofy nonsensical product names (though, as Rick points out, sometimes they’re not even trying – the name of the grill pan was “Grilla”), the Swedish meatballs, the traipsing through the showroom on the trek to the self-serve bins while I inevitably fill the cart with a pile of stuff I don’t need – but hey, it’s $2, so why not? And over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good at assembling it all – which I admit gives me an inexplicable sense of accomplishment. And a very nice collection of allen wrenches.

Our trip was my first time traversing the interstates, and I got to see for myself the infestation of the “big box” stores. No matter where we were, you could always buy a pair of flip flops or assorted household goods at a Target, buy a book and get a cup of coffee at a Borders, score a flat screen TV at a Best Buy, or satisfy your hardware needs at a Home Depot or Lowe’s. Yes, you can pass from town to town and never really see any local store, or regional chain if you don't look hard for it – and that’s a damned shame. I’m a believer in the mom-and-pops and specialized one-of-a-kind stores. It breaks my heart -- and makes my skin crawl -- when a boutique or small bar is pushed out by a Cheesecake Factory. For every Macaroni Grill there should be three Iotas -- at least.

But I gotta admit: there’s something comforting about knowing you can always find the familiar, even if it’s unoriginal or impossible to pronounce. My kingdom for a world where the big boxes can live side-by-side with the locals without relying on Chinese mega-factories. Because as much as I will always patronize a local, I really love my Target.