Cloudy With A Chance Of Storm

My forecast for life. Be ready to jump in puddles.

Archive for the month “December, 2011”

Lost in IKEA

I found myself pushing an office chair with my belongings around the IKEA parking lot this afternoon in search of my lost mother.
Two things brought this on:
1) I took a small, small car to IKEA.
2) I found the chair I’ve been wanting in the “as is” section and had to get it ASAP.
It started as a trip to get a white board, a simple 2’x3′ white board. Then, I said I’d also pick up the shelving unit to go over our toilet. It’s pretty small, actually. Smaller in the box than on display. So, I figured the small car would be fine.
And then #1 happened. I immediately dropped my white board on a couch and claimed the office chair sitting there in the “as-is” section. I didn’t remove my finger from it for a second for fear that some other cheap vulture would claim it.
I wheeled that big, black, leather beauty through the check out line, swiped my card and practically skipped it through the parking lot to the car. The tiny, tiny car.
It didn’t fit. No matter how I moved it. There was a family actually standing across the parking lot watching me in amusement. I had to re-park the car for better access to the passenger’s seat. But, no luck.
So who do I call? My mom.
Mom says, “You’re killin’ me. You know that, right?”
As if I didn’t?
While I’m waiting for mom to make the 20 minute drive to IKEA with her SUV, I wheeled back, with less enthusiasm than before, to the merchandise desk to pick up the shelving unit.
Interesting. It’s a six-foot tall box.
So I wait for mom. She calls twice. She wants to know how to get to where I’m at. I know she’s in the parking lot, yet I don’t see her. She says she must have passed me. She says she’s on the top level and there’s nothing above her. Who goes to the 3rd story of the IKEA parking lot?
Alas, she was not there. She was clear across the parking lot. So I tell her to stay there while I wheel my goods back to the area where my car (and hers) are located. As I’m wheeling back that way, she passes me in the opposite direction.
Cue the Benny Hill music.
So I’m wheeling and talking to her on my cell phone.
She’s driving and talking to me on her cell phone.
I tell her to park when she can. I about-face and break into a swift pace with the swivel chair and six-foot box. She parks in the dark abyss of the parking lot. She tells me her section. I find her car and then see her in the distance walking away, toward the store. Are you kidding me? Never leave the car! Haven’t we learned anything from the crazy wilderness stories of 2011?
I yell. I yell again. She responds. We load up the car and finally make it to my place where The Bus is patiently waiting in the parking lot to help unload.

Damn, my desk looks snazzy.

Note the new chair, the white board (with clips), the shelf and lamp. Score!

Catching up

Let it be known that my problem isn’t always the lack of writing. I just forget to publish. I’m getting the stragglers pressed by the end of the year. It’ll make me look so prolific.
Happy New Year’s all.

The dog ate your gift

Growing up with cats, I never got to use the line, “my dog ate my homework.”
This week, I came close. “The dog ate your Christmas goodies” is exactly what I said.
It wasn’t my dog Maddy, of course, because she has no teeth and is vertically challenged.
All those things belong to Jessie, the hulk of a Golden Retriever we were watching this week. It was our fault really. We had securely wrapped the plates of mini bundt cakes and put them in the middle of the kitchen table. Sort of forgot about them after that.
Upon our arrival home from errands, The Bus declared, “wait a minute.” And there is was — in the corner, a few pieces of knocked over papers, some empty paper plates, and bits of saran wrap. All six mini cakes were gone. Jessie was taking a nap and we were left wondering if dogs get drunk easily.
It was a whiskey cake, a rum cake and a cranberry Galliano cake.
Both dogs are fine, btw.

Jessie the cake thief

Maddy got no cake.

Hearts in a jar

I shouldn’t be allowed to sit by my cousin at events where laughing is considered inappropriate. Like when we’re at a bridal shower and we’re asked to hold crystal hearts next to our own hearts and “put all our love in our heart into the crystal heart.” And then we all place our crystal hearts in a pretty glass jar for the bride to keep.
What kind of cult is this? This is my family? Holy hell.
It was hard enough to focus on transferring all my good thoughts. You know, there’s not too many.
So right when everyone is having a moment of silence to transfer their thoughts, my cousin leans over and whispers in my ear, “This must be hard for you … since you don’t have a heart.”
I suspect for our hypothetical wedding showers one day, the two of us will choose to sacrifice real chickens and keep their hearts in a box.
It’s more our style.

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