I have a long post to write about the first friend I made when we moved to Maryland, but that is for another time. The short version is that we were both far from family with newborns and husbands that worked a whole lot. One day, Carla asked me if I wanted to make a trek with her and our babies to some store called Ikea. It was an all day affair, and it was the first of many, many trips we would take to the Land of Swedish Meatballs, including a midnight one for the Solstice Sale. We were serious Ikea shoppers.
When we moved to Kansas my Ikea days came to an end. A few years after we arrived here, a new job candidate was being wined and dined for a possible position with The Big Daddy’s department. Over the course of the dinner, the guy mentioned that he “loathes Ikea and that cheap shit they sell.”
Pssst……….somebody needs to inform Donald Trump that the job he’s after is working for the state.
I’m not saying he didn’t get the job because some of the spouses who happen to love Ikea thought he was a flaming douche, but we may have mentioned our thoughts about him a time or thirty.
On our trip home last week, we went to the new Ikea that is only twenty minutes from my mom’s house. Thank ya Jeezus. Another generation has fallen under the spell of the Swedes as the New Mr. & Mrs. stocked up, and looking at the receipts on the way home we admired how much we got for so little, except we had no idea what any of it meant.