Ikea is my secret splurge, one I should have outgrown after college, transitioning to Big Girl, professionally assembled furniture, but I have an addiction to all things pre-drilled. There is something inexplicably alluring about a store brimming with outrageous pillow shams and jumbo Swedish meatballs.
A few years back a new Ikea cropped up within spitting distance to my most fabulous friend, Denise; this was bad. Why bad, you ask? (Ok – even if you didn’t ask, I’m going to tell you.) You see Denise comes from hearty, I-am-Italian-and-show-love-by-feeding-you-to-the-point-of-pain stock. Culinary wise, she rivals Cordon Bleu top graduates, friendship wise – well – *gush* – she’s top banana. (Which she will turn into muffins.)
You’re thinking this is good, right? I get to visit with my fantastic, feast-based buddy AND surf the Ikea isles in utter ecstasy? Both true, but let me explain what happens with the arrival of each new Ikea catalogue.
First, I salivate at both the potential trip to Casa Denise’s House of Antipasto and window treatments.
Second, the kids see the catalog. “Yeah baby! Aunt Neese food!” (All Mom food now fails muster.)
Third, after a wonderful visit and shop stop, I’m left with less money in the wallet, less room in the pants.
Fourth, the credit card bill arrives, (B-Movie disaster music here); the Ikea line item glares back ominously, and suddenly I crave girl gab, marinated vegetables and Tony Soprano’s favorite deli meats.
Fifth, the manic eat/shop circle continues.
Here’s hoping a Weight Watchers satellite office buys the property next to Ikea, quickly.